Large, helpless, untidy and intensely forlorn, Jamie would struggle to finish her opera; but quite often these days she would tear up her work, knowing that what she had written was unworthy. When this happened she would sigh and peer round the studio, vaguely conscious that something was not as it had been, vaguely distressed by the dirt of the place to which she herself had helped to contribute—Jamie, who had never before noticed dirt, would feel aggrieved by its noxious presence. Getting up she would wipe the keys of the piano with Barbara’s one clean towel dipped in water.
“Can’t play,” she would grumble, “these keys are all sticky.”
“Oh, Jamie—my towel—go and fetch the duster!”
The quarrel that ensued would start Barbara’s cough, which in turn would start Jamie’s nerves vibrating. Then compassion, together with unreasoning anger and a sudden uprush of sex-frustration, would make her feel well-nigh beside herself—since owing to Barbara’s failing health, these two could be lovers now in name only. And this forced abstinence told on Jamie’s work as well as her nerves, destroying her music, for those who maintain that the North is cold, might just as well tell us that hell is freezing. Yet she did her best, the poor uncouth creature, to subjugate the love of the flesh to the pure and more selfless love of the spirit—the flesh did not have it all its own way with Jamie.
That summer she made a great effort to talk, to unburden herself when alone with Stephen; and Stephen tried hard to console and advise, while knowing that she could help very little. All her offers of money to ease the strain were refused point-blank, sometimes almost with rudeness—she felt very anxious indeed about Jamie.
Mary in her turn was deeply concerned; her affection for Barbara had never wavered, and she sat for long hours in the garden with the girl who seemed too weak to bathe, and whom walking exhausted.
“Let us help,” she pleaded, stroking Barbara’s thin hand, “after all, we’re much better off than you are. Aren’t you two like ourselves? Then why mayn’t we help?”
Barbara slowly shook her head: “I’m all right—please don’t talk about money to Jamie.”
But Mary could see that she was far from all right; the warm weather was proving of little avail, even care and good food and sunshine and rest seemed unable to ease that incessant coughing.
“You ought to see a specialist at once,” she told Barbara rather sharply one morning.
But Barbara shook her head yet again: “Don’t, Mary—don’t, please … you’ll be frightening Jamie.”
II
After their return to Paris in the autumn, Jamie sometimes joined the nocturnal parties; going rather grimly from bar to bar, and drinking too much of the crème-de-menthe that reminded her of the bull’s eyes at Beedles. She had never cared for these parties before, but now she was clumsily trying to escape, for a few hours at least, from the pain of existence. Barbara usually stayed at home or spent the evening with Stephen and Mary. But Stephen and Mary would not always be there, for now they also went out fairly often; and where was there to go to except the bars? Nowhere else could two women dance together without causing comment and ridicule, without being looked upon as freaks, argued Mary. So rather than let the girl go without her, Stephen would lay aside her work—she had recently started to write her fourth novel.
Sometimes, it is true, their friends came to them, a less sordid and far less exhausting business; but even at their own house the drink was too free: “We can’t be the only couple to refuse to give people a brandy and soda,” said Mary, “Valérie’s parties are awfully dull; that’s because she’s allowed herself to grow cranky!”
And thus, very gradually just at first, Mary’s finer perceptions began to coarsen.
III
The months passed, and now more than a year had slipped by, yet Stephen’s novel remained unfinished; for Mary’s face stood between her and her work—surely the mouth and the eyes had hardened?
Still unwilling to let Mary go without her, she dragged wearily round to the bars and cafés, observing with growing anxiety that Mary now drank as did all the others—not too much perhaps, but quite enough to give her a cheerful outlook on existence.
The next morning she was often deeply depressed, in the grip of a rather tearful reaction: “It’s too beastly—why do we do it?” she would ask.
And Stephen would answer: “God knows I don’t want to, but I won’t let you go to such places without me. Can’t we give it all up? It’s appallingly sordid!”
Then Mary would flare out with sudden anger, her mood changing as she felt a slight tug on the bridle. Were they to have no friends? she would ask. Were they to sit still and let the world crush them? If they were reduced to the bars of Paris, whose fault was that? Not hers and not Stephen’s. Oh, no, it was the fault of the Lady Annas and the Lady Masseys who had closed their doors, so afraid were they of contamination!
Stephen would sit with her head on her hand, searching her sorely troubled mind for some ray of light, some adequate answer.
IV
That winter Barbara fell very ill. Jamie rushed round to the house one morning, hatless, and with deeply tormented eyes: “Mary, please come—Barbara can’t get up, it’s a pain in her side. Oh, my God—we quarrelled …” Her voice was shrill and she spoke very fast: “Listen—last night—there was snow on the ground, it was cold—I was angry … I can’t remember … but I know I was angry—I get like that. She went out—she stayed out for quite two hours, and when she came back she was shivering so. Oh, my God, but why did we quarrel, whatever? She can’t move; it’s an awful pain in her side …”
Stephen said quietly: “We’ll
