Moreover, I want to prick through the green fretwork and over the glacis of cut glass. I want to peer and peep at the man opposite. James Moggridge is it, whom the Marshes call Jimmy? Minnie, you must promise not to twitch. James Moggridge sells buttons. The big ones and the little ones on the long cards. Some buttons are peacock-eyed. Others are dull gold. Some are cairngorms. Others are coral sprays.
He travels. On Thursdays, his Eastbourne day, he takes his meals with the Marshes. His red face, his little steady eyes, his enormous appetite. This is primitive. I don’t like it. Let’s see the Moggridge household. Well, James himself mends the family boots on Sundays. He reads Truth. But his passion? Roses and his wife, a retired hospital nurse. Interesting. But she’s of the unborn children of the mind. She is illicit. Like my rhododendrons. How many die in every novel—the best, the dearest, while Moggridge lives. It’s life’s fault. Here’s Minnie. She is eating her egg at the bench. There must be Jimmy at the other end of the line.
There must be Moggridge—life’s fault. Life imposes its laws. Life blocks the way. Life is behind the fern. Life is the tyrant. I assure you I come willingly. Heaven knows what compulsion took me across ferns and cruets, table and bottles. I come irresistibly to lodge myself somewhere on the firm flesh, in the robust spine. Wherever I can penetrate, in the soul, of Moggridge the man. The enormous stability. The spine tough as whalebone, straight as oaktree. The ribs; the flesh; the red hollows. The suck and regurgitation of the heart. And meat and beer fall in brown cubes. So we reach the eyes. Behind the aspidistra they see something: black, white, dismal. Now the plate again. Behind the aspidistra they see elderly woman; “Marsh’s sister”; the tablecloth now.
“Marsh will know what’s wrong with Morrises.”
Cheese. The plate again. Turn it round—the enormous fingers; now the woman opposite. “Marsh’s sister—not a bit like Marsh. She is a wretched, elderly female. You must feed your hens. Why is she twitching? Not what I said? Dear, dear, dear! these elderly women. Dear, dear!”
Yes, Minnie. I know you twitched. But one moment—James Moggridge.
“Dear, dear, dear!”
How beautiful the sound is! Like the knock of a mallet on a timber. Like the throb of the heart of an ancient whaler.
“Dear, dear!”
A bell for the souls of the fretful to soothe them and solace them. “So long. Good luck to you!” and then, “What’s your pleasure?” Though Moggridge will pluck his rose for her, that’s over[6]. Now what’s the next thing?
“Madam, you’ll miss your train”.
That’s the sound that reverberates. That’s St. Paul’s[7] and the motor-omnibuses[8]. Oh, Moggridge, you won’t stay? You must leave? Are you driving through Eastbourne this afternoon in one of those little carriages? Are you the man who is behind green cardboard boxes? Are you the man who sometimes sits so solemn like a sphinx? Please tell me. But the doors close. We shall never meet again. Moggridge, farewell!
Yes, yes, I’m coming. Right up to the top of the house. One moment I’ll linger. How the mud goes round in the mind! What a swirl these monsters leave! James Moggridge is dead now. He is gone for ever. Well, Minnie,
“I can face it no longer”.
If she said that… Let me look at her. She is brushing the eggshell. She said it certainly. When the self speaks to the self, who is speaking? The entombed soul, the spirit. The self that took the veil and left the world. A coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful. It flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors.
“I can bear it no longer,” her spirit says. “That man at lunch—Hilda—the children”.
Oh, heavens, her sob! The spirit is wailing its destiny, on the carpets—meager footholds—all the vanishing universe. Love, life, faith, husband, children.
“Not for me—not for me.”
But then—the muffins, the bald elderly dog? Bead mats and the consolation of underlinen. If Minnie Marsh is in the hospital, nurses and doctors will exclaim… There’s the vista. There’s the vision. There’s the distance—the blue blot at the end of the avenue.
“Benny, to your basket, sir, and see what mother’s brought you!”
So, you take the glove with the worn thumb. You renew the fortifications, you thread the grey wool.
In and out, across and over. You are spinning a web through which God himself… Hush, don’t think of God! How firm the stitches are! You must be proud. Let nothing disturb her. Let the light fall gently. Let the clouds show an inner vest of the first green leaf. Let the sparrow perch on the twig and shake the raindrop. Why look up? Was it a sound, a thought? Oh, heavens!
Back again to the thing you did. Back again to the plate glass with the violet loops?
But Hilda will come. Ignominies, humiliations, oh! Close the breach.
Minnie Marsh mended her glove. She laid it in the drawer. She shuts the drawer with decision. I saw her face in the glass. Next she laces her shoes. Then she touches her throat. What’s your brooch? Mistletoe? And what is happening? The moment is coming. The threads are racing. Niagara’s ahead. Here’s the crisis!
Heaven be with you! Down she goes. Courage, courage! Face it, be it! For God’s sake don’t wait on the mat now! There’s the door! I’m on your side. Speak! Confront her. Confound her soul![9]
“Oh, I beg your pardon! Yes, this is Eastbourne. I’ll reach it down for you. Let me try the handle.”
But Minnie, I know you—I’m with you now.
“That’s all your luggage?”
“Much obliged, I’m sure.”
But why do you look about you? Hilda won’t come to the station, nor John. Moggridge is driving at the far side of Eastbourne.
“I’ll wait by my bag, ma’am. That’s safe. He will meet me. Oh, there he is! That’s my son.”
So they walk off together.
Well, but I’m confounded. Surely, Minnie, you know better! A strange young man. Stop! I’ll tell him—Minnie! Miss Marsh! I don’t know though. There’s something queer in her cloak as it blows. Oh, but it’s untrue, it’s indecent. . Look how he bends as they reach the gateway. She finds her ticket. What’s the joke? Off they go[10], down the road, side by side. Well, my world is ruined. What do I stand on? What do I know? That’s not Minnie. There never was Moggridge. Who am I? Life is bare.
The last look of them. He is stepping from the kerb and she is following him. Mysterious figures! Mother and son. Who are you? Why do you walk down the street? Where will you sleep tonight? Where will you sleep tomorrow? Oh, how it whirls and surges! I start after them. People drive this way and that. The white light splutters and pours. Plate-glass windows. Carnations; chrysanthemums. Ivy in dark gardens. Milk carts at the door. Wherever I go, mysterious figures, I see you. Mothers and sons; you, you, you. I hasten. I follow. This must be the sea. The landscape is grey; dim as ashes. The water murmurs and moves. I fall on my knees. I go through the ritual. I adore you, unknown figures. I open my arms. I embrace you. I’ll draw you to me—adorable world!
The String Quartet
Well, here we are. Cast your eye over the room. You will see that Tubes[11] and trams and omnibuses, private carriages, landaus with bays in them, are weaving threads from one end of London to the other. Yet I begin to doubt…
If indeed it’s true, as they say, that Regent Street is closed, and the weather not cold