Anna Kavan - Let Me Alone

She drifted along vaguely, indecisive. A heaviness seemed to have fallen upon her. She didn’t want to think, to make any effort. She wanted to be left alone.

Lauretta looked on all the time, brightly approving, but watching with a sharp, merciless eye for any backsliding. Like a keen little hawk, she was always on the look out for the first sign of defection on Anna’s part. She was not going to let her escape. She didn’t intend her well-laid schemes to go awry.

‘You must start thinking about your trousseau,’ she said brightly. She had reverted, these days, to her earlier manner of patronizing, artificial gaiety. She was playful and a little arch towards her niece, deliberately ignoring Anna’s unresponsiveness. Only, from the middle of the smiling, roguish, ageing face, the relentless hawk eyes peered out sharply, destroying the illusion of innocuousness.

This mention of the trousseau shook Anna out of her lethargy. Just for that moment she saw with lucidity, saw that she could not possibly marry this strange man. He appeared quite impossible, incongruous, repulsive in every way. She couldn’t imagine how she had drifted into this situation with him. A kind of panic took possession of her. She must, must escape.

But then, most deadeningly, her old heaviness came back. She simply hadn’t the energy to fight. She looked at her aunt’s smiling, implacable face with its faint network of lines and its faintly sagging, thin mouth, and her spirit quivered and died. It was so easy to let the engagement drift on; so hard, so desperately hard to open battle with Lauretta. And there was still plenty of time. Later on, she could make a stand.

But just one effort that lucid moment was able to prompt in her. She went off by herself and wrote a long letter to Sidney, telling her all that had happened. When she had finished it and dropped it herself into the letterbox, she gave a sigh, half reckless, half relieved. For she felt that in some obscure fashion she had shifted the responsibility of her fate, transfered it in some occult way to Sidney. Sidney should decide now. Sidney could save her from Matthew, if she wished: and if not — then, let be. She shrugged her shoulders with unconscious fatalism.

The reply came in due course, and proved disappointing. Sidney seemed distant — not unfriendly, but immensely remote. Over this letter Anna suffered bitterly. After their old precious intimacy, their complete understanding of one another, it sounded harsh and unsympathetic. Sidney seemed entirely out of touch with her, incredibly far away. All she did was to urge Anna to come and see her. No sympathy, no understanding at all. Just a few abrupt sentences, ending up ‘For God’s sake don’t marry this man without seeing me first.’ A hard, heartless creature Sidney seemed to have become, forgetting so soon the wonderful romantic affection that had united them so closely and so long. Of course it was quite impossible for Anna to visit her. She tore up the letter.

But it had served its purpose. It had sufficed, somehow, to absolve Anna from the responsibility of herself. She had given Sidney the opportunity of holding her back from Matthew, and Sidney had not held her. Hence the fatalistic attitude on Anna’s part; mingled with a faint, unexplained, childish feeling of resentment. She was disappointed in Sidney. Disappointed and hurt. Sidney’s apparent coldness, and her remoteness, and the absence of sympathetic phrasing in her letter, made Anna feel injured. She was almost inclined to throw herself upon Matthew immediately-just to spite Sidney.

And it was such a relief to escape the perpetual goading pricks of Lauretta’s enmity, the horrible pricking irritation of her malicious displeasure. It was a blissful relief to have established even a temporary truce; like the end of a long illness. Later on, Anna could fight it out, if necessary.

There was plenty of time. She would let things slide for a bit.

But after all, there wasn’t so very much time. Kavan only had four months in England. About the middle of November he had to sail for Rangoon. They were to marry before he sailed. At first, the marriage was planned for the very last moment, a day, or perhaps two days, before the boat left. But then Lauretta began to urge an earlier date. In her frivolous, charming, girlish manner was concealed an inflexible purpose. She made no direct suggestion. But half a dozen times a day, by subtle insinuation of voice and gesture, she would hint at the inadvisability of delay. To tell the truth, she was a little doubtful of her hold over Anna, should the girl prove recalcitrant.

Finally Lauretta took a definite line. She announced that she would be leaving for the Riviera earlier than usual. Her husband’s health was made the excuse. He was to be got away to the south as early as possible. By the beginning of November the house would be shut up.

Anna knew that pressure was being put upon her. She felt herself being borne down; by the hidden, cold determination of Lauretta, and the strangely soft, stupifying obstinacy of Matthew Kavan. And she was allowing herself to be borne down. She even almost welcomed the pressure. With half her mind she wanted to be persuaded. She seemed to cling to the security of the world’s approval, to the things which represented familiar security to her. She wanted to marry Matthew because that was the safe thing, the normal thing, the thing that was expected of her and which promised security and approbation. She was frightened of the other side, the unknown streak in her. It was the old craving for normality coming out again.

She found herself in a bustle of shopping, dresses to be tried and chosen, presents coming, letters to answer: Lauretta always close, terribly close, watchful and important, and Matthew rather distant and unreal, but also watchful, also important in his strange fashion. Sidney had faded to nothingness. There was no longer any world outside Blue Hills. Only this close world of Lauretta and Matthew, and the half-intriguing, half wearisome business of choosing and buying.

October came, and the arrangements for the wedding were almost complete. It was to be a quiet affair, just a few friends, and lunch afterwards at Blue Hills; but all very nice, very correct. Lauretta was not sparing expense. Everything seemed to be running smoothly. She was not quite sure of Anna, but nearly. The girl was quiet and rather blank in her manner, her face palely absent, like a sleep-walker. It was as if her face went about independently, doing duty for her spirit while it was away somewhere, upon its own affairs. Always the pale blankness in her face. Lauretta was rather nervous of what might happen if the spirit suddenly returned and found out what had been going on.

The wedding preparations ran into their final stages. Everyone was busy and excited. But there was a peculiar lack of enthusiasm evident, even the excitement seemed artificial; there was an undercurrent of cold-bloodedness in it all that was rather disheartening.

Only Matthew seemed perfectly happy, in his queer complacency, sitting about, rather silent, and watching Anna. Socially, he was not very adept. In a crowd he was rather ineffectual, rather insignificant. But perfectly self-possessed, peering from one face to another with his blank blue eyes, smiling the neat little smile above his small teeth, and occasionally putting a word in — generally the wrong word, be it said. And yet, he was not noticeably inadequate. He was just sufficiently personable to carry off his conversational deficiencies. He was always quite nicely dressed, even rather smart, in the satisfactorily conventional way. And he sat about, looking agreeable and ready for anything, with the winsome little smile covering his silence. So he got away with it. People eyed him approvingly in the main.