Any Human Heart (19 page)

Final preparations over. Mother and I are staying in an hotel at Swaffham. We were offered any number of houses, but I couldn’t bear to be a guest of some stranger at this particular time. Cold and windy day, the autumn leaves whipped from the trees. Coming back from a walk this afternoon I saw a vast flock of starlings — like a huge shoal of fish — darting this way and that, the collective mass shifting and changing all the while, as if there were some single intelligence governing the individual bird-minds.

And I’m assailed by terrible doubts. Lottie is a sweet and lovable girl but again and again I find myself wondering about Land: I want to know more than anything what she must be feeling now. I didn’t invite any of the Fothergills, deliberately, but I did invite Geddes Brown — equally deliberately (he couldn’t come, but sent rather a nice drawing as a wedding present). I believe — I must believe — that I’m not marrying Lottie simply to wound Land. I’m marrying Lottie because I am ready for marriage and I love her and Land wouldn’t have me. It was hardly on the rebound, in any event. Last summer when Lottie and I met again I was completely over Land’s rejection.

Monte Carlo. Hotel Bristol et Majestic. Lottie is having a nap in our room and I am sitting in the foyer scribbling these lines. The honeymoon is well and successfully underway. She is so sweet and lovely, my new wife. We spent our first night at Claridge’s (Lottie was a virgin — she said she was sore — Land never said this. I must stop thinking and writing about Land). The next day we caught the boat train to Paris and came on overnight on a sleeper to this curious little principality.

The wedding was — all right, I suppose. I made Angus my best man so as not to have to choose between Ben, Peter and Dick (who were all ushers). The strangest thing was seeing Tess again, now so smart and prosperous-looking in her wide hat and fur coat. When we spoke she looked me straight in the eye and every conversation seemed to have its secret subtext. I know she has told Peter nothing, just as I know she is still attracted to me. I must say the locals are a dire bunch. Some of Lottie’s friends from London seem more interesting but I dread the thought that when we move this will become our social circle. I’ve just ordered a brandy and soda. I shouldn’t drink this early in the afternoon but, what the hell, I am on my honeymoon.

Movements. Monte Carlo — La Spezia (to see Shelley’s last house at Lerici) — Pisa — Sienna — Rome. Rome — Paris (on an aeroplane — this is the way to travel). Paris — London. London — Thorpe Geldingham.

Thorpe Hall, Thorpe Geldingham, Norfolk. Our home is halfway between Swaffham and Norwich. ‘Hall’ sounds a little grand for what is in fact a perfectly agreeable two-storey, redbrick farmhouse, Georgian, but with bay windows and a porch added in the last century to make it seem more substantial and justify the epithet ‘Hall’. This is our wedding present from Aelthred and Enid. The garden is about two acres and has a stream at its bottom that runs into a large pond — today quite frozen over. We are in dead of winter and one’s mood is correspondingly moribund.

Lottie and her mother spend all day buying furniture and meeting decorators while I sit in my study and pretend to work. I had to let Glebe Place go — there was no justifying the expense of keeping up a London house, empty — and all my books and paintings, my rugs and throws, are assembled in this small room with its view of the frozen grey garden. I realize I own very few possessions. Everything we have here in Thorpe, or almost everything, has been provided by my parents-in-law: the house, its furnishings, the motor car in the barn. Lottie is adorable, so excited to be creating this home for the two of us. She’s started calling me Logie — which I can just about bear in the privacy of the marital bed — but I heard Enid say this morning, ‘Perhaps Logie’s dressing room should be panelled?’ I couldn’t stand being Logie Mountstuart to the whole of Norfolk.

I walk around ‘my’ garden. We have a gardener, a cook and a housemaid. I go into my study and spread out my books and dictionaries for
The Cosmopolitans.
I’m planning to translate a sizeable selection of their poetry. After an hour’s work I see I’ve managed to translate two lines — which read and scan very badly. So I go into the drawing room and pour myself a whisky and soda and smoke a cigarette. I can hear the cook and the maid talking in the kitchen. It is 3.30 in the afternoon and already the winter night is gathering outside. Perhaps I’ll go to London next week — see Mother, go to the London Library, lunch with Peter if he’s free. The vicar is having supper with us tonight, for some reason.

To Edgefield for the weekend. This is the third weekend we have spent with my in-laws since the year began. I remonstrated gently with Lottie about why we have to stay so often with them when her mother practically lives in our house. Lottie put on her ‘hurt’ face and said that Edgefield is her home — just because I never had a proper home I don’t understand. I shut up.

Thorpe Geldingham. Well named. I am the gelded writer: the capon, the bullock, the castrato. I simply can’t work here. I rise late, I do
The Times
crossword, I have a gin and tonic at eleven, and a bottle of wine at lunch. Then I go to my study and doze over my books. I have a whisky and soda and a stroll in the afternoon, a bath, change, mix a cocktail, dine, drink more wine, finish with a brandy and a cigar. Lottie appears to be in seventh heaven. I am twenty-seven years old and my life seems to have been ambushed somehow. Out there in the world my two books are selling, my name appears above articles in newspapers and magazines, but here I stew in this rural purgatory. I see my parents-in-law far too often. Angus comes down from London and stays from time to time, but I daren’t invite any of my other friends. We give dinner parties, we are invited to dinner parties where I try to drink as much as possible. I go up to London once a fortnight to see Wallace, Roderick, my mother and those of my friends that are free for lunch. I’m no longer invited to London parties — it’s as if my marriage and my move to Norfolk have erased my name from every guest list in the city.

Que je m’ennuie
Dans ce cabaret du Néant
Qu’est notre vie
[Léon-Paul Fargue]

Lottie has just returned from a visit to the doctor in Norwich and has informed me that she is pregnant. The child is due in early December — a March conception, then. What were you doing in March, Logan? No idea. How do you feel? Be honest. I feel numb, shocked, panicky, angry. Do you feel happy, knowing you’re to be a father? I blame myself — I used no protection, yet I have a drawerful of condoms in my bathroom. I must be calm. There has never been a conversation between us about starting a family.

Lottie was thrilled, but when she saw the look on my face she began to wail. I reassured her, said it was a shock but in fact I couldn’t be happier. She stopped wailing and telephoned her mother. She returned to say that Aelthred and Enid insisted on us driving over to Edgefield for a celebratory dinner this evening. I quizzed Lottie gently about her prophylactic. Sometimes she forgot to put it in, she confessed — but it doesn’t matter, does it, darling? It must be fate. Fatal fate.

Lottie is unwell. She is delicate. The health of the baby is paramount. The first summer in years with no travel abroad. I writhe in agonies of wanderlust. London is empty, everyone away. Strange dreams of Spain dominate my mind.

Alicante. Cartagena. The road from Seville to Granada.

Cante Andaluz
ringing in my inner ear. Oily taste of salt cod and tortilla. That hawk-nosed girl in the brothel at Almería who opened her dressing gown as I passed her doorway to let me see her naked body.

New gramophone. A present for myself. Liszt, Chopin all day. Brahms so beautiful it makes me suicidal. Debussy: terrible
envie de Paris.

What was the name of that hotel in Juan-les-Pins? Hotel du Midi? Central-Moderne? Beau Séjour?

All writers should be poor in their youth. The urge to earn produces enormous stamina and resources of energy.

I’m not writing but, thank God, have suddenly discovered the joys of reading.

Authors of the moment: Sterne, Gerhardi, Chekhov, Turgenev, Mansfield.

Moved on to Monteverdi, day and night. Lottie, irritable and tetchy, hates the sound of music in the morning. ‘Why is that, my darling?’ ‘It’s not normal to listen to music before lunch.’ Define normal.

It is easier to read in the country than in the city. Discuss.

Chekhov: ‘I am neither liberal, conservative, gradualist, monk, nor indifferentist. I would like to be a free artist and nothing else.’

Logan Mountstuart, his moods:

(a) normal — outwardly calm, inwardly stoical

(b) abnormal — drink-induced sentimentality. Everything in life is sweet and lovely

(c) dangerous — outwardly taciturn, inwardly rampant self-loathing

I remember Evelyn [Waugh] saying that Oxford was the worst preparation for adult life. He said he was far more mature at the end of his school career than at the end of his university career. Doesn’t apply to me. EW, like Peter, loved Oxford; I couldn’t wait to leave the place.

Gracias a la vida que me ha dado tanto.
[Thanks to life which has given me so much.]

I am forcing myself to read a page of
To the Lighthouse
each day and am finding it incredibly hard going. It seems such a silly book: compared to Katherine Mansfield, Virginia Woolf is so ‘girly’ in her writing. Silly. Girly. My God, what an impressive critical vocabulary, Mountstuart. I’d better start writing criticism again if this is the best I can do. Must be losing my grip.

First chill in the evening. Urge to have the fire lit in my study. The endless summer is over. This afternoon a late ray of sun hit the vast cloud of midges over the garden pool. The air full of shifting golden dust.

Our son is born, here at home in Thorpe, just before midday. I was in the drawing room, fearful and apprehensive, when the midwife came in all smiles and took me up to Lottie. Lottie exhausted but happy. I feel that I have a brick wedged somewhere behind my ribcage making it very hard to breathe. A sense of my life being entirely out of my control — which is not the same as out of control. We are going to call him Lionel Aelthred Mountstuart.

Analysis of the year. I can hardly be bothered to write this. No travel. Norfolk — London — Norfolk. Growing hatred of England and its countryside, hatred of railway travel, hatred of church spires glimpsed through windows of railway carriages. Hatred of ploughed fields. Hatred of grass. Hatred of the upholstery in railway carriages. Hatred of (please fill in blank space).

I have a fine house, three servants (four if you count the nurse), a pretty, rich wife, and a new son.

Ambitions: to see Venice, Greece. To finish
The Cosmopolitans.

Work: two bad chapters of
The Cosmopolitans.
Five articles, two book reviews. Pathetic. Yet my royalty cheques tell me I am a successful writer.
TMI
and
TGF
still flourish and thereby create an illusion of industry and success. How long can it last?

Friends made: none.

Friends lost: none.

Friends renewed: Peter, (Tess?).

Friends in limbo: Angus (he is fundamentally shallow —
un nul
).

Terrible, awful moment at the font yesterday during the christening when I suddenly realized that no son of mine should ever be called Lionel, let alone Lionel Aelthred, but it was too late. What a legacy, Lionel Mountstuart. I shall have to think up a nickname for him: Budge, Midge, Bobo — anything. Peter was a godfather with Angus; Brenna Aberdeen and Ianthe Forge-Dawson godmothers. Brenna is actually good fun (in small doses). I can’t abide Ianthe — Lottie’s best friend.

Peter stayed the night. We sat up late with the port decanter and talked. Tess couldn’t come as she’s expecting child number two to arrive at any moment. Something in Peter’s tone of voice — he’s in London Monday to Friday, now — made me suspect that the marriage is in difficulties. He told me he was writing a detective novel in his spare time — following my example.

Stood for a good ten minutes at the foot of Lionel’s crib watching him sleeping. I tried to analyse my feelings as honestly as possible but could find nothing in me other than banalities: how all babies look similar in their first three months of life; that it is amazing they have such tiny toenails and fingernails; and what a shame it is that speech arrives so late. Perversely, now is the time I would most like to talk to him. Imagine if by some miracle a baby could speak in its first weeks of life — how we would see the world afresh, anew.

At supper Lottie speculated on where we might go this summer and said that we would require a house big enough to accommodate a baby’s room and a nurse’s — and we’d need at least two spare bedrooms in case ‘Mummy and Daddy’ visited or the Forge-Dawsons came to stay. Cornwall might be fun, mightn’t it, Logie?

Here is my problem, this is why my work stagnates. I spent all afternoon trying to translate five lines of Henry Levet’s
Afrique occidentale: