The French Lieutenant's Woman - John Fowles (45 page)

His vomiting had driven the
already precarious sexual element in that bedroom completely out of sight
and mind. His unhappily named choice had hastily risen, pulled on her gown,
and then proved herself to be as calm a nurse as she had promised to be
a prostitute. She got Charles to his chair by the fire, where he caught
sight of the hock bottle, and was promptly sick again. But this time she
had ready a basin from the washstand. Charles kept groaning his apologies
between his retches.

"Most sorry . . . most unfortunate
. . . something disagreed..." "It's all right, sir, it's all right. You
just let it come."

And let it come he had had
to. She went and got her shawl and threw it round his shoulders. He sat
for some time ludicrously like an old granny, crouched over the basin on
his knees, his head bowed. After a while he began to feel a little better.
Would he like to sleep? He would, but in his own bed. She went and looked
down into the street, then left the room while he shakily got dressed.
When she came back she herself had put on her clothes. He looked at her
aghast.

"You are surely not... ?"

"Get you a cab, sir. If you
just wait..."

"Ah yes ... thank you."

And he sat down again, while
she went downstairs and out of the house. Though he was by no means sure
that his nausea was past, he felt in some psychological way profoundly
relieved. Never mind what his intention had been; he had not committed
the fatal deed. He stared into the glowing fire; and strange as it may
seem, smiled wanly.

Then there came a low cry
from the next room. A silence, then the sound came again, louder this time
and more prolonged. The little girl had evidently wakened. Her crying--
silence, wailing, choking, silence, wailing--became intolerable. Charles
went to the window and opened the curtains. The mist prevented him seeing
very far. There was not a soul to be seen. He realized how infrequent the
sound of horses' hooves had become; and guessed that the girl might have
to go some way to find his hansom. As he stood undecided, there was a heavy
thumping on the wall from the next house. A vindictive male voice shouted
angrily. Charles hesitated, then laying his hat and stick on the table,
he opened the door through to that other room. He made out by the reflected
light a wardrobe and an old box-trunk. The room was very small. In the
far corner, beside a closed commode, was a small truckle bed. The child's
cries, suddenly renewed, pierced the small room. Charles stood in the lit
doorway, foolishly, a terrifying black giant.

"Hush now, hush. Your mother
will soon return." The strange voice, of course, only made things worse.
Charles felt the whole neighborhood must wake, so penetrating were the
screams. He struck his head in distress, then stepped forward into the
shadow beside the child. Seeing how small she was he realized words were
useless. He bent over her and gently patted her head. Hot small fingers
seized his, but the crying continued. The minute, contorted face ejected
its great store of fear with bewildering force. Some desperate expedient
had to be found. Charles found it. He groped for his watch, freed its chain
from his waistcoat and dangled it over the child. The effect was immediate.
The cries turned to mewling whimpers. Then the small arms reached up to
grab the delicious silver toy; and were allowed to do so; then lost it
in the bedclothes and struggled to sit and failed. The screams began again.

Charles reached to raise
the child a little against her pillow. A temptation seized him. He lifted
her out of the bed in her long nightgown, then turned and sat on the commode.
Holding the small body on his knees he dandled the watch in front of the
now eager small arms. She was one of those pudgy-faced Victorian children
with little black beads for eyes; an endearing little turnip with black
hair. And her instant change of mood, a gurgle of delight when at last
she clasped the coveted watch, amused Charles. She began to lall. Charles
muttered answers: yes, yes, very pretty, good little girl, pretty pretty.
He had a vision of Sir Tom and the bishop's son coming on him at that moment
... the end of his great debauch. The strange dark labyrinths of life;
the mystery of meetings.

He smiled; for it was less
a sentimental tenderness that little child brought than a restoration of
his sense of irony, which was in turn the equivalent of a kind of faith
in himself. Earlier that evening, when he was in Sir Tom's brougham, he
had had a false sense of living in the present; his rejection then of his
past and future had been a mere vicious plunge into irresponsible oblivion.
Now he had a far more profound and genuine intuition of the great human
illusion about time, which is that its reality is like that of a road--on
which one can constantly see where one was and where one probably will
be--instead of the truth: that time is a room, a now so close to us that
we regularly fail to see it.

Charles's was the very opposite
of the Sartrean experience. The simple furniture around him, the warm light
from the next room, the humble shadows, above all that small being he held
on his knees, so insubstantial after its mother's weight (but he did not
think at all of her), they were not encroaching and hostile objects, but
constituting and friendly ones. The ultimate hell was infinite and empty
space; and they kept it at bay. He felt suddenly able to face his future,
which was only a form of that terrible emptiness. Whatever happened to
him such moments would recur; must be found, and could be found. A door
opened. The prostitute stood in the light. Charles could not see her face,
but he guessed that she was for a moment alarmed. And then relieved.

"Oh sir. Did she cry?"

"Yes. A little. I think she
has gone back to sleep now."

"I 'ad to go down to the
Warren Street stand. They was all off 'ere."

"You are very kind."

He passed her child to her,
and watched her as she tucked it back into its bed; then abruptly turned
and left the room. He felt in his pocket and counted out five sovereigns
and left them on the table. The child had reawoken, and its mother was
quietening it again. He hesitated, then silently left the room.

He was inside the waiting
hansom when she came running down the steps and to the door. She stared
up at him. Her look was almost puzzled, almost hurt.

"Oh sir ... thank you. Thank
you."

He realized that she had
tears in her eyes; no shock to the poor like unearned money.

"You are a brave, kind girl."

He reached out and touched
her hand where it clasped the front sill. Then he tapped with his stick.
 
 

History is not like
some individual person, which uses men to achieve its ends. History is
nothing but the actions of men in pursuit of their ends.
--
marx, Die Heilige Familie
(1845)

"I had a somewhat tiresome
evening, Sam. And now be a good fellow and fetch me up a large pot of tea.
I have the devil's own thirst."

Sam left, hiding his private
opinion that his master had the devil's own something else as well. Charles
washed and shaved, and thought about Charles. He was clearly not cut out
to be a rake; but nor had he had much training in remorseful pessimism.
Had not Mr. Freeman himself said that two years might pass before any decision
as to his future need to be taken? Much could happen in two years. Charles
did not actually say to himself, "My uncle may die"; but the idea hovered
on the fringes of his mind. And then the carnal aspect of the previous
night's experience reminded him that legitimate pleasures in that direction
would soon be his to enjoy. For now he must abstain. And that child--how
many of life's shortcomings children must make up for!

Sam returned with the tea--and
with two letters. Life became a road again. He saw at once that the top
envelope had been double postmarked; posted in Exeter and forwarded to
Kensington from the White Lion in Lyme Regis. The other came direct from
Lyme. He hesitated, then to allay suspicion picked up a paperknife and
went to the window. He opened the letter from Grogan first; but before
we read it, we must read the note Charles had sent on his return to Lyme
that morning of his dawn walk to Carslake's Barn. It had said the following:

My dear Doctor Grogan,
I write in great haste to
thank you for your invaluable advice and assistance last night, and to
assure you once again that I shall be most happy to pay for any care or
attentions your colleague and yourself may deem necessary. You will, I
trust, and in full understanding that I have seen the folly of my misguided
interest, let me know what transpires concerning the meeting that will
have taken place when you read this.

Alas, I could not
bring myself to broach the subject in Broad Street this morning. My somewhat
sudden departure, and various other circumstances with which I will not
now bother you, made the moment most conspicuously inopportune. The matter
shall be dealt with as soon as I return. I must ask you meanwhile to keep
it to yourself.

I leave immediately.
My London address is below. With profound gratitude,
C.S.

My dear Smithson,
I have delayed writing to
you in the hope of obtaining some
eclaircissement
of our little
Dorset mystery. I regret to say that the only female I encountered on the
morning of my expedition was Mother Nature--a lady whose conversation I
began, after some three hours' waiting, to find a trifle tedious. In short,
the person did not appear. On my return to Lyme I sent out a sharp lad
to do duty for me. But he too sat sub
tegmine fagi
in pleasant solitude.
I pen these words lightly, yet I confess that when the lad returned that
nightfall I began to fear the worst.

However, it came
to my ears the next morning that instructions had been left at the White
Lion for the girl's box to be forwarded to Exeter. The author of the instructions
I cannot discover. No doubt she sent the message herself. I think we may
take it she has decamped. My one remaining fear, my dear Smithson, is that
she may follow you to London and attempt to thrust her woes upon you there.
I beg you not to dismiss this contingency with a smile. If I had time I
could cite you other cases where just such a course has been followed.
I enclose an address. He is an excellent man, with whom I have long been
in correspondence, and I advise you most strongly to put the business in
his hands should further embarrassment
come d la lettre
knocking
on your door.

Rest assured that
no word has passed or shall pass my lips. I shall not repeat my advice
regarding the charming creature-- whom I had the pleasure of meeting in
the street just now, by the bye--but I recommend a confession at the earliest
opportunity. I don't fancy the Absolvitur will require too harsh or long
a penance.
Yr very sincere
Michael Grogan

He expected pages, but there
was only one.

He expected a flood of words,
but there were only three.

An address.

He crumpled the sheet of
paper in his hand, then returned to the fire that had been lit by the upstairs
maid, to the accompaniment of his snores, at eight o'clock that morning,
and threw it into the flames. In five seconds it was ashes. He took the
cup of tea that Sam stood waiting to hand to him. Charles drained it at
one gulp, and passed the cup and saucer for more.

"I have done my business,
Sam. We return to Lyme tomorrow. The ten o'clock train. You will see to
the tickets. And take those two messages on my desk to the telegraph office.
And then you may have the afternoon off to choose some ribbons for the
fair Mary--that is, if you haven't disposed of your heart elsewhere since
our return."