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Page 61
Rose had spent the day by herself, sitting with her hands
clasping her knees, staring straight in front of her. What she was
staring at were the grey swords of the agaves, and, on their tall
stalks, the pale irises that grew in the remote place she had found,
while beyond them, between the grey leaves and the blue flowers, she
saw the sea. The place she had found was a hidden corner where the
sun-baked stones were padded with thyme, and nobody was likely to come.
It was out of sight and sound of the house; it was off any path; it was
near the end of the promontory. She sat so quiet that presently
lizards darted over her feet, and some tiny birds like finches,
frightened away at first, came back again and flitted among the bushes
round her just as if she hadn't been there. How beautiful it was. And
what was the good of it with no one there, no one who loved being with
one, who belonged to one, to whom one could say, "Look." And wouldn't
one say, "Look--dearest?" Yes, one would say dearest; and the sweet
word, just to say it to somebody who loved one, would make one happy.
She sat quite still, staring straight in front of her. Strange
that in this place she did not want to pray. She who had prayed so
constantly at home didn't seem able to do it here at all. The first
morning she had merely thrown up a brief thank you to heaven on getting
out of bed, and had gone straight to the window to see what everything
looked like--thrown up the thank you as carelessly as a ball, and
though no more about it. That morning, remembering this and ashamed,
she had knelt down with determination; but perhaps determination was
bad for prayers, for she had been unable to think of a thing to say.
And as for her bedtime prayers, on neither of the nights had she said a
single one. She had forgotten them. She had been so much absorbed in
other thoughts that she had forgotten them; and, once in bed, she was
asleep and whirling along among bright, thin swift dreams before she
had so much time as to stretch herself out.
What had come over her? Why had she let go the anchor of prayer?
And she had difficulty, too, in remembering her poor, in remembering
even that there were such things as poor. Holidays, of course, were
good, and were recognized by everybody as good, but ought they so
completely to blot out, to make such havoc of, the realities? Perhaps
it was healthy to forget her poor; with all the greater gusto would she
go back to them. But it couldn't be healthy to forget her prayers, and
still less could it be healthy not to mind.
Rose did not mind. She knew she did not mind. And, even worse,
she knew she did not mind not minding. In this place she was
indifferent to both the things that had filled her life and made it
seem as if it were happy for years. Well, if only she could rejoice in
her wonderful new surroundings, have that much at least to set against
the indifference, the letting go--but she could not. She had no work;
she did not pray; she was left empty.
Lotty had spoilt her day that day, as she had spoilt her day the
day before--Lotty, with her invitation to her husband, with her
suggestion that she too should invite hers. Having flung Frederick
into her mind again the day before, Lotty had left her; for the whole
afternoon she had left her alone with her thoughts. Since then they
had been all of Frederick. Where at Hampstead he came to her only in
her dreams, here he left her dreams free and was with her during the
day instead. And again that morning, as she was struggling not to
think of him, Lotty had asked her, just before disappearing singing
down the path, if she had written yet and invited him, and again he was
flung into her mind and she wasn't able to get him out.
How could she invite him? It had gone on so long, their
estrangement, such years; she would hardly know what words to use; and
besides, he would not come. Why should he come? He didn't care about
being with her. What could they talk about? Between them was the
barrier of his work and her religion. She could not--how could she,
believing as she did in purity, in responsibility for the effect of
one's actions on other--bear his work, bear living by it; and he she
knew, had at first resented and then been merely bored by her religion.
He had let her slip away; he had given her up; he no longer minded; he
accepted her religion indifferently, as a settled fact. Both it and
she--Rose's mind, becoming more luminous in the clear light of April at
San Salvatore, suddenly saw the truth--bored him.
Naturally when she saw this, when that morning it flashed upon
her for the first time, she did not like it; she liked it so little
that for a space the whole beauty of Italy was blotted out. What was
to be done about it? She could not give up believing in good and not
liking evil, and it must be evil to live entirely on the proceeds of
adulteries, however dead and distinguished they were. Besides, if she
did, if she sacrificed her whole past, her bringing up, her work for
the last ten years, would she bore him less? Rose felt right down at
her very roots that if you have once thoroughly bored somebody it is
next to impossible to unbore him. Once a bore always a bore--
certainly, she thought, to the person originally bored.
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