Wide Sargasso Sea - Jean Rhys [54]
‘I certainly will not,’ I said angrily. (God! A half-savage boy as well as … as well as …)
‘He knows English,’ she said, still indifferently. ‘He has tried very hard to learn English.’
‘He hasn’t learned any English that I can understand,’ I said. And looking at her stiff white face my fury grew. ‘What right have you to make promises in my name? Or to speak for me at all?’
‘No, I had no right, I am sorry. I don’t understand you. I know nothing about you, and I cannot speak for you….’
And that was all. I said good-bye to Baptiste. He bowed stiffly, unwillingly and muttered – wishes for a pleasant journey, I suppose. He hoped, I am sure, that he’d never set eyes on me again.
She had mounted and he went over to her. When she stretched her hand out he took it and still holding it spoke to her very earnestly. I did not hear what he said but I thought she would cry then. No, the doll’s smile came back – nailed to her face. Even if she has wept like Magdalene it would have made no difference. I was exhausted. All the mad conflicting emotions had gone and left me wearied and empty. Sane.
I was tired of these people. I disliked their laughter and their tears, their flattery and envy, conceit and deceit. And I hate the place.
I hated the mountains and the hills, the rivers and the rain. I hated the sunsets of whatever colour, I hated its beauty and its magic and the secret I would never know. I hated its indifference and the cruelty which was part of its loveliness. Above all I hated her. For she belonged to the magic and the loveliness. She had left me thirsty and all my life would be thirst and longing for what I had lost before I found it.
So we rode away and left it – the hidden place. Not for me and not for her. I’d look after that. She’s far along the road now.
Very soon she’ll join all the others who know the secret and will not tell it. Or cannot. Or try and fail because they do not know enough. They can be recognized. White faces, dazed eyes, aimless gestures, high-pitched laughter. The way they walk and talk and scream or try to kill (themselves or you) if you laugh back at them. Yes, they’ve got to be watched. For the time comes when they try to kill, then disappear. But others are waiting to take their places, it’s a long, long line. She’s one of them. I too can wait – for the day when she is only memory to be avoided, locked away, and like all memories a legend. Or a lie….
I remember that as we turned the corner, I thought about Baptiste and wondered if he had another name – I’d never asked. And then that I’d sell the place for what it would fetch. I had meant to give it back to her. Now – what’s the use?
That stupid boy followed us, the basket balanced on his head. He used the back of his hand to wipe away his tears. Who would have thought that any boy would cry like that. For nothing. Nothing….
Part three
‘They knew that he was in Jamaica when his father and his brother died,’ Grace Poole said. ‘He inherited everything, but he was a wealthy man before that. Some people are fortunate, they said, and there were hints about the woman he brought back to England with him. Next day Mrs Eff wanted to see me and she complained about gossip. I don’t allow gossip. I told you that when you came. Servants will talk and you can’t stop them, I said. I am not certain that the situation will suit me, madam. First when I answered your advertisement you said that the person I had to look after was not a young girl. I asked if she was an old woman and you said no. Now that I see her I don’t know what to think. If she dies on my hands who will get the blame? Wait Grace, she said. She was holding a letter. Before you decide will you listen to what the master of the house has to say about this matter. “If Mrs Poole is satisfactory why not give her double, treble money,” she read, and folded the letter away but not before I had seen the words on the next page, “but for God’s sake let me hear no more of it.” There was