The Alexandria Quartet - Lawrence Durrell [156]
‘It is impossible to describe the effect these words had on her: they threw her life and actions into relief in an entirely new way. She saw him all of a sudden in a new light, as a man whom one could “really love”. Alas, he had already withdrawn his favours …
‘When he next went to Cairo he elected to go alone and, made restless by his absence, she made the mistake of writing him a lon g passionate letter in which she clumsily tried to thank him for a friendship of whose real value to her he was completely unaware —
that is true of all love again. He regarded this simply as another attempt to intrude upon him and sent her a telegram. (They corresponded through me. I have it still.)
“First nobody can own an artist so be warned. Second what good is a faithful body when the mind is by its very nature unfaithful?
Third stop whining like an Arab, you know better. Fourth neurosis is
no excuse. Health must be won and earned by a battle. Lastly it is honourable if you can’ t win to hang yourself. ”
‘Once she happened upon him when he was very drunk at the Café Al Aktar; I gather that you and I had just left. You remember the evening? He had been rather insulting. It was the evening when I tried to show you how the nine-point proposition of the Cabal worked. I did not know then that you would type it all out and send it to the Secret Service! What a marvellous jest! But I love to feel events overlapping each other, crawling over one another like wet crabs in a basket. No sooner had we left than Justine entered. It was she who helped him back to his hotel and pushed him safely on to his bed. “Oh, you are the most despairing man!” she cried at that recumbent figure, at which he raised his arms and res-ponded “I know it, I know it! I am just a refugee from the long slow toothache of English life. It is terrible to love life so much you can hardly breathe!” And he began to laugh — a laughter which was overtaken by nausea. She left him being sick in the washbasin.
‘The next morning she went round early with some French reviews in one of which there was an article about his work. He was wearing nothing but a pyjama jacket and a pair of spectacles. On his mirror he had written with a wet shaving-stick, some words from Tolstoy: “I do not cease to reflect upon art and upon every form of temptation which obscures the spirit.”
‘He took the books from her without a word and made as if to shut the door in her face. “No” she said, “I’m coming in.” He cleared his throat and said: “This is for the last time. I’m sick of being visited as one might visit the grave of a dead kitten.” But she took him by the arms and he said, more gently, “A de finite and complete stop, see?”
‘She sat down on the end of the bed and lit a cigarette, con-sidering him, as one might a specimen. “I am curious, after all your talk about self-possession and responsibility, to see just how Anglo-Saxon you are — unable to finish anything you start. Why do you look furtive?” This was a splendid line of attack. He smiled. “I’m going to work today.”
‘ “Then I’ll come tomorrow.”
‘ “I shall have ‘flu.”
‘ “The day after.”
‘ “I shall be going to the Zoo.”
‘ “I shall come too.”
‘Pursewarden was now extremely rude; she knew she had scored a victory and was delighted. She listened to his honeyed insults as she tapped the carpet with her foot. “Very well” she said at last,
“we shall see.” (I am afraid you will have to make room in this for the essential comedy of human relations. You give it so little place.) The next day he put her out of his hotel-room by the neck, like a pet cat. The following day he woke and found the great car parked once more outside the hotel. “Merde