Alexander Theroux - Darconville’s Cat

10th . A ring from Isabel — her grandmother’s — arrived in the mail today: size 5. I have a target to size up now, Miss Ballhatchet.

11th . Martinmas. The beginning of winter. I went to a quiet restaurant for the traditional feastday goose, outlined my final chapters, and on the way home mailed Isabel a check for her airfare. I have enough money left for a ring, then it’ll be near thé knuckle.

Tonight, a knock on the door — the clandestine knock: once — it was Svarta, with a bottle of cider and some Garibaldis. We talked. “Tut-tut,” she said, upon seeing Isabel’s photograph with its somnolent eyes but face of Pentelican marble, indirectly lit from inside. “You have hypnotized her?” Then she told me, in that kind of low whisper that always seems advice in itself, that the idea of hypnosis as sleepy unconsciousness is a myth, for it’s really a state of alert awareness. We talked awhile, sadly, then she kissed my cheek, and said goodnight.

18th . A week of writing, straight. No recreation. Punk and plaster and cold tea. Spellvexit is half-crazed with boredom.

P.S. Dr. Dodypol sent me a postcard yesterday: “I remain here in Quinsyburg where adders’ tongues still seek to talk away that long-lost Eden vile Nature’s since replaced.”

21st . I’ve spent three days in every shop in Bond St. looking for a ring, avoiding Gaud and his taints.

23rd . Found out Svarta Furstinna left for Stockholm yesterday by means of a (sad) note thumbtacked to my door; she said she couldn’t face goodbyes but that, who knew, she might one day catch up with me again. Feel curiously alone tonight. I think a final goodbye is more oppressive, because less natural, than a death and the universe in which it happens so frightening, that I don’t even want to think about its cause. Is that a non-sequitur?

December 1st . Another week enclosed in the forcing-house of the spirit. The writing goes on, but even an army of jokes, one after the other, is a cheerless thing. Christmas already in the air. I must finish.

4th . Telegram from Isabel: she’s arriving Dec. 18th, to leave Jan. 2nd. N.B. Be at Heathrow Airport at 5:45 P.M.!

5th . Wrote, I find, some 2,000 words yesterday — and will have a reasonably complete foul copy under hand before the week is out. The last ten pages look ragged from the top of the clock. A boast of despair cancels itself out. I spent the day X-ing out sixteen pages, then rewriting four. X X X: thus the millers of yore set the vanes of the windmill when they were home for lunch, turning them cruciform when they were back at work. Now, there’s an analogue to art for who’d accept the grind!

6th . Freezing cold. Laid in more tins, a half-gallon of scrumpy, and cat food. I worked the day through.

I wonder what I’ll say to her. Maybe she’s wondering what she’ll say to me. “But the days of childhood they were fleet, and the blooming sweet-briar breathed weather, when we were boy and girl together.” Beddoes. O, the complicated and difficult dance of lovers crossing and recrossing the wire in a high empty hall, hung with tapestries and scutcheons, the moon through the lozenge-shaped windows showing how far they can fall!

7th . I found a ring I bought!

10th . Hectic preparations: theatre tickets, reservation for Christmas dinner at the Anchor Pub in Southwark, New Year’s plans. I bought two blue mugs and had our names inscribed on them. Returning home, I stopped to listen to the carolers and bell-ringers, muffled up and top-hatted, in Trafalgar Square:

”Once in royal David’s city

Stood a lowly cattle shed,

Where a mother laid her baby

In a manger for his bed. .”

Tomorrow: order cake, piped: “ Welcome, Isabel ”

13th . Busy, as before.

14th. Ibid .

16th . The room’s a godawful mess still. A quick dashover with the broom this morning for paperballs, dust, grewsome ghosts. I boxed the presents, set out mugs, made a drawing of greeting — two bright eyes, offset with a message of three little words. Everything must be just right. Shall I wear my black coat to the airport?

No. (Was it for nothing that Pompey wore a dark-colored garment at the Battle of Pharsalia?)

17th . “Tomorrow to fresh woods. .”

Caetura desunt.

January 12th . Goodnight, dear diary, goodnight. I think it is good morrow, is it not? I have been remiss. You have been in love. I have, and turn away no more. So pray, then, turn to what? Two old monks were speaking of a flag. One said, “The flag is moving.” The other said, “The wind is moving.” An abbot who happened to be passing by told them, “Not the wind, not the flag. The mind is moving.” Wind, flag, mind — we move in concert toward that fortune which gives, it’s said, much to many but less by far to more. Is life then in the loom? I don’t know. I only know I accept my fortune and, with my cat and partial step, leave tomorrow not to unlearn what I’ve learned here, rather to seek a face remembered from another world which has been longed-for, though how I can’t explain, which has been found and lost and then refound again. I seek to survive by means of a miracle I can’t believe in yet but on which I must rely, for as my heart returns to my love, my love returns to Quinsyburg, where I have been before and, blind for love, now will be again.

And so I betake myself to that course, which is almost as much to see myself go into my grave; for which, and all the discomforts that will accompany my being blind, the good God prepare me!

A is for Arrivals, which came — and, coming, passed.

B is for Back, to Quinsy, yes, but each other at last.

C is for Contrectation. Their love-play lasted long.

D is for Diagenesis: bless change — whatever was, was wrong!

E is for Engagement, a mutual act of will.

F is for Faculty, who physicked the masses still.

G is for Greatracks, his knickers no less in a twist.

H is for Hypocrisy, still shrouding the college like mist.

I is for Isabel, the pure, the loyal, the good.

J is for Je Maintiendrai , the motto by which she stood.

K is for Kalopsia, when a town, not the best, seems better.

L is for Love, the sweet debt to which they were debtor.

M is for Misgivings: O, the normal wherefores and hows.

N is for Nonillionth, the times they repeated their vows.

O is for Ouphes, the dear elphin girls in their classes.

P is for Poore, who still, though in letters, made passes.

Q is for Quinsyburg, less the plug in the sink than the drain.

R is for Rivals, who were never mentioned again.

S is for Strictures: the Shiftletts, the sameness, the South.

T is for Trappe, still down, alas, in the mouth.

U is for Unfortunately: her sorrows were never few.

V is for Velocity, the speed with which tune flew.

W is for Wedding, a hope in that strange place sought.

X is for Xenium, the gift that strangeness wrought.

Y is for Years, two passed as if but a day.

Z is for Zutphen, no longer a threat in the way.