After I had left the chateau I went to Germany and Italy, to learn the languages of those countries. I worked in hotels at home and abroad, on the Continent and in America, for although my father had a comfortable position in mind for me when I knew the hotel business, he was determined that I should go through the mill first.
I worked in every department which you can find in a big hotel, doing both manual work and office work, for my father, who had built his business the hard way, had no mind to have it wrecked some day by a dilettante.
It was hard, but I enjoyed it, meeting many types of men, and almost as many different types of women. But I rarely stayed more than a few months in each place, and, since there is safety in numbers, the attractions of one girl had hardly begun to impress me before I left; and the charms of her successor, I must own, proved scarcely less acceptable.
I had lost Ingrid, for reasons which it is unnecessary to outline, and thereafter I remained comparatively free.
It was not so with Bartels.
We wrote to each other fairly often, and in due course I learnt that he had gone into the wine trade, as envisaged, that after a period in a London office he had toured the well-known vineyards, and finally he had gone out on the road to sell his wares.
It is not fair to mention here the name of the firm for which he worked, but it had a reasonable reputation, and with the small income he inherited from his parents, and what he made by way of commission, he had an adequate income, at the age of twenty-six, upon which to marry.
So he married. He married Beatrice Wilson, and invited me formally to the wedding, though I was at that time in America. And when I heard the news I wondered why Beatrice Wilson, that attractive, witty, and intelligent girl, should have married little frog-faced Bartels; even though he did have a certain charm, and a slow and melodious voice.
I spent most of the war in a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp, but I was lucky, and returned to London in comparatively good health, in 1946. As my parents were at that time living in Bucking-hamshire, I sought and was fortunate enough to find a small modern furnished flat in Kensington High Street, and soon after my return, I telephoned Bartels at his office, not knowing whether he was dead or alive.
There was no mistaking the slow, deep voice which answered the phone, and which contrasted so curiously with his slender frame. He sounded genuinely delighted to hear from me. I agreed to go to dinner with him and Beatrice the following night, and when we learnt that we were living within a few minutes’ walk of each other we were as pleased as Punch.
It seemed that our old boyhood friendship would be renewed, and indeed for three years and more this proved to be the case. It was a happy time for me. I had work, friends, my darkroom in my flat, where I carried out photographic experiments.
I was delighted to see that, despite certain misgivings I had had, to all outward appearances the marriage was a success.
Beatrice was a splendid housewife. She was still extremely good-looking and seemed contented and happy. Her parents had bought for her a small cottage near Balcombe, in Sussex, and in the summer months they would go down there for long weekends. I often went with them.
They had a pleasant circle of friends, both in London and in Sussex, and if I sometimes thought that Bartels was quieter than he used to be, I formed the opinion that this was because he had not been very well treated by his firm.
It was, of course, the old story of the man who goes to the war-in his case, the African campaign, Italy, and Germany-and who returns to find that others have been promoted in his absence. They gave him his job back-on the road-but they pointed out, with a regret which might have been genuine, that in the present state of the wine trade they could do no more.
Bartels was not as young as he had been, and I think he felt it deeply. Moreover, good wine was not, at first, easily obtainable; and at first, being expensive, was difficult to sell.
But Beatrice had a small allowance for her clothes, and Bartels had his modest private income, so that despite everything, they managed to live reasonably. Bartels, who was of Dutch origin as his name suggests, stuck tenaciously to his selling, even though it involved an absence from home of two or three nights a week.
I spent very many happy evenings with the Bartels and with their friends. There was Fred Manders, who was an architect, and his wife, Joyce; James Murray, an insurance chap; Bill and Margaret Barnet-he was something in a textile firm; and in the country there were the Derbyshires, who had a small-holding which they farmed in a desultory kind of way; Major and Mrs Godfrey, who did nothing in particular; John O’Brien, an Irish solicitor, who lived nearby in a cottage by himself and travelled up and down to town each day, and one or two others. Of them all, I liked John O’Brien best. He was a heavily built, jovial man in his middle thirties, with dark hair and blue eyes and a pugnacious jaw.
When I first met him, he was already contemplating taking silk, and I formed the impression, and later events confirmed it, that with his good looks and Irish charm and wit he would go far at the Bar.
He lived in the country, primarily because he was passionately devoted to St Bernard dogs, of which he had three. I frequently gave him a lift to town in my car, and on Sundays, when the Bartels were down there, he generally came in for a meal or a few drinks.
We all liked John O’Brien. I still do.
I had an open invitation to go down to Balcombe any weekend I liked, with or without warning. All that I needed to do, they said, was to drive up to the door. I often did. My room was always ready. Such was the closeness of the bonds between myself and Philip and Beatrice Bartels.
So things remained for a period, which in retrospect seems like that sunny windless day when Beatrice arrived at the chateau and entered the life of Philip Bartels; the day which ended, so suddenly, in the gathering of the storm clouds and the rending of the sky by thunder and lightning and rain.
Even when the first crack appeared, I was, at first, merely surprised and saddened. It began on 12 February, when he telephoned me at my office, and invited me to lunch at the Cafe Royal, saying that he had something he wished to tell me.
I was rather busy that morning, and tried to stall him off.
“It all depends upon what you want to tell me,” I remember I answered cautiously.
He hesitated. “It is something you ought to know,” he replied at last.
“Can’t you make it tomorrow? I’ve got a hell of a lot of work to cope with.”
“It’s no good tomorrow. I really do want to see you today, alone.” Although he spoke in that slow, strong voice which contrasted so much with his appearance, I detected a note of genuine urgency in his tone.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll come.”
“See you in the cocktail lounge at one o’clock-upstairs. No, make it twelve thirty.”
“Don’t be silly. I told you I’ve got a lot of work.”
“It’ll be pointless if you don’t come at twelve thirty.”
I hesitated again. “What the hell is it about?”
“I can’t tell you on the phone.”
I thought: Oh well, I suppose I can make up the time this evening.
“All right, then. Twelve thirty. I hope it’s worth it, that’s all.”
“It’ll be worth it. I’m glad you can make it. It’s very important to me, Peter. I want your opinion.”
I took a taxi, and arrived very punctually, but he was already seated on one of the settees, and had ordered my usual gin and tonic.
Looking at him, as I walked towards him, I thought he had not changed much over the years. He was still meagrely built, whereas I had put on too much weight. There was the same wide, gentle smile. But recently he had seemed more withdrawn, at any rate when in the company of people other than myself; ironically, he trusted me implicitly.
When with other people there was a faintly enigmatic air about him. In addition to his slow, deliberate, almost tired way of speaking, he had acquired an equally deliberate way of thinking for some seconds before answering a question; and while he was thinking, he would sometimes look at you with a sardonic smile, not on his lips or even in his eyes-it was not as noticeable as that-but rather behind his eyes. It was as if he were amused, not at you, but at certain remote implications behind your question.
I put it down to the experiences, the rebuffs, which he had had “on the road.” He was not a very successful traveller for his wine firm. Had he not had a private income, he would have been hard put to it to live as he did.
The impression you had, in those days, was of one who had schooled himself to accept the disappointments of life with a kind of amused contemplation. It was as though he were patiently awaiting the end of some phase or other, before proceeding on to some unspecified destiny.
It was a queer sort of attitude, and I should say that it was hardly conducive to persuading hard-bitten wine merchants to part with their money.
He joined me in a vague toast to our mutual health, and said nothing for some moments, but sat picking at a cigarette end in the ashtray with a used match. I asked him how business was, and he said it might be worse.
I looked around the room, knowing it was useless to hurry him.
The place was filling up rapidly. Across the room three bald men were drinking cocktails. They were obese, and sat huddled forward, round a little table, their knees apart to ease the weight of their stomachs. They were animated and joking, and at the all-jolly-good-fellows stage. Later, the masks would drop, and they would get down to business.
Suddenly Bartels asked me about his wife. It was the last sort of question I anticipated.
He said: “Do you like Beatrice? I mean, are you fond of her?”
“Of course I like her,” I said. “Of course I’m fond of her. She’s a dam’ good scout. Why?”
He nodded, as though he expected the answer, as well he might have done; you are hardly likely, whatever you think, to tell your best friend that you dislike his wife.
“What are you getting at?” I asked.
“I’m fond of her, too. That’s the devil of it.”
“A lot of men are quite fond of their wives. I’m told it’s a mild kind of complaint, like chickenpox. You’ll probably get over it. But it may take time.”
He didn’t smile. He looked across the room and said: “Well, I’m going to leave Beatrice, Peter. I thought I had better tell you. I thought you ought to know.”
I have always prided myself on not showing dismay. I admire the Roman Catholic priest who said in the confessional: “You have committed murder, my son? Well, how many times?” So I took a pull at my gin and tonic, and replaced the glass on the table, and said as casually as I could:
“Oh? Why? Why are you going to leave Beatrice?”
“Because I want to be happy.”
“That’s reasonable.”
He gulped down his drink, and signalled to the waiter. But I said: “This one is on me,” and gave the order, though my own glass was still half full. When the waiter had taken the order I asked the obvious question:
“Well, what’s her name?”
“What’s whose name?”
I knew he was fencing, and he knew that I knew it. I suppose it was a kind of conventional approach.
“The name of the woman you’ve fallen for,” I said. “I know you and Beatrice well enough to know that your marriage is not an unhappy one. As a matter of fact, as marriages go, I always thought it was rather satisfactory. Who is she? And do I know her?”
“Lorna is her name,” said Bartels, still fiddling with the match-stick. “Lorna Dickson. You haven’t met her.”
I said nothing. When I said that I was fond of Beatrice, I was speaking the strict truth; and when Bartels said that he was still very fond of her, I knew that he was speaking the truth, too. Beatrice had turned into a fine character. She was intelligent and witty; loyal to her own people; conscientious and hard-working; she obviously had a passionate disposition; and with it all, she was, as I’ve said, still remarkably good-looking in a red-haired, fair-skinned sort of way. She was also a really first-class cook.
So all in all, I couldn’t see that Bartels had much to grumble about.
It seemed to me perfectly clear that this Dickson woman was a floozy who had caught Bartels on the hop, at that period of a marriage when one or other of the partners is often ripe for a change. I had seen more intelligent, more sober-minded men than Bartels go down before that sort of thing; and live to regret it, too. But I knew it would be bad tactics to show opposition.
“Is she very good-looking?” I asked.
“To me, she is. To me she is beautiful. Other people might not think so.”
Still continuing on my tack of showing no fundamental opposition I said: “Well, if you feel deeply enough, you’ll have to do as you plan. Beatrice will take it hardly.”
“You don’t need to tell me that.”
“No doubt she’ll get over it,” I said.
“No doubt.”
A silence fell between us.
The waiter brought the second round of drinks. When he had given me my change and gone, I said:
“How long have you known Laura?”
“Lorna’s her name.”
“Well, Lorna, then.”
“About four months.”
“Sometimes these things pass, you know.”
Bartels turned and looked at me, and said: “This won’t. This is the real thing.”
Having kicked around the world a bit, I suppose I have rather a mixed conception of morality. I am quite prepared, on occasions, to argue that the end justifies the means, and I was fond of Beatrice. I thought she was in for a pretty raw deal.
So I said: “Why not hang on a little longer? Why not have Lorna, if you wish, as-well, as your girlfriend? Just to make sure.”
“You mean, as my mistress?”
“Well, if you like to put it that way. It might be as well to make sure. It’s a big step. You want to be sure. You’re going to hurt Beatrice like hell, so you want to be sure.”
“I am sure.”
“Sometime these things wear off.”
“This is something different; I feel it is something I have been waiting for all my life.”
His remark was so corny that I couldn’t help replying as I did:
“I’m told it is always like that.”
Bartels flushed. He did not reply.
I sat drearily watching the three bald men drinking cocktails across the room. They had dropped the masks now; they had got down to business, talking in low tones, heads thrust forward.
They looked solemn, keen, and avaricious, unaware that by my side a man who was gentle by nature, kindly and unselfish by instinct, was preparing an act of matrimonial treachery which was in contradiction to every fibre of his make-up.
When a man commits, or even seriously contemplates committing, an act which is not in tone with his character, he is in psychological trouble. Women are similarly affected, but to a lesser degree, because their characters are more flexible.
Bartels, that day at the Cafe Royal, was already in trouble. The beginnings were apparent to me as he sat breaking up the potato chips before him; breaking one up and then prodding the bits around with his forefinger, and then breaking up another one, until in a short while there were no whole chips left in the little dish, but only a pile of very small broken morsels.
As I watched my friend, I hated the three big-paunched men.
At length Bartels spoke. “The trouble is, you know, Beatrice has never been in love with me. Never. Not even at the beginning.”
“As wives go, that doesn’t make her unique. Beatrice has got everything.” I went on, forgetting my resolution not to oppose him, “Dammit, she’s bloody attractive, efficient, witty, clever, and loyal. And fundamentally she’s kind-hearted. She’s a good girl, Barty. I don’t know what more you want.”
Bartels turned, and looked at me for a few moments. His bright, intelligent, brown eyes had lost the enigmatic, sardonic look they often had. They were shining, with a curious, excited look in them.
“Well?” I said.
He took a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice, normally so strong and steady, had an undercurrent of nervousness about it which I had never heard before. It had the kind of tremor you hear when a diffident man gets up to make his first after-dinner speech.
“I always dreamed of a woman being really in love with me, Pete. I suppose it sounds silly to you. I’ve never told anyone before. At least, not till I told Lorna. Maybe it was because I got ragged a good deal at school. You remember how it was. I was a funny-looking youth. I suppose I dreamed about it the more, just because it seemed unlikely that any girl ever would fall in love with me. I suppose that sounds silly to you?”
“I don’t know that it does,” I answered softly. “No, I reckon I can understand that all right, Barty.”
I didn’t look at him. I felt his eyes upon me, and knew that a wrong expression on my face, a wrong intonation in my voice, would shut him up. When a man is speaking to another man of love, of his inmost feelings, you’ve got to watch your step, almost hold your breath and cross your fingers, or he’ll shy off like a startled horse.
“I proposed to her one day by a stream. It was a May day, very warm and sunny. We sat on a log, throwing twigs into the stream, and then I asked her to marry me. She hesitated for a while, then she said she would. So I kissed her.”
Bartels smiled. “It was funny, that engagement kiss. She didn’t kiss me; she let me kiss her. I think that even then I knew I was making a mistake. But I wouldn’t admit it to myself. I thought I could force her to fall in love with me. Well, I couldn’t.”
He had got over his nervousness now, and was talking quite fluently and easily.
“I wouldn’t have thought Beatrice was cold,” I said. “That’s the last thing I would have thought.”
“She isn’t. She’s very passionate. I found that out even before we were married, though we never slept together. Once she had committed herself, she came to life, but physically only. Only physically, Pete. That’s the point.”
“Maybe she was in love with you, and you couldn’t see it.”
Bartels shook his head. “No, she wasn’t.” He hesitated, then added: “It was sex, that’s all. You see, I remember her kiss when we drove away from the church after our wedding. It was like the engagement kiss. It was as though all her doubts had come back to her. That’s because she married me with her head and not with her heart, and she was wondering if she had done the right thing.”
He laughed, as though ashamed of his revelations, and sat back on his seat.
It is strange to see the anatomy of a marriage slowly and unexpectedly displayed before your eyes. Some people may enjoy it, but I didn’t. I did not feel actual embarrassment, but something rather different and difficult to describe. It was as though one were reluctantly watching the disrobing of an old woman’s body, once rounded and beautiful, or so one thought, and now shrunken and withered.
Bartels glanced round the room. He said:
“I remember I once said to her, years ago now, and in joking tones: “I think you only married me because I was the best financial bet among your boyfriends. I had a private income, prospect of a good position in a good firm, and you would live in London. Your local boyfriends hadn’t as much to offer as that, had they?” I had been wanting to say it for a long time, because I suppose I wanted to hear her deny it, but I hadn’t dared to risk it. Then one day, apropos of nothing, I just kind of blurted it out.”
He smiled affectionately. “Beatrice can never lie convincingly. She doesn’t try. She’s too honest, you know.”
I nodded. “Too honest, and too strong, too fearless.”
“She replied: ‘Well, I was very fond of you, anyway. And anyway, I love you now.’ I think she does, too, in her own way. She’s never been in love with me, but I think she loves me today more than when she married me.”
He paused. Then he said, in a funny tone of voice: “I always remember the kind of sick feeling I had when I heard her words. But I just laughed, and we didn’t talk about it anymore.”
“Well, we’ve all got to put up with something in life.” My remark was futile and pointless, and I only said it to fill in the silence.
Bartels said slowly:
“She is like a beautiful piece of mosaic, you know. She’s about perfect, except for one thing. The centrepiece of the mosaic, the thing I dreamed about, that’s not there.”
“She’s given you everything she had to give. It’s not her fault if she can’t give you romantic love.” And because he said nothing, I made the same remark I had made before. I said: “We’ve all got to put up with something in life. We can’t have everything, Barty.”
He shook his head and remained silent. So I knew that Lorna Dickson, whoever she was, had won. She might be a cheap little painted doll, she might be a well-groomed woman of the world; whatever she was like, she had won, and Beatrice had lost.
I thought sadly how heavily the dice were loaded against the wife in any triangle of this kind.
The other woman knows that the battle is on. The wife doesn’t. The other woman is on her best behaviour, trying to please, to charm, to flatter, and often, I suppose, to seduce.
The wife, knowing nothing, is behaving like a natural person does: sometimes pleasant and amusing, sometimes dull, critical, or irritable. And silently watching her is her husband, noting her faults, comparing her with the alleged paragon of all the virtues.
I heard Bartels make his point again.
“You see, Beatrice has never been in love with me. It’s so different.”
I turned towards him to tell him to be his age, to cease acting like a sentimental youth who has just discovered that love rhymes with dove. But I did not get a chance to tell him that, neither then, nor later, nor ever.
I saw him stiffen slightly, and sit upright, while a look came into his eyes such as I have never seen before on a man’s face, though I’ve seen quite a few fellows who were supposed to be in love.
I will not attempt to describe it, I will merely say that his thin, unimpressive countenance, with its wide mouth and spectacles, was suffused by something nearly akin to beauty.
As he rose to his feet, one forgot his meagre build, or the stupid tuft of hair on the crown of his head, standing up in disarray. One forgot everything except the beauty which sprang from the inner emotion of the man. That emotion, it seemed to me, was devoid of lust, greed, or even self-pity.
It is understandable. Hate can render a beautiful face ugly. The love inside Philip Bartels made his ugly face almost beautiful.
So I knew, without him telling me, that Lorna Dickson had come into the cocktail lounge. I wasn’t expecting her, I was even startled and disconcerted, but I knew she had arrived.
Thus I met Lorna for the first time.
She was dressed, I remember, in a grey costume, but that is all that I do remember about how she was dressed. I was too fascinated by other things to take in much more.
I shall never forget the grace of her movements as she came towards us: the calm but friendly look in her steady, blue-grey eyes as she turned to be introduced to me, the mobility of her face when she smiled, which she did so often, and the laughter-wrinkles at the corner of her eyes.
She was not a pretty little painted doll; she was a mature woman of about thirty-three, gracious and charming, with light brown wavy hair, a slim figure, a small well-shaped head, and a jaw which was rather square, the mouth full but wide.
Above all, the impression I brought away from that lunch was of inner beauty matching that upon Bartels’ face when he saw her come into the cocktail lounge. But whereas the beauty which suffused Bartels was sudden, called to life by the sight of Lorna, the beauty of Lorna, it seemed to me, resided perpetually within her.
Lorna! Dear, sweet, gentle Lorna.
You would willingly have lived out your life in loneliness rather than cause us suffering. That I know. You would gladly have stayed away from us had you known how things would develop.
But you couldn’t know. In your innocence you came and lunched with us. Thereafter, not all your generosity, nor all your unselfishness, could stop the march of events.
It is all finished, the strain and the pain, the struggle and the tears. There is only peace, of a sort, for all of us. Peace, most of the time, but sometimes for me the agony of doubt concerning the crafty manner in which I afterwards acted towards my best friend.
It was over, by several months, when I revisited the chateau of our youth. It was finished, the climactic point reached and passed. Had I but remembered his words-“Death is of no consequence…it’s not dying that matters, it’s how you die”-then it is possible, just possible, that I might have felt some inner warning, some hidden voice which cried: “Stop! This woman is sacrosanct in the eyes of Philip Bartels.”
I might have acted differently, after that first meeting with Lorna Dickson. But I doubt it. I think I would have gone ahead just the same.
Such was my love for Lorna, born that day, that very day when she and Bartels and I had lunch together as friends.