Now however he had already ceased to think about Bruno. He went through the corridor into the cold inward light of the church. There was a plaintive urgent melancholy sound of chanting, but after he had stood for a moment just inside the door he made out that there was no service in progress. The singers must be the choir, who were practicing invisible to him in a side chapel at the far end. The body of the church was almost empty, though here and there between bunchy brown granite pillars he could see one or two people kneeling before the shrines which arched along the side walls in a series of rich shadowy caverns. The plain-song chant ceased, leaving an intense quietness behind it. Miles knew the place. He had come here in the past to meditate. He took off his drip ping mackintosh and hung it over the back of the pew in front. He sat down and began to dry his face and hair with his hand kerchief.
What on earth was he going to do about Lisa? She had avoided him on Saturday, leaving for work early and coming back late. He had managed to see her for a moment early this morning in the garden, when all she had said to him was, “I’ve got to go away. Don’t let it start, don’t let it start” But this was impossible, it had already started. On Saturday evening, after Lisa had resolutely planted herself in the drawing room with Diana, he had withdrawn to his study. What had the women said to each other after his departure? Perhaps nothing. Before going to bed he had tried Lisa’s door. It was locked.
He had not spoken of the matter to Diana either, after a very brief exchange which they had had after Miles came to bed in the early hours of Saturday morning. Diana had of course seen what had happened between him and Lisa. It must have been fairly obvious: those looks, those sighs, those shudderings, those significant almost- touches. She said, “I knew it would happen one day.” Miles did not believe her. He did not believe that the possibility had occurred to Diana for a single second. She said, “She’s much better for you than I am. You ought to go away together.” Miles said, “Nonsense, Diana. I’m married to you. Now shut up.” They had lain rigid and sleepless side by side until the daylight came.
Miles had thought at first in these terms: as it is utterly impossible and inconceivable that I should part from either of them there is really no problem. The only question is how exactly to manage it, how to juggle it. There is no question about whether it should or can be managed. And fortunately the question of concealment does not even arise. This extremely simple and as it seemed to him radical way of seeing the problem persisted with him, together with sensations of mad joy, throughout most of Saturday. It had been almost a relief to be at the office, to perform neutral compulsory activities, and to think about Lisa dreamily and abstractly without considering any plan of action whatsoever. Saturday evening had been rather a trial, particularly the experience of leaving the two women behind together in the drawing room, reading their books. No eyes had been raised to meet his as he lingered at the door. The light head and the dark head both remained resolutely bowed. After he had walked for about half a mile up and down the three-pace extent of his study he had considered the possibility of creeping downstairs to see if they were talking about him, but the idea seemed too sickeningly nightmarish.
The nightmarish aspect of the whole situation had then begun to be a little more obvious. He had, he realized, thought about the problem so far simply in relation to himself, as if it were all somehow neatly enclosed within him. He had to decide how to deal with the two women and manage them both somehow: this part remained vague, but as there was evidently no alternative some arrangement would doubtless prove to be possible. He would hold the situation: this form of words which he had used to Lisa recurred to him together with an atmosphere of comfort; he would hold the situation together and not let it fall to pieces, and this holding would be an embrace which strongly enfolded both Lisa and Diana. Love would triumph.
But now he had just begun to see, and the glimpse of it made him grit his teeth together with pain and terror, the absolute awfulness of the situation for the other two. Diana loved him, deeply, completely, she was his wife, she had shared his bed for years. He had had so many conversations with her about Lisa, as if they had been Lisa’s parents. They had talked with benevolent superior connivance about the failed nun, the broken-winged bird. They had worried about her together and speculated about her sex life and wondered if she were a Lesbian and made all sorts of plans to protect and cherish her. How could Diana tolerate this sudden monstrous change in her sister’s status? The sisters loved each other. What would happen now? And how could Lisa, with her rigid views of duty and her uncompromising life, bear to become the in strument which should destroy her sister’s marriage? Miles’s vague vision of holding the situation had simply ignored both Diana’s claims and Lisa’s conscience. Oh how happy he had been before, he suddenly thought, living simply in the house with the two of them in a state of unconsciousness. Yet all that time Lisa must have been suffering.
There were certain impossibilities. He could not abandon Diana. Nor had he the faintest grain of inclination to abandon Diana. He loved and needed Diana, she had rescued him from desolation, she had been faithful to him and served him, he was bound to her by every tie of duty and indeed of deep marital love. The women were so different. He loved them both, but in different ways. Why was there not some dispensation for a situation which must be as common as this? However he had meant, and he still meant, what he had expressed to Lisa by saying, “You are the one.” This was no blasphemy against Parvati. Parvati was twenty-three years old. Miles was fifty-five. Parvati would understand. It was simply true that Lisa fitted him, fitted into his soul, in a way that Diana did not. It was true, he realized with a terrible new pain, that if he had met Lisa first he would have married her.
Suppose he were to take lodgings for Lisa in another part of London? He could divide his week between them. It would seem odd at first, but they would all soon settle down to it and it would begin to seem natural. But as Miles started to imagine the details he saw that it was a perfectly abominable idea. He could not ask Diana, whose entire life consisted of caring for him, of waiting for him, to endure days of absence about which she would want to know nothing. And, even more strongly, he felt that it would be monstrous, if he were going to offer Lisa anything, to offer her less than everything. But this was exactly what he’ had decided at the start that he could not do. Terrible and unendurable possibilities began to structure themselves in the background of his mind. Unable to envisage them, Miles said frantically to himself, suppose I just run off with Lisa after all?
Miles leaned forward, crossing his hands across his eyes. There came back to him, not exactly as a memory but as a hallucination, the moment when he had received the news of Parvati’s death. An acquaintance who had seen the newspaper account, with the names of the dead, had come round to his house. Miles had made the man go away at once. He had stood there alone in the hall holding the newspaper. He had believed it instantly. Hope would have been too great an agony. And as it seemed to Miles now he had begun, even in those first seconds, to plot how to cheat himself of any full recognition of what had occurred. His excuse was indeed a convincing one: a full recognition might have destroyed his reason. He acted as other human beings act, only with a different and in some ways more refined apparatus. He began to write the poem within three days. He continued it for over a year. His pain went into it almost raw.
It certainly seemed strange, when Miles reflected about it, that throughout his life, so much of which now seemed to have slipped dully away, he had retained his deep conviction that he was a poet. He had published a volume of young man’s poems just before Parvati died. He had continued to publish occasional poems in periodicals. There had been another small collected volume. His work was to be found in one or two anthologies. But he had always felt these to be weak preliminaries. His Duino visitation, his great angels were still to come. He had never lost this faith. Yet on the evidence it seemed so unlikely. He had become duller with the years, more pleasure- loving, less conscious. All those years with Diana, coming home on the tube to sherry and dinner and Diana’s latest flower arrangements. Even Lisa’s coming had left him still blind. It was only lately, when he had started the Note book of Particulars, that his vague faith had turned into a sharper hope, and had he perhaps even here misinterpreted what had happened? Was that sharper sense of life, that thrilled apprehension of being, not perhaps due rather to Lisa’s pres ence in the house and his still-sleeping awareness of being in love with her? Perhaps it was Lisa, not poetry, which would complete his destiny.
