Pat Barker - Life Class

Nobody had been kinder to her or more encouraging. He seemed to understand, better than most men, the problems a woman encountered in being taken seriously as an artist. And yet, in the next breath, he was holding forth about the need for virility in art. Virility was the essence of great art; effeminacy had to be extirpated at all costs. Where did that leave her? Counting the hairs on her chest? The glorification of war, ‘the beautiful ideas that kill, the contempt for women’, the whole Futurist baggage. She didn’t understand how he could believe all that — if he believed it — and still profess faith in her talent as a painter. Perhaps it was a mistake to take him seriously — he wasn’t an intellectual by any means, though he’d have liked to be — but then, wasn’t it patronizing not to take him seriously? And his ideas were rooted in his character. He was a bully. If she knew anything about him at all, she knew that. A bullied boy, a bullying man, it was too commonplace to be worth remarking on. And it wasn’t the whole truth; he could be very kind. And they had a lot in common. If only he could be content with friendship.

Though she couldn’t blame him for trying it on tonight. Somehow, in this ridiculous dress, she’d sent out the wrong signals. She’d thought she was doing something rather clever, turning herself into a parody of a young lady dressed for the marriage market, but it hadn’t turned out like that. She’d slipped into being the person the dress dictated, and now she was going to have to pay, in hours and hours of embarrassment. She had wanted him. Briefly. Or she’d wanted something — to be different. Rachel would say she’d led him on, but that wasn’t true. She didn’t want to marry him, or anybody. She only had to turn round and look at Rachel, nodding off in the armchair. Rachel, who before her marriage had been a promising pianist, and now sat with the baby on her knee, picking out nursery tunes with one finger. Nev said it wouldn’t be like that, and she believed him — or at least she believed he meant it — but it would, because marriage changed everything. It had its own logic, its own laws, and they were independent of the desires and intentions of those who entered into it. She felt a moment’s pleasure in the cynicism of this perception, though God knows it was depressing enough.

She heard Father’s voice in the room behind her, then Kit talking about the crisis of course, what else? Everybody was getting so excited, it repelled her. Particularly Kit. Look at him now, holding forth, puffed up like a toad in the mating season. He’d telephoned his father, things were worse, far worse, than they’d thought. Germany had declared war on Russia and was advancing on France. If she invaded …

At last the buzz died down. Kit detached himself from the group and came to join her on the terrace.

‘That’s it, then,’ he said.

‘Is it?’

‘Seems to be.’

‘Do you think we’ll fight?’

‘Got to. We’ll lose all credibility if we don’t.’ She turned away. ‘What will you do?’

‘Well, I’ve got to get out there.’

‘Enlist?’

‘Not sure. They mightn’t have me. And anyway I need to be there now, not in six months’ time.’

‘I don’t see why you have to do anything. Let the army do it.’

‘I’ve no choice. Don’t you see? You can’t go around saying, “War’s the only health-giver of mankind” — not that I ever did say that, incidentally — and then when one breaks out say, “Sorry, I’m not going, I don’t feel well enough.”’

‘No, I do see.’ She was laughing.

‘It’s not funny. Father’s going out next week. He asked if I wanted to go with him.’

‘And do you?’

‘How can I refuse? It means I’ll have to leave a bit early, I’m afraid.’

She turned away to hide her relief.

‘I do love you, you know. Can’t we at least talk about it?’

‘I don’t see how.’

‘I could come to your room.’

‘You could not.’

‘Down here then, after they’ve gone to bed.’

‘There’s nothing to say. I won’t marry you, I don’t want an affair. I’m happy as we are.’ She looked straight into his eyes. ‘I’m sorry if you’re not, but there’s nothing I can do about that.’

He took a step back. ‘Perhaps it would be better if we didn’t see each other for a while.’

‘If that’s what you want.’

‘You don’t care.’

‘I do. Just not in the way you want.’

‘This is torture. You’ve no idea.’

‘No, probably not.’

‘It’s like being in love with a mermaid.’

She understood what he meant and it hurt. ‘I think we’d better go in.’

Paul to Elinor

Thank you for your very kind letter. I’m sorry to have been so long replying, but the fact is I’ve been laid low with a feverish cold that brought on a bout of pneumonia. As a result I feel a bit flattened, though I’m downstairs now, sitting in the front room with a blanket over my knees like a little old man. The blanket’s not really necessary. The weather’s still warm, though not as unbearably hot as it was last week when I was ill, but somehow if you’re feeling weak it helps to be covered up. I’ve been watching cabbage white and tortoiseshell butterflies playing around the buddleia bushes in the front garden. I counted eighteen this morning, then I had a nap. Exhausting work, counting butterflies.

But I’m getting stronger every day. Have you heard from Teresa? I still haven’t, and don’t expect to now. I mind a lot less than I thought I would. Somehow the war and this illness between them have clanged down like a great steel shutter between me and my previous life. When I look back on my time at the Slade you’re the only person who seems real. And Neville, oddly enough. Now he has written, and at length, which surprises me a bit. He’s volunteered to drive an ambulance for the Belgian Red Cross, but I expect you know that already. He says it’s the fastest way out there. Meanwhile, it all seems very far removed, though my stepmother’s bandaging class meets in the room behind me so I hear all the chatter, and Dad brings the papers home. Half a dozen sometimes. Everybody’s very excited. I suppose because they all feel they’re caught up in history. I just cough and count butterflies. I’m sure you’re much more actively and usefully employed.

Elinor to Paul

Well, it’s active all right — I don’t know about useful. We — Ruthie and me — spent the first few days wandering round from place to place, sitting in cafés, reading newspapers, jabbering till our jaws ached, me increasingly fed up but somehow not able to pull myself out of it. Still can’t. London’s full of heat and dust, the air’s got that burnt smell you get in August even in the parks.

We went to see the regiments mustering in Green Park and the crowds cheering them, thousands, there were three girls in front of me, shop girls or housemaids and they were screaming and waving flags and one of them jumped up and down so much she wet herself and hobbled off with her skirt bunched up between her legs, shrieking and giggling. In the evenings people gather outside Buckingham Palace or one or other of the embassies, or the Café Royal of course for our crowd. You know how glamorous it used to seem? Well I thought so, anyway. Now it’s full of frightened old men who think their day is over (and they’re probably right) and overexcited young men who jabber till the spit flies, though it’s only stuff they’ve read in the papers. The women have gone very quiet. It’s like the Iliad, you know, when Achilles insults Agamemnon and Agamemnon says he’s got to have Achilles’ girl and Achilles goes off and sulks by the long ships and the girls they’re quarrelling over say nothing, not a word, it’s a bit like that. I don’t suppose men ever hear that silence.