CHAPTER 32_The well of loneliness

Stephen bought the house in the Rue Jacob, because as she walked through

the dim, grey archway that led from the street to the cobbled courtyard,

and saw the deserted house standing before her, she knew at once that

there she would live. This will happen sometimes, we instinctively feel

in sympathy with certain dwellings.

The courtyard was sunny and surrounded by walls. On the right of this

courtyard some iron gates led into the spacious, untidy garden, and

woefully neglected though this garden had been, the trees that it still

possessed were fine ones. A marble fountain long since choked with

weeds, stood in the centre of what had been a lawn. In the farthest

corner of the garden some hand had erected a semi-circular temple, but

that had been a long time ago, and now the temple was all but ruined.

The house itself would need endless repairs, but its rooms were of

careful and restful proportions. A fine room with a window that opened

on the garden, would be Stephen’s study; she could write there in quiet;

on the other side of the stone-paved hall was a smaller but comfortable

salle à manger; while past the stone staircase a little round room in a

turret would be Puddle’s particular sanctum. Above there were bedrooms

enough and to spare; there was also the space for a couple of bathrooms.

The day after Stephen had seen this house, she had written agreeing to

purchase.

Valérie rang up before leaving Paris to inquire how Stephen had liked

the old house, and when she heard that she had actually bought it, she

expressed herself as being delighted.

‘We’ll be quite close neighbours now,’ she remarked, ‘but I’m not going

to bother you until you evince, not even when I get back in the autumn.

I know you’ll be literally snowed under with workmen for months, you

poor dear, I feel sorry for you. But when you can, do let me come and

see you—meanwhile if I can help you at all. . . .’ And she gave her

address at St. Tropez.

And now for the first time since leaving Morton, Stephen turned her mind

to the making of a home. Through Brockett she found a young architect

who seemed anxious to carry out all her instructions. He was one of

those very rare architects who refrain from thrusting their views on

their clients. So into the ancient, deserted house in the Rue Jacob

streamed an army of workmen, and they hammered and scraped and raised

clouds of dust from early morning, all day until evening—smoking harsh

caporal as they joked or quarrelled or idled or spat or hummed snatches

of song. And amazingly soon, wherever one trod one seemed to be treading

on wet cement or on dry, gritty heaps of brick dust and rubble, so that

Puddle would complain that she spoilt all her shoes, while Stephen would

emerge with her neat blue serge shoulders quite grey, and with even her

hair thickly powdered.

Sometimes the architect would come to the hotel in the evening and then

would ensue long discussions. Bending over the little mahogany table, he

and Stephen would study the plans intently, for she wished to preserve

the spirit of the place intact, despite alterations. She decided to have

an Empire study with grey walls and curtains of Empire green, for she

loved the great roomy writing tables that had come into being with the

first Napoleon. The walls of the salle à manger should be white and the

curtains brown, while Puddle’s round sanctum in its turret should have

walls and paintwork of yellow, to give the illusion of sunshine. And so

absorbed did Stephen become in these things, that she scarcely had time

to notice Jonathan Brockett’s abrupt departure for a mountain top in the

Austrian Tyrol. Having suddenly come to the end of his finances, he must

hasten to write a couple of plays that could be produced in London that

winter. He sent her three or four picture postcards of glaciers, after

which she heard nothing more from him.

At the end of August, when the work was well under way, she and Puddle

fared forth in the motor to visit divers villages and towns, in quest of

old furniture, and Stephen was surprised to find how much she enjoyed

it. She would catch herself whistling as she drove her car, and when

they got back to some humble auberge in the evening, she would want to

eat a large supper. Every morning she diligently swung her dumb-bells;

she was getting into condition for fencing. She had not fenced at all

since leaving Morton, having been too much engrossed in her work while

in London; but now she was going to fence before Buisson, so she

diligently swung her dumb-bells. During these two months of

holiday-making she grew fond of the wide-eyed, fruitful French country,

even as she had grown fond of Paris. She would never love it as she

loved the hills and the stretching valleys surrounding Morton, for that

love was somehow a part of her being, but she gave to this France, that

would give her a home, a quiet and very sincere affection. Her heart

grew more grateful with every mile, for hers was above all a grateful

nature.

They returned to Paris at the end of October. And now came the selecting

of carpets and curtains; of fascinating blankets from the Magasin de

Blanc—blankets craftily dyed to match any bedroom; of fine linen, and

other expensive things, including the copper batterie de cuisine, which

latter, however, was left to Puddle. At last the army of workmen

departed, its place being taken by a Breton ménage—brown-faced folk,

strong-limbed and capable looking—a mother, father and daughter.

Pierre, the butler, had been a fisherman once, but the sea with its

hardships had prematurely aged him. He had now been in service for

several years, having contracted rheumatic fever which had weakened his

heart and made him unfit for the strenuous life of a fisher. Pauline,

his wife, was considerably younger, and she it was who would reign in

the kitchen, while their daughter Adèle, a girl of eighteen, would help

both her parents and look after the housework.

Adèle was as happy as a blackbird in springtime; she would often seem

just on the verge of chirping. But Pauline had stood and watched the

great storms gather over the sea while her men were out fishing; her

father had lost his life through the sea as had also a brother, so

Pauline smiled seldom. Dour she was, with a predilection for dwelling in

detail on people’s misfortunes. As for Pierre, he was stolid, kind and

pious, with the eyes of a man who has looked on vast spaces. His grey

stubbly hair was cut short to his head en brosse, and he had an ungainly

figure. When he walked he straddled a little as though he could never

believe in a house without motion. He liked Stephen at once, which was

very propitious, for one cannot buy the good-will of a Breton.

Thus gradually chaos gave place to order, and on the morning of her

twenty-seventh birthday, on Christmas Eve, Stephen moved into her home

in the Rue Jacob on the old Rive Gauche, there to start her new life in

Paris.

All alone in the brown and white salle à manger, Stephen and Puddle ate

their Christmas dinner. And Puddle had bought a small Christmas tree and

had trimmed it, then hung it with coloured candles. A little wax

Christ-child bent downwards and sideways from His branch, as though He

were looking for His presents—only now there were not any presents.

Rather clumsily Stephen lit the candles as soon as the daylight had

almost faded. Then she and Puddle stood and stared at the tree, but in

silence, because they must both remember. But Pierre, who like all who

have known the sea, was a child at heart, broke into loud exclamations.

‘Oh, comme c’est beau, l’arbre de Noël!’ he exclaimed, and he fetched

the dour Pauline along from the kitchen, and she too exclaimed; then

they both fetched Adèle and they all three exclaimed: ‘Comme c’est beau,

l’arbre de Noël!’ So, that after all the little wax Christ-child did not

very much miss His presents.

That evening Pauline’s two brothers arrived—they were Poilus stationed

just outside Paris—and they brought along with them another young man,

one Jean, who was ardently courting Adèle. Very soon came the sound of

singing and laughter from the kitchen, and when Stephen went up to her

bedroom to look for a book, there was Adèle quite flushed and with very

bright eyes because of this Jean—in great haste she turned down the bed

and then flew on the wings of love back to the kitchen.

But Stephen went slowly downstairs to her study where Puddle was sitting

in front of the fire, and she thought that Puddle sat there as though

tired; her hands were quite idle, and after a moment Stephen noticed

that she was dozing. Very quietly Stephen opened her book, unwilling to

rouse the little grey woman who looked so small in the huge leather

chair, and whose head kept guiltily nodding. But the book seemed

scarcely worth troubling to read, so that presently Stephen laid it

aside and sat staring into the flickering logs that hummed and burnt

blue because it was frosty. On the Malvern Hills there would probably be

snow; deep snow might be capping the Worcestershire Beacon. The air up

at British Camp would be sweet with the smell of winter and open

spaces—little lights would be glinting far down in the valley. At

Morton the lakes would be still and frozen, so Peter the swan would be

feeling friendly—in winter he had always fed from her hand—he must be

old now, the swan called Peter. Coup! C-o-u-p! and Peter waddling

towards her. He, who was all gliding grace on the water, would come

awkwardly waddling towards her hand for the chunk of dry bread that she

held in her fingers. Jean with his Adèle along in the kitchen—a

nice-looking boy he was, Stephen had seen him—they were young, and both

were exceedingly happy, for their parents approved, so some day they

would marry. Then children would come, too many, no doubt, for Jean’s

slender purse, and yet in this life one must pay for one’s

pleasures—they would pay with their children, and this appeared

perfectly fair to Stephen. She thought that it seemed a long time ago

since she herself had been a small child, romping about on the floor

with her father, bothering Williams down at the stables, dressing up as

young Nelson and posing for Collins who had sometimes been cross to

young Nelson. She was nearly thirty, and what had she done? Written one

good novel and one very bad one, with few mediocre short stories thrown

in. Oh, well, she was going to start writing again quite soon—she had

an idea for a novel. But she sighed, and Puddle woke up with a start.

‘Is that you, my dear? Have I been asleep?’

‘Only for a very few minutes, Puddle.’

Puddle glanced at the new gold watch on her wrist; it had been a

Christmas present from Stephen. ‘It’s past ten o’clock—I think I’ll

turn in.’

‘Do. Why not? I hope Adèle’s filled your hot water bottle; she’s rather

light-headed over her Jean.’

‘Never mind, I can fill it myself,’ smiled Puddle.

She went, and Stephen sat on by the fire with her eyes half closed and

her lips set firmly. She must put away all these thoughts of the past

and compel herself to think of the future. This brooding over things

that were past was all wrong; it was futile, weak-kneed and morbid. She

had her work, work that cried out to be done, but no more unworthy books

must be written. She must show that being the thing she was, she could

climb to success over all opposition, could climb to success in spite of

a world that was trying its best to get her under. Her mouth grew hard;

her sensitive lips that belonged by rights to the dreamer, the lover,

took on a resentful and bitter line which changed her whole face and

made it less comely. At that moment the striking likeness of her father

appeared to have faded out of her face.

Yes, it was trying to get her under, this world with its mighty

self-satisfaction, with its smug rules of conduct, all made to be broken

by those who strutted and preened themselves on being what they

considered normal. They trod on the necks of those thousands of others

who, for God knew what reason, were not made as they were; they prided

themselves on their indignation, on what they proclaimed as their

righteous judgments. They sinned grossly; even vilely at times, like

lustful beasts—but yet they were normal! And the vilest of them could

point a finger of scorn at her, and be loudly applauded.

‘God damn them to hell!’ she muttered.

Along in the kitchen there was singing again. The young men’s voices

rose tuneful and happy, and with them blended Adèle’s young voice, very

sexless as yet, like the voice of a choirboy. Stephen got up and opened

the door, then she stood quite still and listened intently. The singing

soothed her over-strained nerves as it flowed from the hearts of these

simple people. For she did not begrudge them their happiness; she did

not resent young Jean with his Adèle, or Pierre who had done a man’s

work in his time, or Pauline who was often aggressively female. Bitter

she had grown in these years since Morton, but not bitter enough to

resent the simple. And then as she listened they suddenly stopped for a

little before they resumed their singing, and when they resumed it the

tune was sad with the sadness that dwells in the souls of most men,

above all in the patient soul of the peasant.