It's almost as though HE pushed Tunstall over. Physically he's just the man I used to be but, thank heaven, am no longer. Other people have noticed it. He's got no eyebrows and is pasty–faced and has a thin, poor physique. He won't touch whisky or any intoxicating liquor and is as quiet as a mouse, sitting in a corner of the room without speaking, just as I used to do.

  He gave me a start the other day when he asked me whether I'd read any of Gissing's novels and whether I didn't like him. I said that I used to like them once, but had grown out of them.

  I added, in that rough way that I like to put on with people who are frightened of me, that I hadn't much time for reading now and that anyway Gissing seemed to me a miserable sort of writer. I liked a novel to have some meat in it. He looked surprised at that and said he'd asked me because he thought my novels showed Gissing's influence.

  'My novels!' I answered, laughing. 'Don't you mention them to ME! I'm thoroughly ashamed of them. If I had time to write now I'd put some meat into them—a bit of skirt, that's what people want in a novel.'

  I felt in a sort of rage with him because somewhere deep down in me I felt ashamed of what I'd said, and I HATE to be ashamed of myself and I'd kill anyone who made me feel so.

  My fierceness frightened him and he went away without saying anything.

  For one reason, anyway, I like to be with him. Looking at him reminds me of what I USED to be. I can estimate it the more truly because we're about the same height, he and I. How I've filled out! It's astonishing. It's not only that I'm broader and thicker altogether, but you'd imagine I'd been using some restorer by the way my hair grows. On the head, my eyebrows, quite thick on my chest—everywhere that a manly man ought to have hair! I've got a chest for hair to grow on, too! AND a bit of a stomach if the truth MUST come out.

  I think it is due to the open–air life I lead. None of that skulking about in that silly shop any more. Eve manages that entirely. I play golf, I shoot, I fish. You may say it's late for a man to begin all these things, but Basil Cheeseman, Steele, and some of the others have shown me the way—yes, and to other things, too!

  All in the space of less than a year, and if you ask me I'd say that it's never too late for a man to learn. Not that I'm always in good spirits. No one is! And I drink a bit too much. Then I've been developing the devil of a temper lately. There's something in me beyond my control, and when I see red I often wish I didn't. But there! We can only live once and while we live let us enjoy ourselves.

  At any rate, whatever else I am, I'm not a hypocrite. What I mean I say!

  It was the hypocrisy that made me so bloody mad at Leila's when they were discussing this War. Of course, down in this little place, except for the Black–Out we haven't felt the War yet at all. People are all saying it's a phoney war, not like a real war at all.

  They were all sitting round as usual, clinking the tea–cups, nibbling little bits of bread and butter and saying all the usual things—that Hitler and Goering and the others were emissaries of the Devil, and that we were all saints and the saviours of civilization.

  I listened for a bit and then I could stand it no longer. I said that what we were was a nation of hypocrites. What right had we to stop Germany from expanding if she wanted to? We had more than half the globe, anyway, and how had we got it? By plundering, thieving, bullying natives. For my part, I thought Hitler was a fine fellow. He had brought his people up from miserable subjection to be a great people again. He was clever and knew what he was about, while we were stupid and decadent. All that Hitler did was to go for what he wanted. After all, he had the strength and was using it.

  'I suppose,' the parson said in that gooseberry–in–the–throat sort of voice that parsons have, 'you'd say that Might is Right—a wicked doctrine and straight from the Devil.'

  'I don't know about the Devil,' I said, in that laughing boisterous voice that I enjoy using, 'but I do know that we're a nation of hypocrites and if Germany defeats us we deserve it.'

  There was a shocked silence after that and only Leila said: 'You wouldn't have said that once, John.'

  Now I like Leila. I have always liked her, but of late that liking has greatly increased. For one thing she is, I think, the only person in the world who really understands me. She is certainly more understanding of me than my wife.

  I am not, of course, in the least in love with her. I am keeping this journal day by day, all that remains of my old writing habit, and I may say that at this actual moment of writing I am more at ease with her than with any other human being alive. The feeling that I have for her, queerly enough, is rather as though I had been married to her for many years. I have for her that sense of companionship that comes from long mutual and physical contact, and that is certainly peculiar because we have been nothing more than casual friends. There was, of course, that rather absurd scene with her in London when I was sentimental and wept. But at that time my old self, which I regard now as feminine and ridiculous, was uppermost. It would take something very remarkable to make me weep to–day.

  When, however, she said that once I would not have spoken as I did I was abashed. I was angry with myself for being so and left as soon as possible.

  My outspokenness about Hitler has been reported and I am aware that numbers of people in this silly little town now look on me unfavourably. Not that I give a damn! When I was meek and mild and took care to offend nobody, they said that I was a milk–sop. Now that I show some spirit and speak my mind, they say that I was better as I used to be. Well, let them say! If this town is typical of England, then I declare, and I don't care who hears me, that England is finished and done for and deserves to be beaten by the Germans, whose courage and resource and daring I cannot but admire!

  I must say something now about my home affairs. The other evening I had a quarrel with Eve and some curious things were said during it.

  Eve loves me and sometimes I wish she did not. I know that if once I had written this down on paper I should have been wild with joy, about her loving me, I mean. I am sure she has nothing to complain of me as a husband, but after all, when you have been married for as long as we have, it is only natural and right that the physical part of marriage should take a secondary place. Other things are of more importance. But whereas that side of marriage is of less importance to me it seems to be all–important to Eve. The plain fact is that she is absurdly jealous and would like to make scenes every night if I allowed her to. She is for ever wanting to know where I have been; what I have done; to whom I have spoken.

  The other evening after dinner, when I was happily enjoying a whisky and soda, she put her hand over the decanter.

  'No, John—you've had enough for to–night.'

  I could scarcely believe my ears.

  'Who says?' I asked.

  'I do,' she answered. I could see that she was a little frightened and I like her to be frightened.

  'Oh, you do, do you?' I said.

  'Yes…. Oh, John, do listen to me! I've been wanting to say something for weeks!'

  She always looks her best when she has tears in her eyes. That excites something in me. She is like one of those old Virginal Priestesses who is suddenly human and pleading.

  'Go ahead!' I said, stretching out my legs.

  'There was a time,' she began, 'when I wanted you to be more dashing, more of a man, to go about more … but now … '

  'Well—now?' I asked her mockingly.

  'I haven't the right to speak, perhaps. You know what you're doing and I must confess that I AM much fonder of you than I used to be. You're much more of a man—physically and in every way. But need you—don't be angry with me—drink as much as you do? Need you always be with men like Cheeseman and Bob Steele and young Romilly? Then you offend people by the way you speak to them, swearing and saying you're pro–German and things like that. I know I'm jealous. I never used to be. But then you never used to look at other women— I sometimes wished you did. Sometimes you're so angry with me and over nothing at all. I'm sure it's drinking makes you lose your temper. Sometimes when you're angry you look terrible. I feel as though you weren't the old John at all, your face is so changed. Don't you think—please, please, don't be angry—that if you drank less and went back to your writing again you'd be happier, that we'd all be, you, I and Archie? I'm sure Archie loves you, but he's afraid of you, you know he is. And I'm afraid of you sometimes, too. And you're not really happy—we none of us are.'

  She ended breathlessly, her eyes beseeching mine, and she put her hand on my arm.

  I did what all proper husbands would do. I poured myself out another glass of whisky.

  Then I said, quietly: 'Have you quite done?'

  She nodded. 'Yes—we've always been honest with one another, John— said what we think.'

  'Yes—well, I'm going to say what I think. If you don't like it you can bloody well lump it. That's coarse and vulgar, I know, but then I AM coarse and vulgar. I wasn't once, and you didn't like it. I am now and you don't like that either.'

  (It's agreeable to write dialogue again. There's something in me, some remnant of my old life, that sometimes cries out for the novel– writing again. Well, if I ever DO write another novel it will be a bit more lusty than the earlier ones were!)

  'Not that I care what you think. For years and years I was your slave, wasn't I? Do you remember our coming away from a party at Tunstall's house once and your being angry with me for not liking him and threatening to leave me? As a matter of fact you were right that evening. Tunstall wasn't such a bad sort, only I was such a damned prig that I took him too seriously. But do you remember that when you threatened to leave me I broke down and said I'd do anything to please you—crawled in fact—and how you graciously forgave me like a queen her slave? Do you remember that, Eve? You had your time, you know, and a grand time it was. But the worm WILL turn—and WHEN it turns, it changes. This worm isn't a worm any longer—see? Nothing like a worm. Quite a different animal.'

  I thought this a good speech and sat back in my chair, pushing my stomach out and feeling thoroughly pleased with myself. I had been drinking quite a bit. But, after all, it was Eve who astonished me, for she didn't answer anything that I had been saying, but asked, very quietly, this question:

  'John, what was it you did to Jim Tunstall?'

  I can tell you that that astonished me. All the questions and whispers about Tunstall's death had died down by now. No one had mentioned him for months. There seemed to be a sort of conspiracy NOT to mention him.

  I myself hadn't thought about it, and the sense that I used to have about his being near to me, the horror, the suspense, the terror— all that had gone—yes, really gone except for some unhappy moments about which I will have something to say in a minute. The GREAT change in me now is that I admire Tunstall instead of hating him. By God, I do! He seems to me now the only man who woke this place up a bit. You may say that in a small way I copy him. Basil Cheeseman says, laughing, that I BECAME Jim Tunstall as soon as I put his scarab ring on my finger. 'Why, you're getting to be the spitting image of him,' he said, and we had a good laugh about it. I had an absurd and most dangerous temptation to say, 'I can't be Tunstall because I killed him'—a crazy thing to say to the Rat, who isn't to be trusted a yard. Although I like him, mind you. He is damned good company; he knows the hell of a lot about everyone in this place and NOTHING to their credit—and, by heaven, he CAN grow roses!

  He said that to me about being like Tunstall yesterday when he handed me over Scandal.

  'It's no use my keeping him,' he said. 'The damned dog is never happy except when he's with you. It's a funny thing. He was just the same when he was with Tunstall. He's a one–man dog, I suppose.'

  As a matter of fact Scandal was lying at my feet when I had this row with Eve. He's a ripping little dog, his hair curly like shavings and his whiskers as strong and virile as though made of wire. He looks at me with the most loving eyes and yet he's as sporting a dog as ever I've seen. He obeys me as though he were my familiar spirit. A funny thing, too, that he'll have nothing to say to Eve or Archie. He's quite polite and endures their pattings and strokings, but he's as distant from them as the parson is from me.

  I'm sitting here writing and it's late, and I know that Eve is in bed unable to sleep, waiting for me to come to her. That gives me considerable satisfaction.

  I must return to my quarrel, from which I have considerably wandered. I didn't answer her question at once. I should have done, but that uncomfortable and maddening consciousness I have (I shall speak of it later) of something unhappy, lonely, desolate (silly words these, and most unfit for a man to use), came up into my throat and choked my words.

  At last I said: 'What DO you mean? What did I do to Tunstall? Why, nothing, of course. Do you think I killed him?'

  'No … not that.' I saw that she was picking her words. 'But you met him that night. I am quite certain that you did. And it was from that night that you changed, and it was from that night that I began to love you. It was from that night that we all began to be unhappy, Archie and you and I. You have changed more and more. Your face has changed, your voice, your habits—everything. You know it as well as anyone. You don't love me any more, either.'

  'Of course I do,' I said.

  'You do?' She caught me up eagerly. 'Oh, John, promise me that and I can stand anything. Promise me that you love me, even though it's in a different way. Do you—do you really?'

  Everyone knows that there is nothing in the world more exasperating than to be asked again if you love someone whom in fact you love no longer.

  I LIKE Eve, of course. She is a fine woman, and I admire her when she is brisk and business–like and unsentimental. But love? I don't, I fancy, love anybody—unless it's my son. Yes, I love Archie and must admit that I have a damned funny way of showing it sometimes.

  Anyway, I was exasperated and irritated and had been drinking, so I'm afraid I swore at her and said a lot of things I shouldn't have said.

  I spoke with great bitterness and I think that I had a right to. I said that she accused me of being changed, but what about herself? Did she realize what her behaviour had been during the last months? That I couldn't go anywhere, speak to anybody, without her wanting to know all about it.

  'It isn't true! It isn't true! I haven't … I don't … ' she burst in. Her eyes were fixed on me, pleading, begging me, but I felt no temptation towards mercy. I had better put my foot down once and for all. Every man knows that it's a case of either the husband or the wife. I was master here now whatever I had once been, and I intended to go on being master.

  I'm not a sadist (or only as much of one as any real man is), but I have noticed lately that my blood begins to rage and my heart beat thickly over quite small occasions. There IS something in what Eve says. When I am excited or angry I KNOW that my face changes. I can feel that my eyes are bloodshot and a heavy pulse beats in my temples. I like to feel this. I feel masterful and ready to beat the world.

  All this about feelings! And I notice that I have repeated the word 'feel' in three adjacent sentences, which the careful John Talbot of a year ago would never have done. Not that I care. I'm not writing this for publication! I simply get rid of my superfluous energy this way. Well, I told her that I wasn't going to be spied on. I should go where I pleased and see whom I pleased. I was answerable to nobody. Did she understand that?

  Yes, she said. Oh, yes, she did.

  Another thing, I went on—she must understand once and for all that I wasn't a sentimental man. I might have been once, but I wasn't now. Actually it was she who had taught me not to be by being so cold for so long and refusing my advances when I offered them. It would be better, perhaps, if we had separate rooms. She broke out at that and begged, implored me not to do that. As a matter of fact, this had been in my mind for some time and I determined to settle the question here and now. I told her that I could have a bed in my working–room very easily and that I would see about it. There was nothing to make a fuss about—we could see each other when we liked just as we had always done. I was often out late and it was much better not to disturb her.

  'I lie awake—' she began.

  'Well, you're not to lie awake,' I said. 'That is just what is so irritating.' It's maddening, I told her, coming back at one or two in the morning and finding her waiting for me. Besides, most modern married people had separate rooms, nowadays.

  Then there was the question of Archie. How dare she say that I frightened him? The fact was that she had fussed altogether too much over Archie. She would make a regular mollycoddle of him. I was determined to stop it. It was funny to remember, I remarked, that it was she who had wanted to send Archie to school and I who had wished to keep him at home. Well, I had given in about that, hadn't I? He had gone to school, which was what she wanted, and yet she fussed over him when he was at home, making him quite unfit for being with other boys.

  She replied, in a voice so low that I could scarcely catch her words, that all that she meant was that she wanted him to love me and when I was angry—

  That infuriated me. If she interfered between Archie and me, I told her, she'd have to look out. She'd get something she wasn't expecting. That was something I wouldn't stand. She'd better look out! She'd better look out!

  I'll admit that I was rather excited at this point and shouted a bit.

  Then she began to cry. I can't stand it when women cry. It does something to me. It excites me. I got up and stood close to her. I didn't say a word. I saw the chairs and the table in a blur—

  She sat there, looking up at me as though she were waiting for something. Scandal, I remember, raised his head and looked at me. I went out of the room.

  I've recalled every word and every detail of this little scene because it gives me pleasure to do so.

  I have now come to the time when I should write a clear and honest account of my strange affair with Bella Scorfield. Honest? If I'm not that I'm not anything. I'm not ashamed of anything I do or say or feel. Why should I be? I am so honest that I'm not going to deny that something curious goes on in my brain that I don't at all understand. Insanity is a big loose word. I know that for a long time I was afraid that I was going insane, but after that visit to the Scorfields' house when they were away, I threw over my scruples and fears altogether and became the altered man everyone says I am.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20