VI

 

                                                     Ten thirsty fingers of my blind Muse

                                                     Confer upon my face their sensual spelling

 

The lines ran through my head as I pressed the bell of the summer residence the following evening.  In my hand I held the green leather suitcase with contained the private letters of Pursewarden - the brilliant sustained fusillade of words which still exploded in my memory like a fireworks display, scorching me.  I had telephoned to Liza from my office in the morning to make the rendezvous.  She opened the door and stood before me with a pale graven expression of expectancy.  'Good,' she whispered as I murmured my name, and 'Come.'  She turned and walked before me with a stiff upright expressive gait which reminded me of a child dressed up as Queen Elizabeth for a charade.  She looked tired and strained, and yet in a curious way proud.  The living-room was empty.  Mountolive, I knew, had returned to Cairo that morning.  Rather surprisingly, for it was late in the year, a log-fire burned in the chimney-piece.  She took up her stand before it, arching her back to the warmth, and rubbing her hands as if she were chilled.

      'You have been quick, very quick,' she said, almost sharply, almost with a hint of implied reproach in her tone.  'But I am glad.'  I had already told her by telephone the gist of my conversation with Keats about the non-existent book.  'I am glad, because now we can decide something, finally.  I couldn't sleep last night.  I kept imagining you reading them, the letters.  I kept imagining him writing them.'

      'They are marvellous.  I have never read anything like them in my whole life.'  I felt a note of chagrin in my tones.

      'Yes,' she said, and fetched a deep sigh.  'And yet I was afraid you would think so; afraid because you would share David's opinion of them and advise me that they should be preserved at all costs.  Yet he expressly told me to burn them.'

      'I know.'

      'Sit down, Darley.  Tell me what you really think.'

      I sat down, placing the little suitcase on the floor beside me, and said: 'Liza, this is not a literary problem unless you choose to regard it as one.  You need take nobody's advice.  Naturally nobody who has read them could help but regret the loss.'

      'But Darley, if they had been yours, written to someone like you ... loved?'

      'I should feel relief to know that my instructions had been carried out.  At least I presume that is what he would feel, wherever he might be now.'

      She turned her lucid blind face to the mirror and appeared to explore her own reflection in it earnestly, resting the tips of her frilly fingers on the mantelpiece.  'I am as superstitious as he was,' she said at last.  'But it is more than that.  I was always obedient because I knew that he saw further than I and understood more than I did.'

 

                                             This caged reflection gives her nothing back

                                             That women drink like thirsty stages from mirrors

 

      How very much of Pursewarden's poetry became crystal-clear and precise in the light of all this new knowledge!  How it gathered consequence and poignance from the figure of Liza exploring her own blindness in the great mirror, her dark hair thrown back on her shoulders!

      At last she turned back again, sighing once more, and I saw a look of tender pleading on her face, made the more haunting and expressive by the empty sockets of her eyes.  She took a step forward and said: 'Well, then, it is decided.  Only tell me you will help me burn them.  They are very many.  It will take a little time.'

      'If you wish.'

      'Let us sit down beside the fire together.'

      So we sat facing each other on the carpet and I placed the suitcase between us, pressing the lock so that the cover released itself and sprang up with a snap.

      'Yes,' she said.  'This is how it must be.  I should have known all along that I must obey him.'  Slowly, one by one, I took up the pierced envelopes, unfolded each letter in turn and handed it to her to place upon the burning logs.

      'We used to sit like this as children with our playbox between us, before the fire, in the winter.  So often, and always together.  You would have to go back very far into the past to understand it all.  And even then I wonder if you would understand.  Two small children left alone in an old rambling farmhouse among the frozen lakes, among the mists and rains of Ireland.  We had no resources except in each other.  He converted my blindness into poetry, I saw with his brain, he with my eyes.  So we invented a whole imperishable world of poetry together - better by far than the best of his books, and I have read them all with my fingers, they are all at the institute.  Yes I read and re-read them looking for a clue to the guilt which had transformed everything.  Nothing had affected us before, everything conspired to isolate us, keep us together.  The death of our parents happened when we were almost too small to comprehend it.  We lived in this remarkable old farmhouse in the care of an eccentric and deaf old aunt who did the work, saw that we were fed, and left us to our own devices.  There was only one book there, a Plutarch, which we knew by heart.  Everything else he invented.  This was how I became the strange mythological queen of his life, living in a vast palace of sighs - as he used to say.  Sometimes it was Egypt, something Peru, sometimes Byzantium.  I suppose I must have known that really it was an old farmhouse kitchen, with shabby deal furniture and floors of red tile.  At least when the floors had been washed with carbolic soap with its peculiar smell I knew, with half my mind, that it was a farmhouse floor, and not a palace with magnificent tessellated floors brilliant with snakes and eagles and pygmies.  Butt at a word he brought me back to reality, as he called it.  Later, when he started looking for justifications for our love instead of just simply being proud of it, he read me a quotation from a book.  "In the African burial rites it is the sister who brings the dead king back to life.  In Egypt as well as Peru the king, who was considered God, took his sister to wife.  But the motive was ritual and not sexual, for they symbolized the moon and the sun in their conjunction.  The king marries his sister because he, as God the star, wandering on earth, is immortal and may therefore not propagate himself in the children of a strange woman, any more than he is allowed to die a natural death."  That is why he was pleased to come here to Egypt, because he felt, he said, an interior poetic link with Osiris and Isis, with Ptolemy and Arisinoë - the race of the sun and the moon!'

      Quietly and methodically she placed letter after letter on the burning pyre, talking in a sad monotone, as much to herself as to me.

      'No, it would not be possible to make it all comprehensible to those who were not of our race.  But when the guilt entered the old poetic life began to lose its magic - not for me: but for him.  It was he who made me dye my hair black, so that I could pretend to be a stepsister of his, not a sister.  It hurt me deeply to realize suddenly that he was guilty all of a sudden; but as we grew up the world intruded more and more upon us, new lives began to impinge on our solitary world of palaces and kingdoms.  He was forced to go away for long periods.  When he was absent I had nothing whatsoever except the darkness and what my memory of him could fill in with; somehow the treasures of his invention went all lustreless until he came back, his voice, his touch.  All we knew of our parents, the sum of our knowledge, was an old oak cupboard full of their clothes.  They seemed enormous to us when we were small - the clothes of giants, the shoes of giants.  One day he said they oppressed him, these clothes.  We did not need parents.  And we took them out into the yard and made a bonfire of them in the snow.  We both wept bitterly, I do not know why.  We danced round the bonfire singing an old hunting song with savage triumph and yet weeping.'

      She was silent for a long moment, her head hanging in profound concentration over this ancient image, like a soothsayer gazing fixedly into the dark crystal of youth.  Then she sighed and raised her head, saying: 'I know why you hesitate.  It is the last letter, isn't it?  You see I counted them.  Give it to me, Darley.'

      I handed it to her without a word and she softly placed it in the fire, saying: 'It is over at last.'

 

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