The Doll (3 page)

I had better write that Sunday now, Sunday that was really the end; and I didn’t know it, I thought it was the beginning. I was like someone walking in the dark, no, walking in the light with his eyes open and not seeing – deliberately blinding himself.

Sunday, day of hollow and mistaken happiness. I went to her flat about nine in the evening. She was waiting for me. She was dressed in scarlet – like Mephistopheles, odd strange clothes, that only Rebecca could wear. She seemed excited, intoxicated – she ran about the room like an elf.

Then she sat down at my feet with her legs tucked under her, and held out her thin brown hands to the stove. She laughed and giggled childishly, she reminded me of a mischievous child planning some naughtiness.

Then all at once she turned to me, her face pale, her eyes strangely alight. She said, ‘Is it possible to love someone so much, that it gives one a pleasure, an unaccountable pleasure to hurt them? To hurt them by jealousy I mean, and to hurt oneself at the same time. Pleasure and pain, an equal mingling of pleasure and pain, just as an experiment, a rare sensation?’

She puzzled me, but I tried to explain to her what was meant by Sadism. She seemed to understand, and nodded her head thoughtfully once or twice.

Then she rose and went slowly across the room to the door I had never yet seen opened. She looked oddly pale as she stood there, her mass of queer savage hair springing from her head, her hand on the knob of the door. ‘I want to introduce you to Julio,’ she said. I left my chair and went towards her, I had no idea of what she was talking about. She took my hand and then opened the door. I saw a low round-shaped room, whose walls were draped with some sort of velvet hangings as if to deaden any sound, and long thick curtains were drawn across the window. There was a log fire, but it had burnt very low. Near the fireplace was a divan, covered with cushions thrown anyhow, and the only light came from a small shaded lamp, thus leaving the room in a half darkness.

There was one chair in the room, and this was facing the divan.

Something was sitting in the chair. I felt an eerie cold feeling in my heart, as if the room were haunted. ‘What is it?’ I whispered.

Rebecca took the lamp and held it over the chair. ‘This is Julio,’ she said softly. I stepped closer, and saw what I took to be a boy of about sixteen, dressed in a dinner jacket, shirt and waistcoat, and long Spanish trousers.

His face was the most evil thing I have ever seen. It was ashen pale in colour, and the mouth was a crimson gash, sensual and depraved. The nose was thin, with curved nostrils, and the eyes were cruel, gleaming and narrow, and curiously still. They seemed to stare right through one – the eyes of a hawk. The hair was sleek and dark, brushed right back from the white forehead.

It was the face of a satyr, a grinning hateful satyr.

Then I was aware of a strange feeling of disappointment, a helpless sensation of not understanding, of dumb incredulity.

There was no boy sitting in the chair. It was a doll. Human enough, damnably lifelike, with a foul distinctive personality, but a doll.

Only a doll. The eyes stared into mine without recognition, the mouth leered foolishly.

I looked at Rebecca, she was watching my face.

‘I don’t see,’ I said, ‘what’s the point of all this? Where did you get this loathsome toy? Are you having a joke with me?’ I spoke sharply, I felt uneasy and cold. The next moment the room was in darkness, she had turned out the lamp. I felt her arms round my neck, and her mouth upon mine.

‘Now shall I tell you I love you?’ she whispered, ‘shall I?’

A hot wave of something swept over me, the floor seemed to swing beneath my feet. She clung to me and kissed my throat, I could feel her fingers at the back of my neck. I let her hands wander over my body, and she kissed me again. It was devastating – it was madness – it was like death.

I don’t know how long we stood there, I don’t remember anything, words, or thoughts, or dreams – only the silence of that dark room, the feeble glow of the fire, the beating of my heart – the singing in my ears – and Rebecca – Rebecca—. When, – and whether hours had passed or years I cannot tell – when I raised my eyes above her head I looked straight into his eyes – his damned doll’s eyes.

They seemed to squint at me and leer, one eyebrow was cocked, and his crimson treacherous mouth was twisted at the corner. I wanted to leap at it, and smash its beastly grinning face, trample on its sordid human body. Was Rebecca mad to keep such a toy, what was her motive, where had she found it? But she would not answer my questions.

‘Come away,’ she said, and dragged me from the room, back once more into the hard glaring light of the bare studio. ‘You must go now,’ she said breathlessly, ‘it’s late – I had forgotten.’ I tried to take hold of her, once more, I wanted to kiss her again and again, she surely did not mean me to go now.

‘Tomorrow,’ she said impatiently, ‘I promise you tomorrow, but not at the moment. I’m tired and bewildered – don’t you see? Let me alone just for tonight, it’s been too strong, I can’t realise anything.’

She stamped her foot with impatience, she looked ill. I saw it was hopeless. I took my things and went – and walked, and walked – all night I think.

I watched the dawn break on Hampstead Heath, grey and sunless; heavy rain fell from a leaden sky.

My body was cold, but my brain was on fire. Once more I was certain that Rebecca had lied to me – from the moment she kissed me I knew that she had lied to me.

She had known five, ten, what matter the number, twenty lovers – and I was not one of them.

No, I was not one of them.

I found myself near Camden Town, buses rumbled along the streets; it was still raining, people straggled past me, their figures bent under umbrellas.

I found a taxi somewhere, and went home. I got into bed without undressing, and slept. I slept for hours. When I awoke it was dark once more; it must have been about six in the evening. I remember washing mechanically, and then once more walking in the direction of Bloomsbury.

I reached the flat and rang at her bell.

She let me in without a word, and then sat down in the studio before the oil stove. I told her I was going to be her lover. She said nothing. There were red rims under her eyes as if she had been crying, and thin lines round her mouth. I bent towards her to kiss her, but she pushed me away.

She began to speak rapidly.

‘You must forget what happened last night. Today I realise I made a mistake. I’m not well, I haven’t slept. All this has worried me considerably. You must leave me alone.’

I tried to seize her, and break down her iron restraint. It was like hammering at an iron wall. She lay cold and still in my arms. Her mouth was icy. I left her in despair. Then followed a week of doubt and torture. Sometimes she sat apart from me without a word, sometimes I could have sworn that she loved me. And she would not let me touch her, she was not in the mood she said. I must wait until she wanted me again. I must wait in suspense, in agony. She never mentioned Julio. We never went into that room again. I asked her what she had done with him. I wanted to know what was at the back of it all. She would answer evasively and change the subject. It was useless to press her. She was maddening. She was intolerable.

And yet I could not keep away from her. I could not live without her.

One evening she would be gentle and affectionate. She would sit at my feet and talk about her music, about her future plans. She was always changing. She was never the same.

I felt hopeless. My position was ridiculous – but what was I to do? She had become a madness to me – an obsession.

I’ve now come to the last evening, the very last. Then crash – blankness – the depths of hell – and desolation – utter desolation.

Let me get it clear – when was it, what time was it? Seven, eight perhaps. I can’t remember. I was leaving the flat and she came to the door with me.

She suddenly put her arms round me and kissed me.... There have been men in arid deserts where the sun has so disfigured them that they have become things of horror – parched and blackened, twisted and torn. Their eyes run blood, their tongues are bitten through – and then they come upon water.

I know, because I was one of their number.

Laugh at all these comparisons, call me a madman, but the laugh is on my side.

There are women – but you have not kissed Rebecca, you cannot know.

You are a fool asleep. You have never begun to imagine . . .

(
Note
. Much of this seems completely unintelligible, and the quarter page that follows consists of nothing but broken sentences and half formed ideas. Then the narrative continues.)

It was shattering. She let me kiss her again and again. I took her face in my hands and looked down into her eyes.

‘Who were your lovers?’ I said. ‘How often did you kiss them like that? Who taught you to kiss them like that? Who was the first, the very first? Tell me.’

A haze of fury was before my eyes, my hands shook.

‘I swear to you that you are the first man I have ever kissed. I swear to you there has been no man before you. Never. Never.’

She looked straight at me. Her voice was firm. I saw that she was speaking the truth.

‘Now you must go,’ she said, ‘tomorrow you shall come, and then we shall have so much to tell each other, so much.’

She smiled at me. I saw right through her wall of restraint, right through ice to the flame, the hidden fire.

I remember leaving the flat, and having dinner somewhere. My head was on fire. I seemed to walk among the gods. It was incredible that Rebecca should love me, it was incredible that I should know such happiness. I wanted to shout. I wanted to chuck myself off a roof.

I went home, and paced up and down the room. I couldn’t sleep, every nerve in my body seemed alive.

Then suddenly, at midnight, I could stand it no longer. I had to go to Rebecca, I had to.

I felt my love for her was so strong that she would know. She would wait for me. She would understand. She would have to understand.

I don’t know how I got to her flat. Seconds seemed to flash by, and I was standing outside in the street, gazing up at the windows.

I persuaded the night porter to let me in, he was half asleep and he let me pass upstairs. I listened outside her door – not a sound came from within. It might have been the entrance to a tomb.

I put my hand on the door knob, and turned it slowly. To my surprise it was not locked – Rebecca must have forgotten to turn the key after I left.

I stepped inside, everything was in darkness. ‘Rebecca,’ I called softly, ‘Rebecca.’ No answer.

The door of her bedroom was open, there was no one inside.

Then I went into the kitchen and the bathroom, both were empty.

Then I knew. Something gripped my heart, cold, clammy fear.

I looked towards that other room – his room – Julio’s room.

I knew that Rebecca was in there, with the doll – with Julio.

I felt my way across the room and beat against the door. It was locked. I kicked against the panel, and tore at it with my nails. It gave way beneath my weight. I heard a cry of fury from Rebecca, and she turned on the lamp.

Oh! Christ, I shall never forget her eyes, the terrible light – the unholy rapture in her eyes, and her ashen – ashen face.

I saw everything – the room, the divan – I knew everything. I was seized with deadly sickness – a terrible despair.

And all the time his vile filthy face was looking at me. His eyes never left me, staring with a lifeless, glassy immobility. The wet crimson mouth was sneering – the sleek dark hair hung in streaks across his cheek. He was a machine – something worked by screws – he was not alive, not human – but terrible, ghastly.

And Rebecca turned to me. Her voice was cold – apart – unearthly.

‘And you expect me to love you. Don’t you see that I can’t – I can’t? How can I care for you, or any man? Go away, leave me. I loathe you. I loathe you all. I don’t need you. I don’t want you.’

Something cracked inside my heart. I turned away. I left them. I left them alone. I ran into the street – tears were pouring down my face – I sobbed aloud – I shook my fist at the stars . . .

And that is all, there is no more to say, no more to tell. I went the next day and she had gone, they had both gone. No one knew where she was. I asked everyone I saw – no one could tell me.

Everything is dim, everything is useless. I shall never see Rebecca again – no one will see her again. It will always be Rebecca and Julio. Days will come, and nights, and nothing – they will haunt me – I shall never sleep – I’m cursed. I don’t know what I’m saying, what I’m writing. What am I going to do? Oh! God, what am I going to do? I can’t live – I can’t cope . . .

And Now to God the Father

T
he Reverend James Hollaway, Vicar of St Swithin’s, Upper Chesham Street, was looking at his profile in the glass. The sight was pleasing to him, so much so that he lingered a considerable time before he laid the mirror back upon the dressing-table.

He saw a man of about fifty-five years of age, who looked younger, with a high forehead and magnificent iron-grey hair, that was apt to curl slightly at the temples.

The nose was straight, the mouth narrow and sensitive, and he had been told that his deep-set eyes could be in turn humorous, dangerous, and inspired. He was tall and broad-shouldered; he carried his head a little to one side, and his powerful chin was tilted in the air.

To some this was his fascination, this inquiring, conceited angle of the head; to others it was the rich tones of his ever-changing voice, the strong capable hands, the slow lilting walk that was the secret of his tremendous attraction.

Yet all these were as nothing compared to his charm of manner, his wit, his talent for making the shyest person feel at ease.

Women adored him; he was so broad-minded, so tolerant, and he always gave the impression that he understood them far better than they did themselves. Besides, he was always so delightfully intimate. Men found him a surprisingly good companion; his wine was excellent; he never talked about religion, and he ever had a fund of damned amusing stories. It was all these qualities combined that made him the most popular preacher in London.

He was bound in time to become a bishop. St Swithin’s was frequented by the very best people. The fashionable thing to do was to attend Mass on Sunday mornings, and if possible to get an invitation back to lunch at the Vicar’s exquisitely furnished Georgian house that adjoined the church.

Here one was sure to find a crowd of well-known people: a leading politician, a couple of famous actresses, a rising young painter, and of course a sprinkling of titles.

Everyone agreed that ‘Jim’ Hollaway was a perfect host, and his conversation was as clever as his sermons. He was careful never to speak about God, or anything embarrassing, but was ever willing to discuss last night’s new play, the latest book, the newest fashion, and even the most recent scandal. He made a show of his excessive modernity, and besides being a keen poker-player, and an enthusiastic dancer, he delighted the younger generation by the freedom of his expressions. There was something so very original in the idea of being shocked by a clergyman. In church of course he was different, and this they appreciated.

With his tall figure, his striking voice and eyes, his eloquent gestures, the whole effect was rather wonderful. People soon forgave him his High Church tendencies, and the celebration of Mass instead of the usual eleven-o’ clock Matins. Also there was more to watch.

Men went to listen to the singing and because it was the thing to do; women went for the flowers and the lighted candles, for the agreeable emotional sensation that was produced by the smell of incense, and above all because they were half in love with the Vicar.

When they had summoned up enough courage to go to confession they were overwhelmed by his gentleness, his discretion, and above all by his apparent understanding. Some of the more intense of his congregation went to his Thursday-afternoon teas.

Here at last religion was discussed, but the Vicar made his gatherings so free from awkwardness that there was never the slightest feeling of restraint. He was a great comforter of uneasy souls, and portrayed God in a very gentle light, insisting upon His immense humanity.

They learnt with relief that God not only pardoned but was fond of sinners, in fact it seemed that He preferred them to the ninety-and-nine just men. Of course the Vicar implied that they were all as yet but seeds in the mighty growth of evolution, and that some time, very far hence, they would know perfection and look upon beauty in its greatest form, but in the meanwhile – well, in the meanwhile one lived and one naturally sinned, and received absolution and sinned again, and one lived according to one’s merits and station-in-the-world.

One must also bear in mind that conditions were very different from what they were nearly two thousand years ago. All of which was a very consoling philosophy. It was rendered so sacred, too, when spoken in the Vicar’s soft melodious voice; and when he turned his beautiful sympathetic eyes upon each member of the party in turn they thought he was addressing them especially, and could read the secrets of their hearts.

Later, when he met them casually at the Duchess of Attleborough’s Thé Dansant, or in the front row of the stalls at a first night, he would smile his wonderful sense-disturbing smile, and whisper some amusing description in their ears, but they felt that his eyes were saying ‘I know, I understand.’

He was unmarried, of course, and yet there was always the hopeless terrible longing that perhaps one day – however, he had fallen for no one yet, though rumour, forgetting the sanctity of the cloth, had linked his name with those of many beautiful and always noble ladies.

As the Vicar replaced the glass upon the dressing-table, and ran his hand carelessly, boyishly he considered, through his sleek grey hair, he smiled a little to himself. Yes, he had worn well, he was still a very good-looking man.

He went downstairs, and into his study. The room was large and furnished in remarkable taste. On his desk was a large portrait of one of England’s most beautiful actresses; on it was written ‘Jim, with my love, Mona,’ and the date of a summer two years ago.

The mantelpiece was adorned with Her Grace of Attleborough, ‘Your very affectionate Norah,’ and on a little table by the window was a striking study of Lady Eustace Carey-Slater, and her dashing signature ‘Attaboy! from Jane.’ The Vicar ran through his letters, and then rang the bell for his butler.

‘Any message for me, Wells?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir; two ladies called who said they were in terrible circumstances, and would very much like to have a few words with you. I told them you were very busy and would they see the Curate.’

The Vicar nodded his approval – some of these women were a pest.

‘Then Lord Cranleigh rang up, and asked to see you some time this morning. I told him to come over at once, as you were not engaged.’

‘Quite right, Wells. That’s all, thank you. Bring in the paper, will you?’ The man was an admirable servant.

While he was waiting for his visitor he let his eye run over the list of births, marriages, and deaths. By Jove, Kitty Durand was going to be married, and she had never told him. He must send her a present, he supposed, and a letter of congratulation. ‘Kitty, you wicked child, what’s the meaning of this? You deserve to be spanked. Only eighteen! Your fiancé is a lucky fellow, and I’m going to tell him so. Bless you both.’

Something like that would do, and a cocktail set from Goodes.

‘Yes, Wells, what is it?’

‘Lord Cranleigh,’ said the butler, and closed the door behind a boy of about twenty-two, with fair hair and a pleasantly weak face.

‘I say, sir, this is most awfully decent of you; can you really spare me a few moments?’

‘Come and sit down, young fellow, and take your time,’ said the Vicar, at once assuming his manner of easy comradeship, and pushing forward a box of cigarettes. He sat down in front of his desk, crossed his legs, and prepared to listen, while the boy flung himself into an easy-chair.

‘The fact is, sir, I’m in the devil of a mess,’ he began awkwardly. ‘I hadn’t the slightest idea who to turn to, and then I remembered you. Of course in the ordinary way I should never dare to ask the advice of a parson, but you’re different. You’re so, excuse my cheek, you’re so, well, damn broad-minded!’

The Vicar’s heart warmed to the usual praise. ‘I’ve been young myself once,’ he nodded sympathetically, and he let his eyes wander vaguely towards the various photographs in the room. This boy must be made to understand that he was talking to no raw hand, in fact—

‘It’s about a girl,’ Cranleigh went on. ‘A girl I met at Oxford last term, just before the long vac. She was nobody, you know, just acted as companion to some old lady, and I met her first of all when I was fooling about on the river. She was with a friend, and I was with another fellow, so we all sort of chummed up. Well, after that I began to see her pretty often, and got desperately keen on her. Of course I dare say I wouldn’t have looked at her if I’d been in London, but up there it’s different. She was mad about me too, though I say it myself, and then – oh, Lord, I’m afraid I made a colossal ass of myself. Well, sir, I lost my head one night. I don’t know how it happened, but it did – we were in a boat, and it was a glorious evening, and—’

‘I know,’ said the Vicar, his voice full of meaning; ‘I was at Oxford too, over twenty years ago.’

The boy smiled, it was being easier than he expected. ‘Well, you understand me, sir, I kind of couldn’t help myself. Then very soon afterwards we came down, and I didn’t see her again. Last week I got a letter from her; it was pretty awful, and she said she was going to have a baby.’

The Vicar sighed gently. ‘Yes?’ he asked.

‘Of course I arranged to meet her, last Tuesday evening, and it’s absolutely true, sir; she’d been to a doctor and everything. I was in a terrible state, and said I’d give her money and help her to get away somewhere; but – this is the awful part – she doesn’t want money, she wants me to marry her.’

The Vicar raised his eyebrows. ‘And what did you say to her?’ he inquired.

‘Well, naturally, I said it was impossible. How could I marry her? She’s pretty and sweet, but I’m not sure she’s even a lady, and I don’t really love her. Besides, what on earth would the family say? When the old man dies I come into the title, and I’ve got to think of all that, although it sounds beastly snobbish. It would be madness to marry Mary, you must see my point?’

‘My dear fellow, of course I do. There shall be no question of marriage as far as I’m concerned. And you say she refuses money?’ His tone was brisk now, alert, that of a shrewd man of the world.

‘Absolutely, sir; she went white when I suggested it. Apparently she doesn’t seem to mind having the baby, she says she’ll live for it, and she wants me to marry her so as to give it a name. She’s still most awfully in love with me, and she doesn’t seem to understand that I don’t care any longer. If she goes to my people there will be the most colossal row. Thank heaven, she hasn’t told a soul yet. Look here, sir, what on earth am I going to do?’

The Vicar was thinking rapidly. If he helped him out of this mess the boy would naturally be very grateful. He knew the family were rich, and the Earl was said to be in a wretched state of health. Cranleigh Castle was one of the beauty spots of England, he would be invited often: the Countess herself was an ardent politician – yes, everything would be comparatively easy. He rose from his chair, and going over to the boy he laid his hand on his shoulder. ‘My dear chap,’ he said, ‘if you will trust me I am certain I can manage the whole wretched business for you. There is no need for your family to know, we have your future position to think of; as for the girl, she will understand the whole situation when I have explained it tactfully to her. I will look after her. Don’t worry any more about it; all I want you to do is to give me her address.’

‘Mary Williams, sir. She’s staying in a boarding-house in St John’s Wood, it’s on the telephone under the name of Datchett – that’s her sister, she keeps the place. Oh! good Lord, you are the greatest brick; I don’t know how I’m ever going to thank you enough.’

The Vicar smiled and held out his hand. ‘It’s only because I understand so well what you have gone through,’ he said gently.

The man must have been a bit of a dog in his day, thought the boy; odd for a clergyman. ‘I think I’ll try and get away for a bit, until it’s all blown over; but don’t forget you’ve got to come down to Cranleigh directly I come back – we’ll have a shot at the birds.’

When he had gone the Vicar went back into his study, and lifted the telephone receiver. He believed in doing things on the spot.

He looked up the number in the book.

‘Is that Mrs Datchett’s? Could I possibly speak to Miss Williams? Yes. Thank you . . . Hullo? Is that Miss Williams speaking? My name is Hollaway, James Hollaway. I’m the Vicar of St Swithin’s, Chesham Street. I’m a great friend of Lord Cranleigh’s. He has just left me . . . Yes. Would you be so good as to come and see me this evening at six o’clock? I should very much like a little talk with you, I wish to help you. Yes, he has told me everything. No, you have nothing to be frightened of. Then that is settled? Twenty-two Upper Chesham Street. Thank you. Good-bye.’

He hung up the receiver, and wandering to his desk he glanced at
The Times
.

Hallo, George Winnersly was dead at last. He must write to Lola. She was getting a bit
passée
now, of course, but she was still lovely. Funny the way she went religious all of a sudden. Must have come as a sort of anti-climax. She was always at St Swithin’s at one time; he could remember once – However, that was all over.

He began to run over in his mind conventional phrases of consolation: ‘immeasurably grieved,’ ‘unspeakable loss,’ and ‘the consolation of God.’

He yawned a little as he took up his pen.

‘My dear daughter-in-Christ,’ he began.

‘Hollaway, you’re a regular mascot, and I don’t mind telling you I feel a lot more sure of myself now I’ve had this talk with you. Have a cigar?’

The Vicar declined. ‘Sorry, but I haven’t the time. I’m a busy man, you know, and I’m shortly due at a hospital in the slums. I’m very glad to have been of use to you, my dear Colonel, I understand so well what you are going through.’

His voice was full of the deepest sympathy.

The lunch at the Carlton had been a great success. His host was Colonel Edward Tracey, the Conservative candidate in the West Storeford by-election, and as polling day was on the following Monday the Colonel was nervous and agitated.

West Storeford was an important seat and the Colonel a powerful man; if he was returned he would owe many of his votes to Hollaway, who had been one of his most ardent canvassers.