“That, to me, is a form of magic in which I don’t believe.”
Bartels said: “Magic? Yes, it’s magic all right. A formation of the eyes, a half-smile, the carriage of the head, each of these things can bring about love. It’s magic all right. But a common enough type.”
“To me love means one thing.”
“What is that?”
“Sex.”
“Bed?”
“Bed,” said Beatrice. “All the rest of it, the romantic dreams, the self-deception, what you call the wish to give and give, it all boils down to that. Bed. Love means bed. The rest is comradeship.”
Even Bartels had never before heard her express such a disillusioning opinion. He was shocked and amazed. He shook his head.
“You’re wrong,” he said, gently. “You’re utterly wrong.”
He felt an urgent wish to convince her that she was on the wrong track. It astonished and dismayed him that she should persist in this way of thinking.
Suddenly, unpredictable as she so often was, she said:
“But I do love you, in my own way. I do, really.”
“Do you?” He smiled affectionately at her. “Perhaps you do.”
“Only I can’t think anybody wonderful, because I try to see people with what I believe are the eyes of truth.”
“Why?” asked Bartels quickly. “Why force it on yourself? Why be so practical? Why not live with a little fantasy, if it helps?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” persisted Bartels. “Why can’t you?”
“Perhaps because I believe that truth, reality, is the most important thing in the world. It’s not easy. It involves being truthful with yourself, and that’s difficult. I try to be truthful with myself.”
“I think you succeed. Sometimes disastrously so.”
The little clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven, musically, harmoniously. Bartels felt cool and level-headed now, alert and vigilant, poised to strike the blow which he had planned. With a conscious effort he excluded any emotion from his mind, any pity from his heart.
He heard Beatrice say: “You should have married a different woman, Barty. I love you, but it’s not what you mean by love. You should have married a softer, more effeminate woman than me. The thing you need most, I can’t give you. I try hard, but I can’t. That’s the tragedy of it. But I’ve given you everything I could. I’ve tried to be a good wife to you.”
“You’ve succeeded in being a good wife.”
Was there any harm in conceding that? he wondered. It was her just due. She had been an excellent housekeeper, a good lover; she had encouraged him in bad times. She had given him loyalty and comradeship.
For the second time that day, he thought: She’s like a fine mosaic, but for me the centrepiece is missing. It wouldn’t have mattered for ninety-nine men out of a hundred, but it matters to me. It’s her bad luck that I should be as I am. It’s just her bad luck.
“I’ve not succeeded,” said Beatrice, “I’ve failed. Perhaps not through my own fault, but I’ve failed because I have not given you what you want.”
Now, thought Bartels, shall I tell her now? For a moment the words rested heavily upon his tongue, but instead of speaking them he said:
“It is always risky for a woman whose heart is ruled by her head to marry a man whose head is ruled by his heart. I am as much, or as little, to blame as you. It’s just one of those things. You’ve done a lot for me,” he added.
“Have I?” asked Beatrice. “I wonder.”
“But a woman who does a lot for a man can pay a heavy price.”
Beatrice looked up. “Meaning what?”
Bartels reached forward and stroked the dog’s head. “Oh, it’s all rather complicated. Let’s skip it. Can I have another cup of tea, please?”
He knew there was a risk that she might agree to drop the subject, but, understanding her, he reckoned it was a remote one. She took his cup and filled it and said: “What is the price she pays? Tell me.”
“Let’s skip it,” he said again.
“No, tell me. Go on.” She handed him back his cup of tea, and looked at him expectantly.
“Well, I think a woman is often like a thrush with a snail. She hops along, sees a man, pauses, listens, considers, head on one side, and then dashes him out of his protective shell and swallows him.
“A woman will knock a man into some semblance of order, cajoling, pleading, using every ounce of her personality, until she has moulded him into the shape she thinks is good for him. Then she sits back to enjoy the fruits of her labours. But she forgets the price she has had to pay: the blanketing out of his personality, the smothering process which has to be gone through.
“If he falls for another woman, she is surprised and hurt.
“She sees him as he was, and she sees him as she made him, a better finished product altogether. A product which another woman is now going to enjoy. I will agree with you that it is very trying for her.”
Beatrice sat with her hands folded in her lap, looking down at them, saying nothing. Bartels thought she was summoning her thoughts for a counterattack, a final showdown. This was what he was prepared for. This was what he hoped for. Instead, she spoke quite quietly.
“You’re a sentimentalist and a romantic, and I’m not. You should have married somebody else. I know you don’t love me anymore. You’re terribly fond of me, you need me, you can’t do without me, but you don’t love me. Not anymore.”
Now was the moment.
But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t say the words because, with a sinking heart, he saw that she was crying; sitting bolt upright on the settee in front of the fire, holding her handkerchief to her nose, her face puckered up like a child’s, mouth quivering to restrain her weeping.
“I’m too strong a character to suit you,” whispered Beatrice. “I know I’m crying now, but I’m too strong a character. You should have married somebody weaker. You are the type which loves a helpless sort of woman. It’s true, darling.”
Bartels thought: You can’t tell with people, you just can’t tell. She thinks she’s strong, but at heart she’s a child, wanting to be loved, and wanting to have somebody to love. Maybe everybody has three character-skins. The first skin is the one they try to present to the world, the deceptive skin; then comes the second skin, the concealed selfishness, the cynicism, the callousness, covetousness, and greed; but then, if you dig deep enough, right down below it all, you find the third skin, that of the essential, basic child, insecure, needing to be loved and to love.
You can’t tell with people, you can’t tell, he thought miserably.
“It’s true, darling,” said Beatrice again, in a choked voice, “you don’t love me. You’re terribly fond of me, I know. And I know you need me,” she said again. “I know you can’t do without me.”
A little wave of pity approached the barriers Bartels had erected around his heart. He saw it coming, and watched its approach with agitation, and raised the barriers higher against it.
She should never have married him, if she didn’t love him. It was not fair. Or if she married him, she should have been prepared to give and give. He would leave her. He had to leave her, because Lorna was lonely, and needed him, and he needed Lorna. Fundamentally, it would serve Beatrice right.
She shouldn’t have married me, he repeated to himself. She shouldn’t have done it.
Beatrice suddenly buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook because she was weeping properly now. But there was little sound except for the periodic sharp intake of her breath.
She’s fighting against it, thought Bartels irrelevantly, trying not to make too much of a scene. That’s partly because she is English and partly because of her school training. It sticks, as Mr Chips said about Latin, some of it sticks. Blood and training. Some of it sticks; not all, but some.
The wave was lapping round the barriers now, eating at the foundations, lapping and receding, and coming back with renewed vigour. He only had to get up from his chair and take two steps, and sit beside her and take her in his arms, and tell her she was wrong, and she would believe him because she wanted to. It would all stop.
