I saw him stiffen slightly, and sit upright, while a look came into his eyes such as I have never seen before on a man’s face, though I’ve seen quite a few fellows who were supposed to be in love.
I will not attempt to describe it, I will merely say that his thin, unimpressive countenance, with its wide mouth and spectacles, was suffused by something nearly akin to beauty.
As he rose to his feet, one forgot his meagre build, or the stupid tuft of hair on the crown of his head, standing up in disarray. One forgot everything except the beauty which sprang from the inner emotion of the man. That emotion, it seemed to me, was devoid of lust, greed, or even self-pity.
It is understandable. Hate can render a beautiful face ugly. The love inside Philip Bartels made his ugly face almost beautiful.
So I knew, without him telling me, that Lorna Dickson had come into the cocktail lounge. I wasn’t expecting her, I was even startled and disconcerted, but I knew she had arrived.
Thus I met Lorna for the first time.
She was dressed, I remember, in a grey costume, but that is all that I do remember about how she was dressed. I was too fascinated by other things to take in much more.
I shall never forget the grace of her movements as she came towards us: the calm but friendly look in her steady, blue-grey eyes as she turned to be introduced to me, the mobility of her face when she smiled, which she did so often, and the laughter-wrinkles at the corner of her eyes.
She was not a pretty little painted doll; she was a mature woman of about thirty-three, gracious and charming, with light brown wavy hair, a slim figure, a small well-shaped head, and a jaw which was rather square, the mouth full but wide.
Above all, the impression I brought away from that lunch was of inner beauty matching that upon Bartels’ face when he saw her come into the cocktail lounge. But whereas the beauty which suffused Bartels was sudden, called to life by the sight of Lorna, the beauty of Lorna, it seemed to me, resided perpetually within her.
Lorna! Dear, sweet, gentle Lorna.
You would willingly have lived out your life in loneliness rather than cause us suffering. That I know. You would gladly have stayed away from us had you known how things would develop.
But you couldn’t know. In your innocence you came and lunched with us. Thereafter, not all your generosity, nor all your unselfishness, could stop the march of events.
It is all finished, the strain and the pain, the struggle and the tears. There is only peace, of a sort, for all of us. Peace, most of the time, but sometimes for me the agony of doubt concerning the crafty manner in which I afterwards acted towards my best friend.
It was over, by several months, when I revisited the chateau of our youth. It was finished, the climactic point reached and passed. Had I but remembered his words-“Death is of no consequence…it’s not dying that matters, it’s how you die”-then it is possible, just possible, that I might have felt some inner warning, some hidden voice which cried: “Stop! This woman is sacrosanct in the eyes of Philip Bartels.”
I might have acted differently, after that first meeting with Lorna Dickson. But I doubt it. I think I would have gone ahead just the same.
Such was my love for Lorna, born that day, that very day when she and Bartels and I had lunch together as friends.
Chapter 6
I know so much now. I know, for instance, that on the day following the lunch at the Cafe Royal, Bartels went home in the evening with the firm intention of having things out, determined, despite what I’d said to him, to ask Beatrice to release him.
It was typical of his ingenuous nature, in so far as women were concerned, that although he dreaded the business, he did not anticipate a prolonged fight. He thought she would be too proud, too strong, too independent to try for long to hold him.
He thought she would fight with tooth and claw for a while, and then give in after a final burst of bitter invective, for she was a hot-tempered girl.
I thought she would fight with tooth and claw, but would not give in. She had too much to lose.
I thought he would have to leave her, and let time become his ally. I told him so, after Lorna had left us after lunch. He did not believe me.
The evening began in a normal enough way, Bartels and Beatrice watching a play on the television; and their dog Brutus dozing in front of the fire. He was a very old dog by now; an ugly, square dog, of mixed blood, with a white-and-tan coat, and a heavy head and jowl.
He had been given to them shortly after their marriage, and in those days he was a light and playful puppy; but now the weight of the years pressed heavily upon him; he was half-blind, and cumbersome, and lived only to eat and to sleep.
The television programme ended at about 10.15. The play had a strong love theme running through it, and when it was over Beatrice went out and made some tea.
Bartels waited, biding his time until Beatrice should comment on the play. She poured out the tea and handed him his cup, and sat sipping her tea and looking into the fire. Five minutes passed, and he began to think that the opportunity for which he was waiting would not arise.
He sought in his mind for some method of approaching the subject. Now that the moment was near, he felt sad and nervous, as he always did at the thought of inflicting pain or distress.
Then, suddenly, Beatrice spoke about the play.
“I just don’t believe in this grand passion, this all-devouring flame which people are always writing about,” she said irritably. “It may occur in one case in a million, but I simply don’t believe it holds true for the normal run of people, I just don’t believe it.”
She sat in her armchair, stirring her tea, and looking into the fire.
It was her old line of argument, brought out and hacked around to all sorts and conditions of people; it was her attempt to justify to herself her actions in having married without being in love; an attempt to reassure herself that other people, or the vast majority, also married with their heads rather than their hearts, as she had done, as she would do again if she were widowed; that other people, therefore, had no fuller an emotional life than she had.
But that evening she seemed not to be content to let the matter stand. She seemed to be seeking an assurance from Bartels himself that she was right.
She said hopefully:
“Don’t you think I’m right, Barty? Don’t you think it’s true that people see this love-stuff through a kind of rosy mist of self-deception?”
Bartels took a deep breath. “No, I don’t,” he said flatly. “I believe in love.”
Beatrice reached to take a cigarette from a small table at her side. The lamplight fell on her red hair and fair complexion. She looked young and soft and, because she spoke in a low voice, somehow defenceless. But Bartels, hardening his heart, said:
“You think as you do, because you have not met the right man, yet.”
“Perhaps I’m not made like other women,” she replied hopelessly. “I don’t know. I can’t feel this great overwhelming passion which people call love. I just can’t feel it about any man.”
Bartels said again, dully: “That’s because you have not met the right man. If you met the right man, you would feel it.”
But she shook her head. “I can’t give the adulation, the worship, the adoration, because I don’t feel it. It’s not in me to give it to any man. I can’t help it. That’s the way I am. I can feel physical passion, affection, comradeship, but that’s all.”
“When you are in love,” said Bartels, “you want to give, to protect, and to cherish, too. But above all you want to give.”
