The Death of the Heart (15 page)

“Wave to her and ask her—Shall I really pour out? … But, Eddie, I can’t see you are wicked. Wicked in what way?”

“Well, what do you hate about me?”

“I don’t think I—”

“Try the other way round—what do you like least?”

She thought for a moment, then said: “The way you keep making faces for no particular reason.”

“I do that when I wish I had no face. I can’t bear people getting a line on me.”

“But it attracts attention. Naturally people notice.”

“All the same, it throws them on the wrong track. My goodness, they think, he’s going to have a nerve-storm; he may be really going to have a fit. That excites them, and they start to play up themselves. So then that gives me time to collect myself, till quite soon I feel like ice.”

“I see—but—”

“No, you see the fact is, darling, people do rattle me— You do see?”

“Yes, I do.”

“It’s vitally important that you should. In a way, I believe I behave worse with other people, Anna for instance, when you’re there, because I always feel you will 
know why, and to feel that rather gins me up. You must never make me feel you don’t understand.”

“What would happen if I did make you feel I didn’t?”

Eddie said: “I should stay unreal for ever.” He rolled her gloves up into a tight ball, and squeezed them in the palm of one hand. Then he looked in horror past the brim of her hat. She turned her head to see what he saw, and they both saw themselves in a mirror.

“I feel I shall always understand what you feel. Does it matter if I don’t sometimes understand what you
say?”

“Not in the least, darling,” said Eddie briskly. “You see, there is really nothing intellectual between us. In fact, I don’t know why I talk to you at all. In many ways I should so much rather not.”

“But we have to do something.”

“I feel it is waste of you. You puzzle so much, with your dear little goofy face. Is it simply you’ve never met anybody like me?”

“But you said there wasn’t anybody like you.”

“But there are lots of people who imitate what I really am. I suppose you haven’t met any of them, either— Look, darling, do pour out: the tea’s getting cold.”

“I hope I shall do it well,” said Portia, grasping the metal teapot handle in her handkerchief.

“Oh Portia, has no one really taken you out to tea before?”

“Not by myself.”

“Nor to any other meal? You do make me feel happy!” He watched her slowly filling his cup with a gingerly, wobbling stream of tea. “For one thing, I feel I can stay still. You’re the only person I know I need do nothing
about.
All the other people I know make me feel I have got to sing for my supper. And I feel that vou and I are the same: we are both rather wicked or rather innocent. You looked pleased when I said Anna was depraved.”

“Oh, you didn’t; you said she was a cynic.”

“When I think of the money I’ve wasted sending Anna flowers!”

“Were they very expensive?”

“Well, they were for me. It just shows what a fool I’ve learnt to be. I haven’t been out of debt now for three years, and I’ve got not a soul to back me—No, it’s all right, darling, I can pay for this tea—To lose my head is a thing I literally can’t afford. You must hear of the way I keep on living on people? But what it has come to is: I’ve been bought up. They all think I want what they’ve got and I haven’t, so they think if they get me that is a fair deal.”

“I suppose it is, in a way.”

“Oh, you don’t understand, darling—Would you think I was vain if I said I was good-looking?”

“No. I think you are very good-looking, too.”

“Well, I am, you see, and I’ve got all this charm, and 1 can excite people. They don’t really notice my brain—• they are always insulting me. Everyone hates my brain, because I don’t sell that. That’s the underground reason why everyone hates me. I sometimes hate it myself. I wouldn’t be with these pigs if I hadn’t first been so clever. Last time I went home, do you know, Portia, my younger brother laughed at my soft hands.”

Portia had not for some time looked straight at Eddie, for fear her too close attention might make him stop. She had cut her crumpet up into little pieces; she nibbled abstractedly, dipping each piece in salt. When the first crumpet was eaten she paused, wiped her fingers on the paper napkin, then took a long drink of tea. Drinking, she looked at Eddie over her cup. She put down her cup and said: “Life is always so complicated.”

“It’s not merely life—It’s me.”

“I expect it is you
and
people.”

“I expect you are right, you sweet beautiful angel. I have only had to do with people who liked me, and no one nice ever does.”

She looked at him with big eyes.

“Except you, of course—Look, if you ever stop you never will let me see you
have
stopped, will you?”

Portia glanced to see if Eddie’s cup were empty. Then she cast her look down at her diary—keeping her eyes fixed on the black cover, she said: “You said I was beautiful.”

“Did I? Turn round and let me look.”

She turned an at once proud and shrinking face. But he giggled: “Darling, you’ve got salt stuck all over the butter on your chin, like real snow on one of those Christmas cards. Let me wipe it off—stay still.”

“But I had been going to eat another crumpet.”

“Oh, in that case it would be rather waste—No, it’s no good; I’d hate you to give me serious thoughts.”

“How often do you have them?”

“Often—I swear I do.”

“How old are you, Eddie?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Goodness,” she said gravely, taking another crumpet.

While she ate, Eddie studied her gleamingly. He said: “You’ve got a goofy but an inspired face. Understanding just washes over it. Why am I ever with anybody but you? Whenever I talk to other people, they jeer in their minds and think I am being dramatic. Well,
I
am dramatic—why not? I am dramatic. The whole of Shakespeare is about me. All the others, of course, feel that too, which is why they are all dead nuts on Shakespeare. But because I show it when they haven’t got the nerve to, they all jump on me. Blast their silly faces—”

While she ate, she kept her eyes on his forehead, at present tense with high feeling, but ventured to say nothing. Her meticulous observation of him made her like somebody at a play in a foreign language of which they know not one word—the action has to be followed as closely as one can. Just a shade unnerved by her look he broke off and said: “Do I ever bore you, darling?”

“No—I was just thinking that, except for Lilian, this is the first conversation with anybody I’ve had. Since I came to London, I mean. It’s much more the sort of conversation I have in my head.”

“It’s a lot more cheerful than the conversations in
my
head. In those, reproaches are being showered on me. I don’t get on at all well with myself—But I thought you said you talked to Matchett at nights?”

“Yes—but she’s not in London, she’s in the house. And lately, she’s been more cold with me.”

Eddie’s face darkened at once. “Because of me, I suppose?”

Portia hesitated. “She never much likes my friends.”

Annoyed by her fencing, he said: “You haven’t got any friends.”

“There’s Lilian.”

He scowled this aside. “No, the trouble with
her
is, she’s a jealous old cow. And a snob, like all servants. You’ve been too nice to her.”

“She was so nice to my father.”

“I’m sorry, darling—But listen: for God’s sake never talk about me. Never to anyone.”

“How could I, Eddie? I never possibly would.”

“I could kill people when I think what they would think.”

“Oh Eddie, mind—you’ve splashed tea on my diaryl Matchett only knows I know you because she came on your letter.”

“You
must not
leave those about!”

“I didn’t: she found it where it was put.”

“Where?”

“Under my pillow.”

“Darling!”
said Eddie, melting for half a moment.

“I was there all the time, and she didn’t do more than hold it. All she knows is, I’ve had a letter from you.”

“But she knows where it was.”

“I’m sure she would never tell. She likes knowing things they don’t, about me.”

“I daresay you’re right: she’s got a mouth like a trap. And I’ve seen her looking at Anna. She’ll keep this to use in her own way. Oh, do beware of old women— you’ve no notion how they batten on things. Lock everything up; hide everything! Don’t bat an eyelid, ever.”

“As if this was a plot?”

“We are a plot. Keep plotting the whole time.”

She looked anxious and said: “But then, shall you and I have any time left?”

“Left for what, do you mean?”

“I mean, for ourselves.”

He swept this aside and said: “Plot—It’s a revolution: it’s our life. The whole pack are against us. So hide, hide everything.”

“Why?”

“You’ve no idea what people are like.”

Her mind went back. “Major Brutt noticed, I think.”

“Idealistic old wart-hog! And Thomas caught us—I told you we should never have gone in.”

“But you did say you wanted my diary.”

“Well, we were mad. You only wait till Anna has had a word with Brutt. Shall I show you the talk I and Anna will have then?” Eddie posed himself, leaning sideways on one elbow with Anna’s rather heavy nonchalant grace. He drew his fingers idly across his forehead, putting back an imaginary wave of hair. Seeming to let the words drop with a charming reluctance, he began: 
‘“
Now Eddie, you mustn’t be cross with me. This bores me just as much as it bores you. But I feel—
’”

Portia cast an anxious look round the tea-room. “Oh, ought you to imitate Anna here …?”

“I may not feel in the mood to do it again. As a rule, the thought of Anna makes me much too angry. I should like you to hear the things she would say to me if she got this unparalleled opening… . She would say, to remember you’re quite a child. She would imply she wondered what I could see in you, and imply that of course I must be up to
something
, and that she only just wondered what it was. She would say that of course I could count on her not to say a word to you about what I am really like. She would say that of course she quite realised that she and Thomas were dull compared to me, because I was a genius, too superior to do any work that she did not come and offer me on a plate. She would say, of course, people who pay their bills are dull. Then she would say she quite saw it must be a strain on me, having to live up to my reputation, and that she saw I must have what stimulus I could get. Last of all, she would say, ‘And, of course, she
is
Thomas’s sister.
’”

“Well, I don’t see the point of any of that.”

“No, you wouldn’t, darling. But I would. Anna’d be on the sofa; I should sit screwed round on one of her bloody little yellow chairs. When I tried to get up she would say: ‘You do make me so tired.’ She’d smoke. Like this”—Eddie opened his cigarette case, raked the contents over languidly with his finger-tips, his head on one side, as though playing the harp, selected one cigarette, looked at it cryptically, fastidiously lit it, and once more shook back an imaginary lock of hair. “She would say,” he said, ” ‘You’d probably better go now—Portia’s probably waiting down in the hall.’ “

“Oh Eddie—would she ever say that?”

“She’d say anything. The thing about Anna is, she loves making a tart of another person. She’d never dare be a proper tart herself.”

Portia looked puzzled. “But I’m certain you like her.”

“Yes, I do in a way. That is why she annoys me so.”

“You once said she’d been very kind.”

“Indeed she has—that’s her way of getting under my skin. Darling, didn’t you think me being Anna was funny?”

“No, not really. I didn’t think you enjoyed it.”

“Well, it was: it was very funny,” said Eddie defiantly.

Then he made several faces, pulling his features all ways, as though to flake off from them the last figments of Anna. The impersonation had (as Portia noticed) had fury behind it: each hypothetical arrow to him from Anna had been winged by a demoniac smile. Now he pulled his cup towards him and abruptly drank up some cold tea. He looked so threatening, Portia thought for a moment he might be going to spit the tea out—as though he were no more than rinsing his mouth with it. But he did swallow the tea, and after that smiled, though in a rather fagged-out way, like an actor coming off after a big scene. At the same time, he looked relieved, as though he had shot a weight off, and pious, as though a duty had been discharged. He seemed now to exist in a guiltless vacuum. At last he turned her way and sat filling his eyes with Portia, as though it were good to be home again.

After a pause he said: “Yes, I really do quite like Anna. But we have got to have a villain of some sort.”