While I was at Potiphar Street, writing my second book, Mrs. Frazer volunteered certain information about Elsa. I learned that her life was a pretty impossible affair. Sittings became progressively scarce and she had not literally a penny outside her earnings. Mrs. Frazer was guarded in her account, but nevertheless I realised that Elsa had had to sell herself in order not to starve. I knew the types she encountered, and could guess the rest.
I had no pity for her. On the contrary, I was glad. She had remained “complete,” she was everything I was not, everything I needed to be—but the world fêted me and kicked her into the gutter. That fact gave me perverse satisfaction, for it seemed to establish my superiority.
Sometimes I saw her in the street, but, whenever possible, I avoided her. Usually, that was simple, as I only went out at night. Twice, however, we came face to face. We only exchanged commonplace remarks, but, standing before her, I endured terrible humiliation. She was wretchedly dressed, but, although the talons of necessity had gripped and tautened her features, they had not extinguished the light which illuminated them.
I did not see her again after the second of these meetings, and I never referred to her when talking to Mrs. Frazer. Gradually she became a shadow on the circumference of my memory. If I thought of her, it was only to hope that she had gone away, or married, or that she was dead.
Soon, however, my life became so complicated, owing to the relations I deliberately established with others, that I had no time to think of Elsa. . . .
I am going to reveal the truth of those relationships here. I shall hide nothing. But, first, I must make clear the motive which dominated my actions in every case.
Only a summary can do that.
The discovery that my father’s “strength” was weakness—then the inferno of the war—had deprived me of every value I had ever possessed. I was empty and naked. But I rebelled against this inner impotence. The success of my first book made that rebellion possible. I denied the truth about myself and went into the world. I created a personality. I invented Ivor Trent.
But it was imperative that others should believe in him. It was essential they should believe that this Ivor Trent had power. That was essential, for, if he seemed real to them, he might seem real to me.
To dominate others, therefore, was my aim. To make them convinced that I had power. Power for good, or power for evil—power for this, that, or the other—but Power!
To make them accept this ghost in armour as a man! To dominate them, on some level or other, till my personality was more real to them than their own! To tower above them till they mistook a shadow for strength! To hypnotise them with a mask——
This was Ivor Trent.
F
Mrs. Frazer has just left me.
I asked her how long I had been here. She told me that it is ten days. A week ago last Sunday I collapsed at the top of the steps and was carried to this room.
Then she went on to tell me that the changes I wanted had been made. Captain Frazer had gone to Ramsgate, and so on. This wearied me, and I think she noticed it, for she changed the subject abruptly and gave me an account of a scene which happened last Saturday, and one which greatly embarrassed her.
It appears that soon after two o’clock Marsden, Vera, Wrayburn, Mrs. Frazer and her husband were having a violent discussion in Rendell’s room. Rendell arrived in the middle of it, but his appearance in no way abated it. On the contrary, it became more unrestrained till, finally, when everyone was shouting and no one was listening, the door opened and the servant announced that a lady had called to see Mr. Rendell.
Mrs. Frazer described the visitor minutely. It was Rosalie. And she was in mourning.
“In she came, Mr. Trent, in the middle of that hubbub! I never felt so ashamed in my life. She looked startled, I can tell you, and I’m not surprised. She was frail-looking, but very beautiful. What she must have thought—and what Mr. Rendell must have thought—I tremble to think. I do, indeed.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Mrs. Frazer,” I replied. “It was your husband’s. Anyway, there won’t be any more scenes now he’s gone.”
I passed my hand across my forehead.
“There!” she exclaimed. “Now I’ve tired you, telling you all my troubles! I shall leave you now and you must have a rest.”
“I quite agree, but there’s one thing I want first.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“I want copies of The Times for the last week. Could you send out for them?”
“Mr. Rendell takes The Times, sir, and as it happens I haven’t used the old copies yet. I’ll bring them up. It’s good to hear you asking for a newspaper. I’m sure I’d never have believed it a week ago.”
A few minutes later she returned with the papers. Directly I was alone, I scanned the “Deaths” announcements.
“Vivian . . . after a short illness . . .”
He was dead! Paul Vivian was dead! . . .
I remember every circumstance relating to my first meeting with Rosalie. I had finished a book and had just returned to my flat. Then one evening a Mrs. Laidlaw rang me up and begged me to dine at her house on the Thursday, explaining that her husband had asked a Mr. and Mrs. Vivian to dinner—people they had met on a trip abroad—and now, unexpectedly, her husband had had to go away.
“Do come, Ivor, although it will be dull.”
“Why will it be dull?” I asked.
“Because he’s a Dreary, but she’s rather a darling. Enigmatic—odd! Can’t quite make her out. But she’s a Lovely—definitely. Do come.”
“Very well. I’ll come.”
I cannot imagine why I said I’d go. I was in no need of distraction, for, two days before, a woman called Vera Thornton had descended on me, who seemed to think I was God and that therefore I could shape her destiny. As I had taken her into the flat, instead of putting her outside it, I did not lack company. Nevertheless, I went to the Laidlaws.
I was in the hall when the Vivians arrived. We stood gazing at each other while her husband took off his overcoat. Her lips were parted, giving expectancy to the beautifully modelled features and this contrasted strangely with the frightened expression of the large very blue eyes.
Then she disappeared, and I glanced at her husband.
I put him down at forty-five, but I was far from certain. He was the type that becomes defined at thirty and changes little thereafter. He was heavy, solid, capable. His appearance told you most things about him. You knew what his parents were like, the kind of life he lived, his opinions, his prejudices, and his virtues. I decided that he was a pendulum, rather than a man, and wondered why that “other-world” woman had married him.
I had one minute with Mrs. Laidlaw before they joined us.
“Well? You’ve seen them?”
“Yes, I was in the hall when they arrived.”
“He’s rather like the National Debt, don’t you think? But she’s joyous, isn’t she?”
“I suppose he knows she’s going to be very ill very soon.”
“Don’t be absurd, Ivor! She’s been ill. That’s why they went for that trip. She’s had two nervous breakdowns—and the second one was serious.”
She tapped her forehead significantly.
“I see. Well——”
“They’re coming! I’m counting on you to talk. I can’t say one word to him. Whatever subject you mention, he always says ‘the situation is serious.’ Once I asked him if he had a hobby, and he said he was a Numismatist. What’s that, Ivor? It sounds indecent.”