Jane Bowles - My Sister's Hand in Mine - The Collected Works of Jane Bowles

During that winter Jane was working on In the Summer House, the play that was later so sensitively produced in New York. I’m not all that keen on the theater: cannot sit through most plays once; nevertheless, I saw In the Summer House three times, and not out of loyalty to the author, but because it had a thorny wit, the flavor of a newly tasted, refreshingly bitter beverage — the same qualities that had initially attracted me to Mrs. Bowles’ novel, Two Serious Ladies.

My only complaint against Mrs. Bowles is not that her work lacks quality, merely quantity. The volume in hand constitutes her entire shelf, so to say. And grateful as we are to have it, one could wish that there was more. Once, while discussing a colleague, someone more facile than either of us, Jane said: “But it’s so easy for him. He has only to turn his hand. Just turn his hand.” Actually, writing is never easy: in case anyone doesn’t know, it’s the hardest work around; and for Jane I think it is difficult to the point of true pain. And why not? — when both her language and her themes are sought after along tortured paths and in stony quarries: the never-realized relationships between her people, the mental and physical discomforts with which she surrounds and saturates them — every room an atrocity, every urban landscape a creation of neon-dourness. And yet, though the tragic view is central to her vision, Jane Bowles is a very funny writer, a humorist of sorts — but not, by the way, of the Black School. Black Comedy, as its perpetrators label it, is, when successful, all lovely artifice and lacking any hint of compassion. “Camp Cataract,” to my mind the most complete of Mrs. Bowles’ stories and the one most representative of her work, is a rending sample of controlled compassion: a comic tale of doom that has at its heart, and as its heart, the subtlest comprehension of eccentricity and human apartness. This story alone would require that we accord Jane Bowles high esteem.

TRUMAN CAPOTE

July 1966

Christina Goering’s father was an American industrialist of German parentage and her mother was a New York lady of a very distinguished family. Christina spent the first half of her life in a very beautiful house (not more than an hour from the city) which she had inherited from her mother. It was in this house that she had been brought up as a child with her sister Sophie.

As a child Christina had been very much disliked by other children. She had never suffered particularly because of this, having led, even at a very early age, an active inner life that curtailed her observation of whatever went on around her, to such a degree that she never picked up the mannerisms then in vogue, and at the age of ten was called old-fashioned by other little girls. Even then she wore the look of certain fanatics who think of themselves as leaders without once having gained the respect of a single human being.

Christina was troubled horribly by ideas which never would have occurred to her companions, and at the same time took for granted a position in society which any other child would have found unbearable. Every now and then a schoolmate would take pity on her and try to spend some time with her, but far from being grateful for this, Christina would instead try her best to convert her new friend to the cult of whatever she believed in at the time.

Her sister Sophie, on the other hand, was very much admired by everyone in the school. She showed a marked talent for writing poetry and spent all her time with a quiet little girl called Mary, who was two years younger.

When Christina was thirteen years old her hair was very red (when she grew up it remained almost as red), her cheeks were sloppy and pink, and her nose showed traces of nobility.

That year Sophie brought Mary home with her nearly every day for luncheon. After they had finished eating she would take Mary for a walk through the woods, having provided a basket for each of them in which to carry back flowers. Christina was not permitted by Sophie to come along on these walks.

“You must find something of your own to do,” Sophie would say to her. But it was hard for Christina to think of anything to do by herself that she enjoyed. She was in the habit of going through many mental struggles — generally of a religious nature — and she preferred to be with other people and organize games. These games, as a rule, were very moral, and often involved God. However, no one else enjoyed them and she was obliged to spend a great part of the day alone. She tried going to the woods once or twice by herself and bringing back flowers, in imitation of Mary and Sophie, but each time, fearing that she would not return with enough flowers to make a beautiful bouquet, she so encumbered herself with baskets that the walk seemed more of a hardship than a pleasure.

It was Christina’s desire to have Mary to herself of an afternoon. One very sunny afternoon Sophie went inside for her piano lesson, and Mary remained seated on the grass. Christina, who had seen this from not far away, ran into the house, her heart beating with excitement. She took off her shoes and stockings and remained in a short white underslip. This was not a very pleasant sight to behold, because Christina at this time was very heavy and her legs were quite fat. (It was impossible to foresee that she would turn out to be a tall and elegant lady.) She ran out on the lawn and told Mary to watch her dance.

“Now don’t take your eyes off me,” she said. “I’m going to do a dance of worship to the sun. Then I’m going to show that I’d rather have God and no sun than the sun and no God. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Mary. “Are you going to do it now?”

“Yes, I’m going to do it right here.” She began the dance abruptly. It was a clumsy dance and her gestures were all undecided. When Sophie came out of the house, Christina was in the act of running backwards and forwards with her hands joined in prayer.

“What is she doing?” Sophie asked Mary.

“A dance to the sun, I think,” Mary said. “She told me to sit here and watch her.”

Sophie walked over to where Christina was now twirling around and around and shaking her hands weakly in the air.

“Sneak!” she said and suddenly she pushed Christina down on the grass.

For a long time after that, Christina kept away from Sophie, and consequently from Mary. She had one more occasion to be with Mary, however, and this happened because Sophie developed a terrible toothache one morning, and her governess was obliged to take her to the dentist immediately. Mary, not having heard of this, came over in the afternoon, expecting to find Sophie at home. Christina was in the tower in which the children often gathered, and saw her coming up the walk.

“Mary,” she screamed, “come on up here.” When Mary arrived in the tower, Christina asked her if she would not like to play a very special game with her. “It’s called ‘I forgive you for all your sins,’” said Christina. “You’ll have to take your dress off.”

“Is it fun?” Mary asked.

“It’s not for fun that we play it, but because it’s necessary to play it.”

“All right,” said Mary, “I’ll play with you.” She took her dress off and Christina pulled an old burlap sack over Mary’s head. She cut two holes in the burlap for Mary to see through and then she tied a cord around her waist.

“Come,” said Christina, “and you will be absolved for your sins. Keep repeating to yourself: ‘May the Lord forgive me for my sins.’”

She hurried down the stairs with Mary and then out across the lawn towards the woods. Christina wasn’t yet sure what she was going to do, but she was very much excited. They came to a stream that skirted the woods. The banks of the stream were soft and muddy.