The Death of the Heart - Elizabeth Bowen [47]
"What would happen if I did make you feel I didn't?"
Eddie said: "I should stay unreal for ever." He rolled her gloves up into a tight ball, and squeezed them in the palm of one hand. Then he looked in horror past the brim of her hat. She turned her head to see what he saw, and they both saw themselves in a mirror.
"I feel I shall always understand what you feel. Does it matter if I don't sometimes understand what you say?"
"Not in the least, darling," said Eddie briskly. "You see, there is really nothing intellectual between us. In fact, I don't know why I talk to you at all. In many ways I should so much rather not."
"But we have to do something."
"I feel it is waste of you. You puzzle so much, with your dear little goofy face. Is it simply you've never met anybody like me?"
"But you said there wasn't anybody like you."
"But there are lots of people who imitate what I really am. I suppose you haven't met any of them, either—Look, darling, do pour out: the tea's getting cold."
"I hope I shall do it well," said Portia, grasping the metal teapot handle in her handkerchief.
"Oh Portia, has no one really taken you out to tea before?"
"Not by myself."
"Nor to any other meal? You do make me feel happy!" He watched her slowly filling his cup with a gingerly, wobbling stream of tea. "For one thing, I feel I can stay still. You're the only person I know I need do nothing about. All the other people I know make me feel I have got to sing for my supper. And I feel that you and I are the same: we are both rather wicked or rather innocent. You looked pleased when I said Anna was depraved."
"Oh, you didn't; you said she was a cynic."
"When I think of the money I've wasted sending Anna flowers!"
"Were they very expensive?"
"Well, they were for me. It just shows what a fool I've learnt to be. I haven't been out of debt now for three years, and I've got not a soul to back me—No, it's all right, darling, I can pay for this tea—To lose my head is a thing I literally can't afford. You must hear of the way I keep on living on people? But what it has come to is: I've been bought up. They all think I want what they've got and I haven't, so they think if they get me that is a fair deal."
"I suppose it is, in a way."
"Oh, you don't understand, darling—Would you think I was vain if I said I was good-looking?"
"No. I think you are very good-looking, too."
"Well, I am, you see, and I've got all this charm, and 1 can excite people. They don't really notice my brain—they are always insulting me. Everyone hates my brain, because I don't sell that. That's the underground reason why everyone hates me. I sometimes hate it myself. I wouldn't be with these pigs if I hadn't first been so clever. Last time I went home, do you know, Portia, my younger brother laughed at my soft hands."
Portia had not for some time looked straight at Eddie, for fear her too close attention might make him stop. She had cut her crumpet up into little pieces; she nibbled abstractedly, dipping each piece in salt. When the first crumpet was eaten she paused, wiped her fingers on the paper napkin, then took a long drink of tea. Drinking, she looked at Eddie over her cup. She put down her cup and said: "Life is always so complicated."
"It's not merely life—It's me."
"I expect it is you and people."
"I expect you are right, you sweet beautiful angel. I have only had to do with people who liked me, and no one nice ever does."
She looked at him with big eyes.
"Except you, of course—Look, if you ever stop you never will let me see you have stopped, will you?"
Portia glanced to see if Eddie's cup were empty. Then she cast her look down at her diary—keeping her eyes fixed on the black cover, she said: "You said I was beautiful."
"Did I? Turn round and let me look."
She turned an at once proud and shrinking face. But he giggled: "Darling, you've got salt stuck all over the butter