The Death of the Heart - Elizabeth Bowen [51]
He looked down at Portia's hand and said: "What a fat diary!"
Lifting her hand, she uncovered the black-backed book. "It's more than half full," she said, "already."
"When that's done, you're going to start another?"
"Oh yes, I think so: things are always happening."
"But suppose you stopped minding whether they did?"
"There would always be lunch and lessons and dinner. There have been days that were simply that already, but in that case I always leave a blank page."
"Do you think they were worth a whole blank page?"
"Oh yes, because they were days, after all."
Eddie picked the diary up and weighed it between his hands. "And this is your thoughts, too?" he said.
"Some. But you make me wonder if I might stop thinking."
"No, I like you to think. If you stopped, I should feel as though my watch had stopped in the night.... Which of your thoughts are these?"
"My more particular ones."
"Darling, I love you to want me to take it home.... But supposing I went and left it in a bus?"
"It's got my name and address, inside: it would probably come back. But perhaps, though, you could put it in your pocket?" They squeezed the note-book into his overcoat pocket. "As a matter of fact," she said, "now there is you, I may not want my diary so much."
"But we shan't often meet."
"I could keep what I think for you."
"No, write it down, then show me. I like thoughts when they were thought."
"But, in a way, that would not be quite the same thing. I mean, it would alter my diary. Up to now, it's been written just for itself. If I'm to keep on writing the same way, I shall have to imagine you do not exist."
"I don't make you different."
"You make me not alone. Being that was part of my diary. When I first came to London, I was the only person in the world."
"Look—what will you write in while I've got this book? Shall we go to Smith's and buy you another?"
"Smith's near here is shut on Saturday afternoon. I don't think, anyhow, I shall write about today."
"No, don't; you're perfectly right. I don't want you to write about you and me. In fact you must never write about me at all. Will you promise me you will never do that?"
"Why not?"
"I just don't like the idea. No, just write about what happens. Write about lessons, and those sickening talks I'm certain you have with Lilian, and what there is for meals, and what the rest of them say. But swear you won't write down what you feel."
"You don't know yet if I do."
"I hate writing; I hate art—there's always something else there. I won't have you choosing words about me. If you ever start that, your diary will become a horrible trap, and I shan't feel safe with you any more. I like you to think, in a sort of way; I like to think of you going, like a watch. But between you and me there must never be any thoughts. And I detest after-thoughts. In fact, I'm just as glad to be taking this book right away from you, even for a few days. Now, I suppose, you don't understand what I'm saying?"
"No, but it doesn't really matter."
"The chap you ought to talk to is Major Brutt.... Oh, heavens!"
"Why?"
"It's six. I ought to be somewhere else. I must go—Here, angel, take your gloves.... Now, what's the matter?"
"You won't forget it's in your overcoat pocket?"
IX
THE DIARY
Monday.
This diary has come back from Eddie by post. He did not write any letter as he did not have time. The parcel had the office label outside. I shall have to write hard now, as I will have missed nine days.
The white rug from by my bed has gone away to be cleaned where I upset the varnish for my bears. Matchett has put a red one that pricks my feet.
Today we did Umbrian Art History, Book Keeping and German Composition.
Tuesday.
Eddie has not said about this diary yet. Lilian was bilious in lessons and had to go