Unfinished Portrait

The features came to me—not suddenly—but little by little—exactly, as I have said, like a photographic plate developing.

I can’t explain what happened next. The surface development, you see, was over. I’d arrived at the point where the image begins to darken.

But, you see, this wasn’t a photographic plate, but a human being. And so the development went on. From the surface, it went behind—or within, whichever way you like to put it. At least, that’s as near as I can get to it in the way of explanation.

I’d known the truth, I suppose, all along, from the very moment I’d first seen her. The development was taking place in me. The picture was coming from my subconscious into my conscious mind …

I knew—but I didn’t know what it was I knew until suddenly it came! Bang up out of the black whiteness! A speck—and then an image.

I turned and fairly ran up that dusty road. I was in pretty good condition, but it seemed to me that I wasn’t going nearly fast enough. Through the Villa gates and past the cypresses and along the grass path.

The woman was sitting exactly where I had left her.

I was out of breath. Gasping, I flung myself down on the seat beside her.

‘Look here,’ I said. ‘I don’t know who you are or anything about you. But you mustn’t do it. Do you hear? You mustn’t do it.’

CHAPTER 2 (#u64e98943-65fd-5352-ba5e-7045f7b3aff9)

Call to Action (#u64e98943-65fd-5352-ba5e-7045f7b3aff9)

I suppose the queerest thing (but only on thinking it over afterwards) was the way she didn’t try to put up any conventional defence. She might have said: ‘What on earth do you mean?’ or ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Or she might have just looked it. Frozen me with a glance.

But of course the truth of it was that she had gone past that. She was down to fundamentals. At that moment, nothing that anyone said or did could possibly have been surprising to her.

She was quite calm and reasonable about it—and that was just what was so frightening. You can deal with a mood—a mood is bound to pass, and the more violent it is, the more complete the reaction to it will be. But a calm and reasonable determination is very different, because it’s been arrived at slowly and isn’t likely to be laid aside.

She looked at me thoughtfully, but she didn’t say anything.

‘At any rate,’ I said, ‘you’ll tell me why?’

She bent her head, as though allowing the justice of that.

‘It’s simply,’ she said, ‘that it really does seem best.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ I said. ‘Completely and utterly wrong.’

Violent words didn’t ruffle her. She was too calm and far away for that.

‘I’ve thought about it a good deal,’ she said. ‘And it really is best. It’s simple and easy and—quick. And it won’t be—inconvenient to anybody.’

I realized by that last phrase that she had been what is called ‘well brought up’. ‘Consideration for others’ had been impressed upon her as a desirable thing.

‘And what about—afterwards?’ I asked.

‘One has to risk that.’

‘Do you believe in an afterwards?’ I asked curiously.

‘I’m afraid,’ she said slowly, ‘I do. Just nothing—would be almost too good to be true. Just going to sleep—peacefully—and just—not waking up. That would be so lovely.’

Her eyes half closed dreamily.

‘What colour was your nursery wallpaper?’ I asked suddenly.

‘Mauve irises—twisting round a pillar—’ She started. ‘How did you know I was thinking about them just then?’

‘I just thought you were. That’s all,’ I went on. ‘What was your idea of Heaven as a child?’

‘Green pastures—a green valley—with sheep and the shepherd. The hymn, you know.’

‘Who read it to you—your mother or your nurse?’

‘My nurse …’ She smiled a little. ‘The Good Shepherd. Do you know, I don’t think I’d ever seen a shepherd. But there were two lambs in a field quite near us.’ She paused and then added: ‘It’s built over now.’

And I thought: ‘Odd. If that field weren’t built over, well, perhaps she wouldn’t be here now.’ And I said: ‘You were happy as a child?’

‘Oh, yes!’ There was no doubting the eager certainty of her assent. She went on: ‘Too happy.’

‘Is that possible?’

‘I think so. You see, you’re not prepared—for the things that happen. You never conceive that—they might happen.’

‘You’ve had a tragic experience,’ I suggested.

But she shook her head.

‘No—I don’t think so—not really. What happened to me isn’t out of the ordinary. It’s the stupid, commonplace thing that happens to lots of women. I wasn’t particularly unfortunate. I was—stupid. Yes, just stupid. And there isn’t really room in the world for stupid people.’

‘My dear,’ I said, ‘listen to me. I know what I’m talking about. I’ve stood where you are now—I’ve felt as you feel that life isn’t worth living. I’ve known that blinding despair that can only see one way out—and I tell you, child—that it passes. Grief doesn’t last forever. Nothing lasts. There is only one true consoler and healer—time. Give time its chance.’

I had spoken earnestly, but I saw at once that I had made a mistake.

‘You don’t understand,’ she said. ‘I know what you mean. I have felt that. In fact, I had one try—that didn’t come off. And afterwards I was glad that it hadn’t. This is different.’

‘Tell me,’ I said.

‘This has come quite slowly. You see—it’s rather hard to put it clearly. I’m thirty-nine—and I’m very strong and healthy. It’s quite on the cards that I shall live to at least seventy—perhaps longer. And I simply can’t face it, that’s all. Another thirty-five long empty years.’

‘But they won’t be empty, my dear. That’s where you’re wrong. Something will bloom again to fill them.’

She looked at me.

‘That is what I’m most afraid of,’ she said below her breath. ‘It’s the thought of that that I simply can’t face.’

‘In fact, you’re a coward,’ I said.

‘Yes.’ She acquiesced at once. ‘I’ve always been a coward. I’ve thought it funny sometimes that other people haven’t seen it as clearly as I have. Yes, I’m afraid—afraid—afraid.’