“No, nothing. And yet he can do a lot for people like himself. He could help a person when no one else could. Anyhow, he says Carol represented the emotions. So it’s superb symbolism that she lived in a cul-de-sac—because the machine age has banished the emotions to a cul-de-sac. He also says it’s first rate symbolism that the lonely visited her, because modern people, deadened by grey uniformity, do sometimes get nostalgic, and visit their emotions.”
“I don’t believe Mervyn said that.”
“He did.”
“You must be bringing him out, Max.”
“Don’t you believe it. It’s easy to underrate Mervyn.”
We smoked in silence for some minutes, then I threw my cigarette into the fire and said:
“The French say that the true is always the incredible. And the incredible fact is that I am in love with Carol. Although, God knows, I’m slow to use the word.”
After a long silence, he said:
“Why are you slow to use the word?”
“Because it was emptied of content long ago. And because nothing is so rare as love. The most nauseating humbug is the humbug which pretends that love is an everyday event. What utter rubbish! Love transfigures. Well, go into any street and look round. That will tell you how much love there is in the world. Wherever there’s ugliness, there’s hatred. Look at the passers-by in any street. Do you see transfigured features—or faces that are half-finished epitaphs?”
“When did you discover that you’re in love with Carol?”
“I’ve just discovered it—as a result of her death. The dead have terrible power.”
Then I asked:
“Carol told you everything, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“And only you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you surprised by what I’ve told you?”
“I’m much more surprised by what you haven’t told me.”
“What’s that mean?”
He did not reply. He rose, collected the coffee-cups, then took them to the kitchen. It seemed to me that his manner had altered and I became more aware of this when he returned and stood with his back to me, looking down at the fire.
I waited for him to speak, but, when I was convinced that he intended to remain silent, I said:
“Here’s another tangent, I told you there would be several. . . . Did Mrs. Norton tell you about my visit to her?”
“Scarcely anything. She forgets everything directly it’s over. Sometimes she has flash-backs, but very seldom nowadays. And she doesn’t recognise visitors. When I was there last, she had no idea who I was—and, when I told her my name, it didn’t convey anything.”
Then he added:
“I’ve just remembered that she wanted your address, soon after your visit. Probably just a whim. Why do you ask about her? Are you thinking of seeing her again?”
“No, I am not! There’s nothing in the world that would get me to Hove again. I just wondered whether she had discussed me with you—as you go there twice a week.”
“The only real point in my going is that it gives the woman she lives with a chance to get out. She’s very frail nowadays. Almost unbelievably so. The doctor says she might die any day.”
“Did you see her often when Carol was alive?”
“No, very seldom. She is the type who can only live in an ivory tower—and she was bombed out. She is a psychologically Displaced Person.”
“That’s not a bad definition of madness.”
Again there was a long silence. He still had his back to me.
“Now perhaps you’ll tell me what you meant when you said you were more surprised by what I haven’t told you than you were by anything I’ve said.”
“Can’t you guess?”
“You mean—about Carol’s death?”
“No, not about her death.”
“Then—what?”
It was some moments before he replied unwillingly:
“Everything you said related only to your feelings for her. First, your feelings when she was alive: then your feelings after her death. You’ve evidently never given a thought to what her feelings were for you.”
Before I could speak, he swung round and exclaimed:
“Think back! Think back—from your first meeting with Carol in Hartley Harrington’s studio, till you got her letter on that Tuesday night! Then tell me what you imagine her feelings were for you.”
“I’ve no idea.”
“You’ve—no idea! Perhaps you think her chief interest was the allowance you made her?”
“I’m damned certain it wasn’t.”
“Well, ask yourself some questions. Did she ever say she couldn’t see you—when you telephoned? Was she ever engaged, when you wanted to spend a Sunday at Mitre Street?”
“No, never. I’ve thought about that recently——”
“But, at the time! What did you think at the time?”
“You don’t understand. I never really thought about Carol till after her death.”
“Well, what do you think now? Perhaps the truth is that—despite your discovery that you’re in love with her—you still hate her. Hate her, because she knew you as no one else has ever known you, or ever will. I could understand that.”
His intensity seemed to make everything quiver.
“Why are you asking all these questions, Antony? You never used to ask any.”
“What was the use of asking questions when you loathed your relations with her? I knew where I was with you—then. You hated her—and that was that. But now—now—when you come here and tell me you’re in love with her—I do ask questions. What do you expect? And I want to know—and I’ve the right to know—what you imagine her feelings were for you.”
“Rather contemptuous, I should think.”
“Although she always did everything you wanted?”
“There may be a simple explanation for that. Perhaps the allowance did have something to do with it. Carol had strange views about money. Harry Ambrose told me that she knew to a farthing what her father owed. Harry also told me that she wouldn’t take a shilling from him till they became lovers. As she was so sensitive about money, it is possible that the allowance did have something to do with it.”
“She was attractive, don’t you think?”
“Of course she was! Why ask damned silly questions?”
“She could probably have got as good an allowance from another man, don’t you think?”
“That’s certain.”
“Then?”
“Look here, Antony! What the hell’s the idea of this cross-examination? You say that Carol told you everything, so you must know what her feelings were for me.”
“I know! I’ve overwhelming reason for knowing! I only ask questions to make you see the obvious.”
“And what’s that?”
A long silence. Then he exclaimed explosively:
“She was in love with you—from the day she met you at Harrington’s studio till the night of her death!”
Before I could speak, he raced on.
“She made no demands. She knew you always came to her against your will. She sensed there was a reason why physical intimacy was repellent to you—and why, therefore, you hated her power over you. She knew all that. But Carol—loved. And that was sun, moon, and stars to her.”
Then, in a tone vibrant with anger:
“No good staring at me! You’re hearing the truth—at last. You would never have heard it, if you had not told me that you’re in love with her. She had a tremendous admiration for you as an artist before she met you. You cannot imagine what it meant to her that she sat for Enigma. The catastrophic change in her life, caused by her father’s sudden death, was given meaning by the fact that, through it, she met you. You say that love is rare. That’s perfectly true, it is. You say it transfigures. That’s true too, it does. It transfigured Carol.”