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[Sir Philip speaking to Stephen] "And now I'm going to treat you like
a boy, and a boy must always be brave, remember. I'm not going to
pretend as though you were a coward; why should I, when I know that
you're brave? ... If you need me, remember that I'm always near
you--you can come to my study whenever you like. You can talk to me
about it whenever you're unhappy, and you want a companion to talk
to."
"You're all the son that I've got," he told her. "You're brave and
strong-limbed, but I want you to be wise--I want you to be wise for
your own sake, Stephen, because at the best life requires great
wisdom. I want you to learn to make friends of your books; some day
you may need them, because--" He hesitated, "because you mayn't find
life at all easy, we none of us do, and books are good friends."
[Stephen's teacher "Puddle" musing to herself:] "Good Lord," she
would think, "why can't she hit back? It's absurd, it's outrageous to
be so disgruntled by a handful of petty, half-educated yokels--a girl
with her brain too, it's simply outrageous! She'll have to tackle
life more forcibly than this, if she's not going to let herself go
under!"
The eye of youth is very observant. Youth has its moments and keen
intuition, even normal youth--but the intuition of those who stand
midway between the sexes, is so ruthless, so poignant, so accurate,
so deadly, as to be in the nature of an added scourge...
And when Martin spoke of those mighty forests [in British Columbia],
his voice changed, it became almost reverential; for this young man
loved trees with a primitive instinct, with a strange and
inexplicable devotion. ... And Stephen, the awkward, the bashful, the
tongue-tied, heard herself talking in her turn, quite freely, heard
herself asking him endless questions about forestry, farming and the
care of vast orchards; thoughtful questions, unromantic but apt--such
as one man will ask of another.
Then Martin wished to learn about her, and they talked of her
fencing, her studies, her riding, and she told him about Raftery [the
horse Stephen cares for] who was named for the poet. And all the
while she felt natural and happy because here was a man who was
taking her for granted, who appeared to find nothing eccentric about
her or her tastes, but who quite simply took her for granted. Had you
asked Martin Hallam to explain why it was that he accepted the girl
at her own valuation, he would surely have been unable to tell
you--it had happened, that was all, and there the thing ended. But
whatever the reason, he felt drawn to this friendship that had leapt
so suddenly into being.
And one day he said: "Don't think me quite mad, but if we survive
death then the trees will survive it; there must be some sort of a
forest heaven for all the faithful--the faithful of trees."
People gossiped a little because of the freedom allowed Martin and
Stephen by her parents; but on the whole they gossiped quite kindly,
with a great deal of smiling and nodding of heads. After all the girl
was just like other girls--they almost ceased to resent her.
Then suddenly terror and deep repugnance because of that unforeseen
change in Martin, the change that had turned the friend into the
lover--in reality it had been no more than that, the friend had
turned lover and had wanted from her what she could not give him, or
indeed any man, because of that deep repugnance. Yet there should
have been nothing repugnant about Martin, nor was she a child to have
felt such terror. She had known certain facts about life for some
time and they had not repelled her in other people--not until they
had been brought home to herself had these facts both terrified and
repelled her.
After she had spoken for quite a long time, she at length found the
courage to ask her question: "Is there anything strange about me,
Father, that I should have felt as I did about Martin?" ... She was
waiting, and now she was asking again: "Father, is there anything
strange about me? I remember when I was a little child--I was never
quite like all the other children--"
...he turned round and deliberately faced her; smiling right into her
eyes he lied glibly: "My dear, don't be foolish, there's nothing
strange about you, some day you may meet a man you can love. And
supposing you don't, well, what of it, Stephen? Marriage isn't the
only career for a woman. I've been thinking about your writing just
lately, and I'm going to let you go up to Oxford; but meanwhile you
mustn't get foolish fancies, that won't do at all--it's not like you,
Stephen..."
After she had gone he sat on alone, and the lie was still bitter to
his spirit as he sat there, and he covered his face for the shame
that was in him--but because of the love that was in him he wept.
Sir Philip's death deprived his child of three things; of
companionship of mind born of real understanding, of a stalwart
barrier between her and the world, and above all of love--that
faithful love that would gladly have suffered all things for her
sake, in order to spare her suffering.
And now also she knew the desolation of small things, the power to
give infinite pain that lies hidden in the little inanimate objects
that persist, in a book, in a well-worn garment, in a half-finished
letter, in a favourite arm-chair.
She thought: "They go on--they mean nothing at all, and yet they go
on," and the handling of them was anguish, and yet she must always
touch them.
Stephen was never to forget this summer when she fell quite simply
and naturally in love, in accordance with the dictates of her nature.
... To her there seemed nothing strange or unholy in the love that
she felt for Angela Crossby. To her it seemed an inevitable thing, as
much a part of herself as her breathing...
For Angela could never quite let the girl go. She herself would be
rather bewildered at moments--she did not love Stephen, she was quite
sure of that, and yet the very strangeness of it all was an
attraction. Stephen was becoming a kind of strong drug, a kind of
anodyne against boredom. And then Angela knew her own power to
subdue; she could play with fire yet remain unscathed by it...
[Puddle, Stephen's teacher, thinking about what she would like to
tell Stephen:] "You're neither unnatural, nor abominable, nor mad;
you're as much a part of what people call nature as anyone else; only
you're unexplained as yet--you've not got your niche in creation. But
some day that will come, and meanwhile don't shrink from yourself,
but just face yourself calmly and bravely. Have courage; do the best
you can with your burden. But above all be honourable. Cling to your
honour for the sake of those others who share the same burden. For
their sakes show the world that people like you and they can be quite
as selfless and fine as the rest of mankind. Let your life go to
prove this--it would be a really great life-work, Stephen."
An unworthy and tiresome thing money, at best, but it can at least
ease the heart of the lover. When he lightens his purse he lightens
his heart, though this can hardly be accounted a virtue, for such
giving is perhaps the most insidious form of self-indulgence that is
known to mankind.
Then from out of that still and unearthly night, there crept upon
Stephen an unearthly longing. A longing that was not any more of the
body but rather of the weary and homesick spirit that endured the
chains of that body.
Puddle put an arm round Stephen's bowed shoulders, and she said:
"You've got work to do--come and do it! Why, just because you are
what you are, you may actually find that you've got an advantage. You
may write with a curious double insight--write both men and women
from a personal knowledge. Nothing's completely misplaced or wasted,
I'm sure of that--and we're all part of nature. Some day the world
will recognize this, but meanwhile there's plenty of work that's
waiting. For the sake of all the others who are like you, but less
strong and less gifted perhaps, many of them, it's up to you to have
the courage to make good, and I'm here to help you to do it, Stephen."
[Stephen's friend Jonathan Brockett:] "It's a difficult question,
Stephen. Your own temperament is so much against you. You're so
strong in some ways and yet so timid--such a mixture--and you're
terribly frightened of life. Now why? You must try to stop being
frightened, to stop hiding your head. You need life, you need people.
People are the food that we writers live on; get out and devour
them..."
Valerie suddenly smiled at Stephen. Turning her back on the
chattering Brockett, she started to talk to her guest quite gravely
about her work, about books in general, about life in general; and as
she did so Stephen began to understand better the charm that many had
found in this woman; a charm that lay less in physical attraction
than in a great courtesy and understanding, a great will to please, a
great impulse towards beauty in all its forms--yes, therein lay her
charm. And as they talked on it dawned upon Stephen that here was no
mere libertine in love's garden, but rather a creature born out of
her epoch, a pagan chained to an age that was Christian...
There is something that mankind can never destroy in spite of an
unreasoning will to destruction, and this is its own idealism, that
integral part of its very being. The ageing and the cynical may make
wars, but the young and the idealistic must fight them, and thus
there are bound to come quick reactions, blind impulses not always
comprehended. Men will curse as they kill, yet accomplish deeds of
self-sacrifice, giving their lives for others; poets will write with
their pens dipped in blood, yet will write not of death but of life
eternal; strong and courteous friendships will be born, to endure in
the face of enmity and destruction. And so persistent is this urge to
the ideal, above all in the presence of great disaster, that mankind,
the wilful destroyer of beauty, must immediately strive to create new
beauties, lest it perish from a sense of its own desolation...
[Roger Antrim] had been shot down while winning his V.C. through
saving the life of a wounded captain. All alone he had gone over to
no-man's-land and had rescued his friend where he lay unconscious,
receiving a bullet through the head at the moment of flinging the
wounded man into safety. Roger--so lacking in understanding, so
crude, so cruel and remorseless a bully--Roger had been changed in
the twinkling of an eye into something superb because utterly
selfless. Thus it was that the undying urge of mankind towards the
ideal had come upon Roger. And Stephen as she sat there and read of
his passing, suddenly knew that she wished him well, that his courage
had wiped one great bitterness out of her heart and her life for
ever. And so by dying as he had died, Roger, all unknowing, had
fulfilled the law that must be extended to enemy and friend
alike--the immutable law of service.
If you come to me, Mary, the world will abhor you, will persecute
you, will call you unclean. Our love may be faithful even unto death
and beyond--yet the world will call it unclean. We may harm no living
creature by our love; we may grow more perfect in understanding and
in charity because of our loving; but all this will not save you from
the scourge of a world that will turn away its eyes from your noblest
actions, finding only corruption and vileness in you. ... I cannot
protect you, Mary, the world has deprived me of my right to protect;
I am utterly helpless, I can only love you.
Something primitive and age-old as Nature herself, did their love
appear to Mary and Stephen. For now they were in the grip of
Creation, of Creation's terrific urge to create; the urge that will
sometimes sweep forward blindly alike into fruitful and sterile
channels. That well-nigh intolerable life force would grip them,
making them a part of its own existence; so that they who might never
create a new life, were yet one at such moments with the fountain of
living...
Language is surely too small a vessel to contain those emotions of
mind and body that have somehow awakened a response in the spirit.
But this much she [Valerie Seymour] gave to her brethren, the freedom
of her salon, the protection of her friendship; if it eased them to
come to her monthly gatherings they were always welcome provided they
were sober. Drink and drugs she abhorred because they were ugly--one
drank tea, iced coffee, sirops and orangeade in that celebrated
flat...
These, then, were the people to whom Stephen turned at last in her
fear of isolation for Mary; to her own kind she turned and was made
very welcome, for no bond is more binding than that of affliction.
But her vision stretched beyond to the day when happier folk would
also accept her...
Their Christmas was naturally overshadowed, and so, as it were by a
common impulse, they turned to such people as Barbara and Jamie,
people who would neither despise nor insult them.
They are terrible, Miss Gordon, because they are those who have
fallen but have not risen again--there is surely no sin so great for
them, so unpardonable as the sin of despair; yet as surely you and I
can forgive...
Many die, many kill their bodies and souls, but they cannot kill the
justice of God, even they cannot kill the eternal spirit. From their
very degradation that spirit will rise up to demand of the world
compassion and justice.
Like most inverts [people who are queer] she found a passing relief
in discussing the intolerable situation; in dissecting it ruthlessly
bit by bit, even though she arrived at no solution... Valerie ... was
always ready to listen. Thus it was that between them a real
friendship sprang up...
And what of that curious craving for religion which so often went
hand in hand with inversion? Many such people were deeply religious,
and this surely was one of their bitterest problems. They believed,
and believing they craved a blessing on what to some of them seemed
very sacred--a faithful and deeply devoted union. But the church's
blessing was not for them. Faithful they might be, leading orderly
lives, harming no one, and yet the church turned away; her blessings
were strictly reserved for the normal.
Nature was trying to do her bit; inverts were being born in
increasing numbers, and after a while their numbers would tell, even
with the fools who still ignored Nature. They must just bide their
time--recognition was coming. But meanwhile they should all cultivate
more pride, should learn to be proud of their isolation.
Valerie 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. ...
You're rather a terrible combination: you've the nerves of the
abnormal with all that they stand for--you're appallingly
over-sensitive, Stephen--[and] 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. ... 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."
Stephen said: "... I want 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 some
one to talk to."
"Come as often as you feel like it," Valerie 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."
With Martin's return Stephen realized how very deeply she had missed
him; how much she still needed the thing he now offered, how long
indeed she had starved for just this--the friendship of a normal and
sympathetic man whose mentality being very much her own, was not only
welcome but reassuring.
Mary was growing gentle again; infinitely gentle she now was at
times, for happiness makes for gentleness, and in these days Mary was
strangely happy. Reassured by the presence of Martin Hallam,
re-established in pride and self-respect, she was able to contemplate
the world without her erstwhile sense of isolation, was able for the
moment to sheathe her sword, and this respite brought her a sense of
well-being. She discovered that at heart she was neither so
courageous nor so defiant as she had imagined, that like many another
woman before her, she was well content to feel herself protected; and
gradually as the weeks went by, she began to forget her bitter
resentment.
To herself she seemed all eyes and ears, a monstrous thing, a
complete degradation, yet endowed with an almost unbearable skill,
with a subtlety passing her own understanding.
You're courageous and fine and you mean to make good, but life with
you is spiritually murdering Mary. Can't you see it? Can't you
realize that she needs all the things that it's not in your power to
give her? Children, protection, friends whom she can respect and
who'll respect her--don't you realize this, Stephen? A few may
survive such relationships as yours, but Mary Llewellyn won't be
among them. She's not strong enough to fight the whole world, to
stand up against persecution and insult; it will drive her down, it's
begun to already--already she's been forced to turn to people like
Wanda. I know what I'm saying, I've seen the thing--the bars, the
drinking, the pitiful defiance, the horrible, useless wastage of
lives--well, I tell you it's spiritual murder for Mary.
And now she must pay very dearly indeed for that inherent respect of
the normal which nothing had ever been able to destroy, not even the
long years of persecution--an added burden it was, handed down by the
silent but watchful founders of Morton. She must pay for the instinct
which, in earliest childhood, had made her feel something akin to
worship for the perfect thing which she had divined in the love that
existed between her parents.
author: Hall, Radclyffe |