As for the women who had worked in the war, they had set an example to the next generation, and that in itself should be a reward. She had heard that in England many such women had taken to breeding dogs in the country. Well, why not? Dogs were very nice people to breed. “Plus je connais les hommes, plus j’aime les chiens.” There were worse things than breeding dogs in the country.
It was quite true that inverts were often religious, but churchgoing in them was a form of weakness; they must be a religion unto themselves if they felt that they really needed religion. As for blessings, they profited the churches no doubt, apart from which they were just superstition. But then of course she herself was a pagan, acknowledging only the god of beauty; and since the whole world was so ugly these days, she was only too thankful to let it ignore her. Perhaps that was lazy—she was rather lazy. She had never achieved all she might have with her writing. But humanity was divided into two separate classes, those who did things and those who looked on at their doings. Stephen was one of the kind that did things—under different conditions of environment and birth she might very well have become a reformer.
They would argue for hours, these two curious friends whose points of view were so widely divergent, and although they seldom if ever agreed, they managed to remain both courteous and friendly.
Valérie seemed well-nigh inhuman at times, completely detached from all personal interest. But one day she remarked to Stephen abruptly: “I really know very little about you, but this I do know—you’re a bird of passage, you don’t belong to the life here in Paris.” Then as Stephen was silent, she went on more gravely: “You’re rather a terrible combination: you’ve the nerves of the abnormal with all that they stand for—you’re appallingly oversensitive, Stephen—well, and then we get le revers de la médaille; you’ve all the respectable county instincts of the man who cultivates children and acres—any gaps in your fences would always disturb you; one side of your mind is so aggressive tidy. I can’t see your future, but I feel you’ll succeed; though I must say, of all the improbable people … But supposing you could bring the two sides of your nature into some sort of friendly amalgamation and compel them to serve you and through you your work—well then I really don’t see what’s to stop you. The question is, can you ever bring them together?” She smiled. “If you climb to the highest peak, Valérie Seymour won’t be there to see you. It’s a charming friendship that we two have found, but it’s passing, like so many charming things; however, my dear, let’s enjoy it while it lasts, and … remember me when you come into your kingdom.”
Stephen said: “When we first met I almost disliked you. I thought your interest was purely scientific or purely morbid. I said so to Puddle—you remember Puddle, I think you once met her. I want to apologize to you now; to tell you how grateful I am for your kindness. You’re so patient when I come here and talk for hours, and it’s such a relief; you’ll never know the relief it is to have someone to talk to.” She hesitated. “You see it’s not fair to make Mary listen to all my worries—she’s still pretty young, and the road’s damned hard … then there’s been that horrible business of Jamie.”
“Come as often as you feel like it,” Valérie told her; “and if ever you should want my help or advice, here I am. But do try to remember this: even the world’s not so black as it’s painted.”
LII
I
One morning a very young cherry-tree that Mary herself had planted in the garden was doing the most delightful things—it was pushing out leaves and tight pink buds along the whole length of its childish branches. Stephen made a note of it in her diary: “Today Mary’s cherry-tree started to blossom.” This is why she never forgot the date on which she received Martin Hallam’s letter.
The letter had been redirected from Morton; she recognized Puddle’s scholastic handwriting. And the other writing—large, rather untidy, but with strong black downstrokes and firmly crossed T’s—she stared at it thoughtfully, puckering her brows. Surely that writing, too, was familiar? Then she noticed a Paris postmark in the corner—that was strange. She tore open the envelope.
Martin wrote very simply: “Stephen, my dear. After all these years I am sending you a letter, just in case you have not completely forgotten the existence of a man called Martin Hallam.
“I’ve been in Paris for the past two months. I had to come across to have my eye seen to; I stopped a bullet with my head here in France—it affected the optic nerve rather badly. But the point is: if I fly over to England as I’m thinking of doing, may I come and see you? I’m a very poor hand at expressing myself—can’t do it at all when I put pen to paper—in addition to which I’m feeling nervous because you’ve become such a wonderful writer. But I do want to try and make you understand how desperately I’ve regretted our friendship—that perfect early friendship of ours seems to me now a thing well worth regretting. Believe me or not, I’ve thought of it for years; and the fault was all mine for not understanding. I was just an ignorant cub in those days. Well, anyhow, please will you see me, Stephen? I’m
