I met her through going to the studio of the artist who had induced me to come to Potiphar Street. She was sitting to him and was greatly embarrassed by the fact. Later, I learned that it was the first time she had sat to anyone, but, as she was alone and penniless, necessity had made her an artist’s model.
I began to go to the studio whenever she was there. At first my presence increased her embarrassment, but soon we became friends. We dined together frequently and, after dinner, we walked up and down the Embankment for hours. Eventually she took a tiny room in No. 77.
Except her appearance, there was nothing remarkable about her, as the word is used, but she was one of those strangely complete beings. Most people come to the world with a soul like an empty suitcase, which they gradually fill—usually with rubbish or worse. She came with her suitcase packed. She was therefore the spectator of her own experience. It foamed on the circumference of her being, it did not penetrate to the centre.
There is tranquillity in joy, and it was hers. To be with her brought peace, as dawn over a silent sea brings peace. She knew little that can be taught, and much that can never be learned. Her beauty was that of a youth whom Nature had capriciously turned into a girl. And her hair was stolen from a god.
To be with her became a necessity. I soon tired of the other lodgers. The artists’ jargon, and their incessant quarrels, became very monotonous. The only person besides Elsa who interested me was a young man who believed he was a reincarnation of Nietzsche. He interested me because, after all, that is one way of getting through the world. His monomania was intermittent, however, and when it deserted him he was a highly intelligent rather amusing man. But, after Elsa came to No. 77, I saw much less of him.
Although we spent hours and hours together, I never told her anything about myself. She knew that I did nothing, but she never asked any questions. You could be silent with her, and, often, we were silent. She would lie on the bed in my study and I would stand at the window gazing at the river.
Then one night we became lovers. It just happened. And then, lying in the darkness together, I told her everything about my life. I imagine that took a long time. I know that it was dawn when I had brought my story up to my arrival at Potiphar Street.
I ended by saying something like this:
“That’s my life, more or less. And if I have told it as if it were something that is over, it is because it is over. I shall go on, of course, but I shall never be able to surrender myself wholly to any experience. I didn’t—when you gave yourself to me. Something in me was watching. I know I’ve a certain type of strength, but it’s paralysed. There’s nothing for me to do.”
Then she said:
“Why don’t you write a book?”
“What about?”
“What you’ve just told me.”
“What’s the use of that?”
“Well, an artist I sat to last week was telling a friend that if you give expression to thoughts, or emotions, or memories, you become free of them.”
“I wonder. Well, if I wrote a book, what should I call it?”
She was silent for a minute, then suggested:
“Two Lives and a Third.”
“No! Two Lives and a Destiny.”
That’s how my first novel was conceived. It was written in this room. Often, when I was working, Elsa sat reading, or stood looking out of the window, or rested on the bed. Usually, however, I forgot she was there.
A dæmonic energy surged through me. I was slinging my life at the world. Yet, oddly enough, I ceased to be myself. I discovered that writing is a form of possession. Something drove through me, marshalled the book into parts and chapters, snatched words and phrases out of the air. I ceased to be Ivor Trent. I became as anonymous as a medium in a trance. Although the book was derived wholly from my own experience, that experience ceased to be mine. The events I recorded had not happened to me—they were happening to the man in the book. His father was not my father. I understood his father. I became him. I was each of my characters in turn. And I was all of them simultaneously. I was never Ivor Trent.
This was escape, this was deliverance—to be possessed! To inhabit the psychic realm of thought and emotion! Not to know who one is, or where one is, or what is happening in the actual world! Then, at last, to look at one’s watch and so rediscover oneself! To count the pages, and go to bed—not a man, but a crowd!
This is deliverance—the only deliverance I have ever known.
Two Lives and a Destiny took a year to write and revise. I had not read a line of it to Elsa, but, now, I read all of it to her. When I had finished, she said:
“I never imagined it would be like that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Not like that. Not as good as that, not nearly as good.”
But I discounted her opinion, for I knew she was in love with me. I decided to find out whether anyone would publish it. That would be the book’s first test.
So I went to see Nietzsche. I knew one or two of his books had been published.
I found him in his room, lying on a sofa, reading.
“Look here,” I burst out, “I’ve written a novel, and——”
“You’ve not got it with you?”
“No.”
“Right! Sit down and tell me what you want.”
“I want to know which publisher to send it to.”
“Don’t send it to any. Send it to my agent, Voyce. If it’s any good, he’ll handle it. If it isn’t, he’ll send it back. But don’t tell him I’m living here, because I owe him money. If he should place the book, then tell him that I recommended you to go to him. But mind you also say that I’m on a walking tour through the Black Forest.”
I sent the book to Voyce. A fortnight later he wrote asking me to see him. A month after, the novel was accepted by Polsons. Four months later it was published.
It was a great and an instantaneous success.
E
This cannot be a connected narrative. I am like a man besieged. Letters and telegrams keep arriving; Marsden is demanding to see me; Captain Frazer has discovered that no one knows that I have had rooms here for years. Every hour someone comes to the house to inquire.
It is Wednesday night. The doctor has just gone. He is suspicious about me, that is evident, but—fortunately—I do not look well, as I spent all last night writing. I wrote page after page in feverish haste.
Still, he has agreed that the nurse is to go. She leaves on Friday, and Mrs. Frazer will attend to me. I had a long talk with her after the doctor had gone. I have arranged everything. She is sending her husband to Ramsgate. Also, she is getting rid of the undesirable lodgers. Someone is to be found to take her place in the house. I gave her a hundred pounds and told her to make these changes as quickly as possible.
Above all, I emphasised that Captain Frazer must have gone by Saturday. That is essential. He has discovered my secret, and now he insists on dealing with visitors. I must get rid of him. There is nothing he would not do to make money.
Marsden does not worry me. He called on Rendell yesterday and found Vera with him. Marsden and Vera! They met once at my flat, and I saw he was attracted by her. Wrayburn, too, was here yesterday. And Rosalie will probably come again.
They are meeting in the labyrinth. But, of them, later. First, I must show here how I became the man they met.