«She's back,» I heard him say.
«What? Who's back? I do not understand you.»
«Christian's back. He's dead. She's back.»
«Christian.»
This was the name, not pronounced now in my presence for very many years, of my former wife.
I opened the door wider and the person on the step, whom I now recognized, slipped, or dodged, into the flat. I retreated into the sitting-room, he following.
«You don't remember me.»
«Yes, I do.»
«I'm Francis Marloe, you know, your brother-in-law.»
«Yes, yes-«As was, that is. I thought you should know. She's a widow, he left her everything, she's back in London, back in your old place-«Did she send you?»
«Here? Well, not exactly-«
«Did she or didn't she?»
«Well, no, I just heard through the lawyer. She's back in your old place! God!»
«I see no need for you to come-«So she's written you? I wondered if she'd have written you.»
«Of course she hasn't written to me!»
«I thought of course you'd want to see her-«I don't want to see her! I cannot think of anyone I less want to see or hear of!»
I shall not attempt here to describe my marriage. Some impression of it will doubtless emerge. For the present story, its general nature rather than its detail is important. It was not a success. At first I saw her as a life-bringer. Then I saw her as a death-bringer. Some women are like that. There is a sort of energy which seems to reveal the world: then one day you find you are being devoured. Fellow victims will know what I mean. Possibly I am a natural bachelor. Christian was certainly a natural flirt. Sheer silliness can be attractive in a woman. I was, of course, attracted. She was, I suppose, a rather «sexy» woman. Some people thought me lucky. She brought, what I detest, disorder into my life. She was a great maker of scenes. In the end I hated her. Five years of marriage seemed to have convinced both of us of the utter impossibility of this state.
However, shortly after our divorce Christian married a rich unlettered American called Evandale, went to live in Illinois, and as far as I was concerned disappeared forever.
There is nothing quite like the dead dull feel of a failed marriage. Nor is there anything like one's hatred for an ex-spouse. (How can such a person dare to be happy?) I cannot credit those who speak of «friendship» in such a context. I lived for years with a sense of things irrevocably soiled and spoiled, it could give suddenly such a sad feel to the world sometimes. I could not liberate myself from her mind. This had nothing to do with love. Those who have suffered this sort of bondage will understand. Some people are just «diminishers» and «spoilers» for others. I suppose almost everybody diminishes someone. A saint would be nobody's spoiler. Most of one's acquaintances however can be blessedly forgotten when not present. Out of sight out of mind is a charter of human survival. Not so Christian, she was ubiquitous: her consciousness was rapacious, her thoughts could damage, passing like noxious rays through space and time. Her remarks were memorable. Only good old America cured her for me in the end. I put her away with a tedious man in a tedious and very distant town and was able at last to feel that she had died. What a relief.
Francis Marloe was another matter. Neither he nor his thoughts had ever been important to me, nor as far as I could see to anyone. He was Christian's younger brother, treated by her with indulgent contempt. He never married. After lengthy trying he qualified as a doctor, but was soon struck off the register for some irregularity in the prescription of drugs. I learnt later with abhorrence that he had set up in business as a self-styled «psychoanalyst.» Later still I heard he had taken to drink. If I had been told that he had committed suicide I should have heard the news without either concern or surprise. I was not pleased to see him again. He had in fact altered
