The French Lieutenant's Woman (45 page)

Clearly Sam's own
feeling of resentment would very soon have accomplished what the wild
horses were powerless to effect. But he was saved, and the buxom Mrs.
Rogers thwarted, by the bell. Sam went and lifted the two-gallon can
of hot water that had been patiently waiting all morning at the back
of the range, winked at his colleague, and disappeared.

There are two kinds of
hangover: in one you feel ill and incapable, in the other you feel
ill and lucid. Charles had in fact been awake, indeed out of bed,
some time before he rang. He had the second sort of hangover. He
remembered only too clearly the events of the previous night.

His vomiting had driven
the already precarious sexual element in that bedroom completely out
of sight and mind. His unhappily named choice had hastily risen,
pulled on her gown, and then proved herself to be as calm a nurse as
she had promised to be a prostitute. She got Charles to his chair by
the fire, where he caught sight of the hock bottle, and was promptly
sick again. But this time she had ready a basin from the washstand.
Charles kept groaning his apologies between his retches.

"Most sorry . . .
most unfortunate . . . something disagreed..." "It's all
right, sir, it's all right. You just let it come."

And let it come he had
had to. She went and got her shawl and threw it round his shoulders.
He sat for some time ludicrously like an old granny, crouched over
the basin on his knees, his head bowed. After a while he began to
feel a little better. Would he like to sleep? He would, but in his
own bed. She went and looked down into the street, then left the room
while he shakily got dressed. When she came back she herself had put
on her clothes. He looked at her aghast.

"You are surely
not... ?"

"Get you a cab,
sir. If you just wait..."

"Ah yes ... thank
you."

And he sat down again,
while she went downstairs and out of the house. Though he was by no
means sure that his nausea was past, he felt in some psychological
way profoundly relieved. Never mind what his intention had been; he
had not committed the fatal deed. He stared into the glowing fire;
and strange as it may seem, smiled wanly.

Then there came a low
cry from the next room. A silence, then the sound came again, louder
this time and more prolonged. The little girl had evidently wakened.
Her crying-- silence, wailing, choking, silence, wailing--became
intolerable. Charles went to the window and opened the curtains. The
mist prevented him seeing very far. There was not a soul to be seen.
He realized how infrequent the sound of horses' hooves had become;
and guessed that the girl might have to go some way to find his
hansom. As he stood undecided, there was a heavy thumping on the wall
from the next house. A vindictive male voice shouted angrily. Charles
hesitated, then laying his hat and stick on the table, he opened the
door through to that other room. He made out by the reflected light a
wardrobe and an old box-trunk. The room was very small. In the far
corner, beside a closed commode, was a small truckle bed. The child's
cries, suddenly renewed, pierced the small room. Charles stood in the
lit doorway, foolishly, a terrifying black giant.

"Hush now, hush.
Your mother will soon return." The strange voice, of course,
only made things worse. Charles felt the whole neighborhood must
wake, so penetrating were the screams. He struck his head in
distress, then stepped forward into the shadow beside the child.
Seeing how small she was he realized words were useless. He bent over
her and gently patted her head. Hot small fingers seized his, but the
crying continued. The minute, contorted face ejected its great store
of fear with bewildering force. Some desperate expedient had to be
found. Charles found it. He groped for his watch, freed its chain
from his waistcoat and dangled it over the child. The effect was
immediate. The cries turned to mewling whimpers. Then the small arms
reached up to grab the delicious silver toy; and were allowed to do
so; then lost it in the bedclothes and struggled to sit and failed.
The screams began again.

Charles reached to raise
the child a little against her pillow. A temptation seized him. He
lifted her out of the bed in her long nightgown, then turned and sat
on the commode. Holding the small body on his knees he dandled the
watch in front of the now eager small arms. She was one of those
pudgy-faced Victorian children with little black beads for eyes; an
endearing little turnip with black hair. And her instant change of
mood, a gurgle of delight when at last she clasped the coveted watch,
amused Charles. She began to lall. Charles muttered answers: yes,
yes, very pretty, good little girl, pretty pretty. He had a vision of
Sir Tom and the bishop's son coming on him at that moment ... the end
of his great debauch. The strange dark labyrinths of life; the
mystery of meetings.

He smiled; for it was
less a sentimental tenderness that little child brought than a
restoration of his sense of irony, which was in turn the equivalent
of a kind of faith in himself. Earlier that evening, when he was in
Sir Tom's brougham, he had had a false sense of living in the
present; his rejection then of his past and future had been a mere
vicious plunge into irresponsible oblivion. Now he had a far more
profound and genuine intuition of the great human illusion about
time, which is that its reality is like that of a road--on which one
can constantly see where one was and where one probably will
be--instead of the truth: that time is a room, a now so close to us
that we regularly fail to see it.

Charles's was the very
opposite of the Sartrean experience. The simple furniture around him,
the warm light from the next room, the humble shadows, above all that
small being he held on his knees, so insubstantial after its mother's
weight (but he did not think at all of her), they were not
encroaching and hostile objects, but constituting and friendly ones.
The ultimate hell was infinite and empty space; and they kept it at
bay. He felt suddenly able to face his future, which was only a form
of that terrible emptiness. Whatever happened to him such moments
would recur; must be found, and could be found. A door opened. The
prostitute stood in the light. Charles could not see her face, but he
guessed that she was for a moment alarmed. And then relieved.

"Oh sir. Did she
cry?"

"Yes. A little. I
think she has gone back to sleep now."

"I 'ad to go down
to the Warren Street stand. They was all off 'ere."

"You are very
kind."

He passed her child to
her, and watched her as she tucked it back into its bed; then
abruptly turned and left the room. He felt in his pocket and counted
out five sovereigns and left them on the table. The child had
reawoken, and its mother was quietening it again. He hesitated, then
silently left the room.

He was inside the
waiting hansom when she came running down the steps and to the door.
She stared up at him. Her look was almost puzzled, almost hurt.

"Oh sir ... thank
you. Thank you."

He realized that she had
tears in her eyes; no shock to the poor like unearned money.

"You are a brave,
kind girl."

He reached out and
touched her hand where it clasped the front sill. Then he tapped with
his stick.
 

42

History is not
like some individual person, which uses men to achieve its ends.
History is nothing but the actions of men in pursuit of their ends.
--
marx, Die Heilige
Familie (1845)

Charles, as we have
learned, did not return to Kensington in quite so philanthropic a
mood as he finally left the prostitute's. He had felt sick again
during the hour's journey; and had had time to work up a good deal of
self-disgust into the bargain. But he woke in a better frame of mind.
As men will, he gave his hangover its due, and stared awfully at his
haggard face and peered into his parched and acrid mouth; and then
decided he was on the whole rather well able to face the world. He
certainly faced Sam when he came in with the hot water, and made some
sort of apology for his bad temper of the previous night. "I
didn't notice nuffink, Mr. Charles."

"I had a somewhat
tiresome evening, Sam. And now be a good fellow and fetch me up a
large pot of tea. I have the devil's own thirst."

Sam left, hiding his
private opinion that his master had the devil's own something else as
well. Charles washed and shaved, and thought about Charles. He was
clearly not cut out to be a rake; but nor had he had much training in
remorseful pessimism. Had not Mr. Freeman himself said that two years
might pass before any decision as to his future need to be taken?
Much could happen in two years. Charles did not actually say to
himself, "My uncle may die"; but the idea hovered on the
fringes of his mind. And then the carnal aspect of the previous
night's experience reminded him that legitimate pleasures in that
direction would soon be his to enjoy. For now he must abstain. And
that child--how many of life's shortcomings children must make up
for!

Sam returned with the
tea--and with two letters. Life became a road again. He saw at once
that the top envelope had been double postmarked; posted in Exeter
and forwarded to Kensington from the White Lion in Lyme Regis. The
other came direct from Lyme. He hesitated, then to allay suspicion
picked up a paperknife and went to the window. He opened the letter
from Grogan first; but before we read it, we must read the note
Charles had sent on his return to Lyme that morning of his dawn walk
to Carslake's Barn. It had said the following:

My dear Doctor
Grogan,
I
write in great haste to thank you for your invaluable advice and
assistance last night, and to assure you once again that I shall be
most happy to pay for any care or attentions your colleague and
yourself may deem necessary. You will, I trust, and in full
understanding that I have seen the folly of my misguided interest,
let me know what transpires concerning the meeting that will have
taken place when you read this.

Alas, I could
not bring myself to broach the subject in Broad Street this morning.
My somewhat sudden departure, and various other circumstances with
which I will not now bother you, made the moment most conspicuously
inopportune. The matter shall be dealt with as soon as I return. I
must ask you meanwhile to keep it to yourself.

I leave
immediately. My London address is below. With profound gratitude,
C.S.

It had not been an
honest letter. But it had had to be written. Now Charles nervously
unfolded the reply to
it.

My dear
Smithson,
I
have delayed writing to you in the hope of obtaining some
eclaircissement of our little Dorset mystery. I regret to say that
the only female I encountered on the morning of my expedition was
Mother Nature--a lady whose conversation I began, after some three
hours' waiting, to find a trifle tedious. In short, the person did
not appear. On my return to Lyme I sent out a sharp lad to do duty
for me. But he too sat sub
tegmine
fagi
in
pleasant solitude. I pen these words lightly, yet I confess that when
the lad returned that nightfall I began to fear the worst.

However, it
came to my ears the next morning that instructions had been left at
the White Lion for the girl's box to be forwarded to Exeter. The
author of the instructions I cannot discover. No doubt she sent the
message herself. I think we may take it she has decamped. My one
remaining fear, my dear Smithson, is that she may follow you to
London and attempt to thrust her woes upon you there. I beg you not
to dismiss this contingency with a smile. If I had time I could cite
you other cases where just such a course has been followed. I enclose
an address. He is an excellent man, with whom I have long been in
correspondence, and I advise you most strongly to put the business in
his hands should further embarrassment
come
d la lettre
knocking on your door.

Rest assured
that no word has passed or shall pass my lips. I shall not repeat my
advice regarding the charming creature-- whom I had the pleasure of
meeting in the street just now, by the bye--but I recommend a
confession at the earliest opportunity. I don't fancy the Absolvitur
will require too harsh or long a penance.
Yr
very sincere
Michael
Grogan

Charles had drawn a
breath of guilty relief long before he finished that letter. He was
not discovered. He stared a long moment out of his bedroom window,
then opened the second letter.