V
What shall I do to drive away
Remembrance from mine eyes?
wrote Keats. But should one drive it awayIf one chooses to look back over the journey that has been onea€?s life, is one entitled to ignore those memories that one dislikesOr is that cowardice?
I think, perhaps, one should take one brief look, and say: a€?Yes, this is part of my life; but ita€?s done with. It is a strand in the tapestry of my existence. I must recognise it because it is part of me. But there is no need to dwell upon it.a€?
When Punkie arrived at Ashfield I felt wonderfully happy. Then Archie came.
I think the nearest I can get to describing what I felt at that moment is to recall that old nightmare of minea€“the horror of sitting at a tea table, looking across at my best loved friend, and suddenly realising that the person sitting there was a stranger. That, I think, describes best what Archie was like when he came.
He went through the motions of ordinary greetings, but he was, quite simply, not Archie. I did not know what was the matter with him. Punkie noticed, and said, a€?Archie seems very queera€“is he ill, or something?a€I said perhaps he might be. Archie, however, said he was quite all right. But he spoke little to us, and went off by himself. I asked him about our tickets for Alassio and he said, a€?Oh yes, wella€“well, thata€?s all settled. Ia€?ll tell you about it later.a€?
Still he was a stranger. I racked my brains to think what could have happened. I had a momentary fear that something had gone wrong in the firm. It wasna€?t possible that Archie could have embezzled any moneyNo, I couldna€?t believe that. But had he, perhaps, embarked on some transaction for which he had not had proper authorityCould he be in a hole financiallySomething he didna€?t mean to tell me aboutI had to ask him in the end.
What is the matter, Archie?a€?
a€?Oh, nothing particular.a€?
a€?But there must be something.a€?
a€?Well, I suppose Ia€?d better tell you one thing. Wea€“Ia€“havena€?t got any tickets for Alassio. I dona€?t feel like going abroad.a€?
a€?Wea€?re not going abroad?a€?
a€?No. I tell you I dona€?t feel like it.a€?
a€?Oh, you want to stay here, do you, and play with RosalindIs that itWell, I think that would be just as nice.a€?
a€?You dona€?t understand,a€he said irritably. It was, I think, another twenty-four hours before he told me, straight out.
a€?Ia€?m desperately sorry,a€he said, a€?that this thing has happened. You know that dark girl who used to be Belchera€?s secretaryWe had her down for a weekend once, a year ago with Belcher, and wea€?ve seen her in London once or twice.a€I couldna€?t remember her name, but I knew who he meant. a€?Yes?a€I said.
a€?Well, Ia€?ve been seeing her again since Ia€?ve been alone in London. Wea€?ve been out together a good deala€|a€?
a€?Well,a€I said, a€?why shouldna€?t you?a€?
a€?Oh, you still dona€?t understand,a€he said impatiently. a€?Ia€?ve fallen in love with her, and Ia€?d like you to give me a divorce as soon as it can be arranged.a€I suppose, with those words, that part of my lifea€“my happy, successful confident lifea€“ended. It was not as quick as that, of coursea€“because I couldna€?t believe it. I thought it was something that would pass. There had never been any suspicion of anything of that kind in our lives. We had been happy together, and harmonious. He had never been the type who looked much at other women. It was triggered off, perhapsa€“by the fact that he had missed his usual cheerful companion in the last few months. He said: a€?I did tell you once, long ago, that I hate it when people are ill or unhappya€“it spoils everything for me.a€Yes, I thought, I should have known that. If Ia€?d been cleverer, if I had known more about my husbanda€“had troubled to know more about him, instead of being content to idealise him and consider him more or less perfecta€“then perhaps I might have avoided all this. If I had been given a second chance, could I have avoided what had happenedIf I had not gone to Ashfield and left him in London he would probably never have become interested in this girl. Not with this particular girl. But it might have happened with someone else, because I must in some way have been inadequate to fill Archiea€?s life. He must have been ripe for falling in love with someone else, though he perhaps didna€?t even know it himself. Or was it just this particular girlWas it just fate with him, falling in love with her quite suddenlyHe had certainly not been in love with her on the few occasions we had met her previously. He had even objected to my asking her down to stay, he said it would spoil his golf. Yet when he did fall in love with her, he fell with the suddenness with which he had fallen in love with me. So perhaps it was bound to be. Friends and relations are of little use at a time like this. Their point of view was, a€?But ita€?s absurd. Youa€?ve always been so happy together. Hea€?ll get over it. Lots of husbands this happens with. They get over it.a€I thought so too. I thought he would get over it. But he didna€?t. He left Sunningdale. Carlo had come back to me by thena€“the English specialists had declared that her father did not have cancer after alla€“and it was a terrific comfort to have her there. But she was clearer sighted than I was. She said Archie wouldna€?t get over it. When he finally packed up and went I had a feeling almost of reliefa€“he had made up his mind. However, he came back after a fortnight. Perhaps, he said, he had been wrong. Perhaps it was the wrong thing to do. I said I was sure it was as far as Rosalind was concerned. After all, he was devoted to her, wasna€?t heYes, he admitted, he really did love Rosalind.
a€?And she is fond of you. She loves you better than she loves me. Oh, she wants me if shea€?s ill, but you are the parent that she really loves and depends upon; you have the same sense of humour and are better companions than she and I are. You must try to get over it. I do know these things happen.a€But his coming back was, I think, a mistake, because it brought home to him how keen his feeling was. Again and again he would say to me:
a€?I cana€?t stand not having what I want, and I cana€?t stand not being happy. Everybody cana€?t be happya€“somebody has got to be unhappy.a€I managed to forbear saying, a€?But why should it be me and not you?a€Those things dona€?t help. What I could not understand was his continued unkindness to me during that period. He would hardly speak to me or answer when he was spoken to. I understand it much better now, because I have seen other husbands and wives and learned more about life. He was unhappy because he was, I think, deep down fond of me, and he did really hate to hurt mea€“so he had to assure himself that this was not hurting me, that it would be much better for me in the end, that I should have a happy life, that I should travel, that I had my writing, after all, to console me. Because his conscience troubled him he could not help behaving with a certain ruthlessness. My mother had always said he was ruthless. I had always seen so clearly his many acts of kindness, his good nature, his helpfulness when Monty came home from Kenya, the trouble he would take for people. But he was ruthless now, because he was fighting for his happiness. I had admired his ruthlessness before. Now I saw the other side of it. So, after illness, came sorrow, despair and heartbreak. There is no need to dwell on it. I stood out for a year, hoping he would change. But he did not. So ended my first married life.