Read Online Loitering With Intent by Muriel Spark - Free Book Online
Authors: Muriel Spark
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nothing at all.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ he said.
‘You seem to accuse me,’ she said, ‘of being all right.’
‘Well, I do, in a way. Warrender’s death doesn’t seem to have affected you.’
‘It’s affected her beautifully,’ said Proudie.
(I changed ‘beautifully’ to ‘very well’ before sending the book to the publisher. I had probably been reading too much Henry James at that time, and ‘beautifully’ was much too much.)
It was at this point Dottie said, ‘I don’t know what you’re getting at. Is Warrender Chase a hero or is he not?’
‘He is,’ I said.
‘Then Marjorie is evil.’
‘How can you say that? Marjorie is fiction, she doesn’t exist.’
‘Marjorie is a personification of evil.’
‘What is a personification?’ I said. ‘Marjorie is only words.’
‘Readers like to know where they stand,’ Dottie said. ‘And in this novel they don’t. Marjorie seems to be dancing on Warrender’s grave.’
Dottie was no fool. I knew I wasn’t helping the readers to know whose side they were supposed to be on. I simply felt compelled to go on with my story without indicating what the reader should think. At the same time Dottie had given me the idea for that scene, towards the end of the book, where Marjorie dances on Warrender’s grave.
‘You know,’ Dottie said, ‘there’s something a bit harsh about you, Fleur. You’re not really womanly, are you?’
I was really annoyed by this. To show her I was a woman I tore up the pages of my novel and stuffed them into the wastepaper basket, burst out crying and threw her out, roughly and noisily, so that Mr Alexander looked over the banisters and complained. ‘Get out,’ I yelled at Dottie. ‘You and your husband between you have ruined my literary work.’
After that I went to bed. Flooded with peace, I fell asleep.
Next morning, after I had fished my torn pages of Warrender Chase out of the wastepaper basket and glued them together again, I went off to work, stopping on the way at the Kensington Public Library to get a copy of John Henry Newman’s Apologia, which I had long promised to Maisie Young. She could quite well have procured it for herself during all those weeks, disabled though she was, but she belonged to that category of society, by no means always the least educated, who are always asking how they can get hold of a book; they know very well that one buys shoes from a shoe-shop and groceries from the grocer’s, but to find and enter a bookshop is not somehow within the range of their imagination.
However, I felt kindly towards Maisie and I thought the sublime pages of Newman’s autobiography would tether her mind to the sweet world of living people, in a spiritual context though it was. Maisie needed tethering.
I found the book on the library shelves and, while I was there in that section, I lit on another book I hadn’t seen for years. It was the autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini. It was like meeting an old friend. I borrowed both books and went on my way rejoicing.
Chapter Four
I began to take Edwina out for Sunday afternoons towards the end of November. It solved the problem of what to do with her when the nurse wasn’t on duty and Mrs Tims was off to the country with Sir Quentin. It suited me quite well because in the first place I liked her and secondly she fitted in so easily with my life. If the weather was fine I would fetch her in a taxi and then set her up in her folding wheel-chair for a walk along the edges of Hampstead Heath with a friend of mine, my dear Solly Mendelssohn, and afterwards we would go to a tea-shop or tot his flat for tea. Solly was a journalist on a newspaper, always on night duty, so that I rarely saw him except in daylight hours.
There was nothing one couldn’t discuss in front of Edwina; she was delighted with all we did and said, which was just as well, because Solly in his hours of confiding relaxation liked to curse and swear about certain aspects of life,
‘That’s what I thought,’ he said.
‘You seem to accuse me,’ she said, ‘of being all right.’
‘Well, I do, in a way. Warrender’s death doesn’t seem to have affected you.’
‘It’s affected her beautifully,’ said Proudie.
(I changed ‘beautifully’ to ‘very well’ before sending the book to the publisher. I had probably been reading too much Henry James at that time, and ‘beautifully’ was much too much.)
It was at this point Dottie said, ‘I don’t know what you’re getting at. Is Warrender Chase a hero or is he not?’
‘He is,’ I said.
‘Then Marjorie is evil.’
‘How can you say that? Marjorie is fiction, she doesn’t exist.’
‘Marjorie is a personification of evil.’
‘What is a personification?’ I said. ‘Marjorie is only words.’
‘Readers like to know where they stand,’ Dottie said. ‘And in this novel they don’t. Marjorie seems to be dancing on Warrender’s grave.’
Dottie was no fool. I knew I wasn’t helping the readers to know whose side they were supposed to be on. I simply felt compelled to go on with my story without indicating what the reader should think. At the same time Dottie had given me the idea for that scene, towards the end of the book, where Marjorie dances on Warrender’s grave.
‘You know,’ Dottie said, ‘there’s something a bit harsh about you, Fleur. You’re not really womanly, are you?’
I was really annoyed by this. To show her I was a woman I tore up the pages of my novel and stuffed them into the wastepaper basket, burst out crying and threw her out, roughly and noisily, so that Mr Alexander looked over the banisters and complained. ‘Get out,’ I yelled at Dottie. ‘You and your husband between you have ruined my literary work.’
After that I went to bed. Flooded with peace, I fell asleep.
Next morning, after I had fished my torn pages of Warrender Chase out of the wastepaper basket and glued them together again, I went off to work, stopping on the way at the Kensington Public Library to get a copy of John Henry Newman’s Apologia, which I had long promised to Maisie Young. She could quite well have procured it for herself during all those weeks, disabled though she was, but she belonged to that category of society, by no means always the least educated, who are always asking how they can get hold of a book; they know very well that one buys shoes from a shoe-shop and groceries from the grocer’s, but to find and enter a bookshop is not somehow within the range of their imagination.
However, I felt kindly towards Maisie and I thought the sublime pages of Newman’s autobiography would tether her mind to the sweet world of living people, in a spiritual context though it was. Maisie needed tethering.
I found the book on the library shelves and, while I was there in that section, I lit on another book I hadn’t seen for years. It was the autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini. It was like meeting an old friend. I borrowed both books and went on my way rejoicing.
Chapter Four
I began to take Edwina out for Sunday afternoons towards the end of November. It solved the problem of what to do with her when the nurse wasn’t on duty and Mrs Tims was off to the country with Sir Quentin. It suited me quite well because in the first place I liked her and secondly she fitted in so easily with my life. If the weather was fine I would fetch her in a taxi and then set her up in her folding wheel-chair for a walk along the edges of Hampstead Heath with a friend of mine, my dear Solly Mendelssohn, and afterwards we would go to a tea-shop or tot his flat for tea. Solly was a journalist on a newspaper, always on night duty, so that I rarely saw him except in daylight hours.
There was nothing one couldn’t discuss in front of Edwina; she was delighted with all we did and said, which was just as well, because Solly in his hours of confiding relaxation liked to curse and swear about certain aspects of life,
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