pigletTo-Room-Nineteen——DORIS-LESSIN十九号房英文原文

2021年1月21日发(作者：chips)
DORIS LESSING
Lessing1
/les/,
Doris
(May)
(b.1919),
British
novelist
and
short-story
writer,
brought up in Rhodesia. An active Communist in her youth, she frequently deals
with social and political conflicts in her fiction, especially as they affect women; The
Golden
Notebook
(1962)
was
hailed
as
a
landmark
by
the
women's
movement.
Other works include The Grass is Singing (1950) about interracial relationships in
Africa, and a quintet of science-fiction novels collectively entitled Canopus in Argus:
Archives (1979-83). She won Nobel Prize for Literature in 2007.

To Room Nineteen

This is a story, I suppose, about a failure in
i
ntelligence: the Rawlings
’
marriage was grounded in
intelligence.
They

were

older when they mar
r
ied than most of their married friends: in their well-seasoned late
twenties. Both had had a number of affairs, sweet rath
e
r than bitter; and when they fell in love
—
for
they did
fall in love
—
had
known
each
other
for
some
time.
They
joked
that
they
had
saved
each other
“
for the real thing
.
”
That they had waited so long (but not too long) for this real thing
was to them a proof of their
s
ensible
discrimination
1
. A good many of their friends had married
young, and now (they

felt) probably regretted lost opportunities; while others, still unmarrie
d
, seemed to
them
arid
2
, self-doubting, and likely to make desperate or romantic marriages.
Not
only
they,
but
others,
felt
they
were
well
matched:
their

friends
’

delight
was
an
additional
proof of their happiness. They had played the same roles, male and female, in this group or set, if such a
wide, loosely connected, constantly changing constellation of people could be called a set. They had both
become,
by
virtue
of
their
moderation,
their
humour,
and
their
abstinence
3

from
painful
experience
people to whom others came for advice. They could
be,
and
were,
relied
on.
It
was
one
of
those
cases
of
a
man
and
a
woman
linking
themselves
whom
no
one
else
had
ever
thought
of
linking,
probably because of their similarities. But then everyone exclaimed:
O
f course! How right! How was
it we never thought of it before!
An
d

so
they
married
amid
general
rejoicing,
and
because
of
their
foresight
and
their
sense
for
what was probable
,
nothing was a surprise to them.
Both had well-paid jobs. Matthew was a subeditor on a large London newspaper, and Susan worked
in an

advertising firm. He was not the stuff of which editors or publicised journalists are made, but he
was much more than
“
a subeditor,
”
being one of the essential background people who in fact
steady,
inspi
r
e and make possible the people in the limelight. H
e
was content with this position. Susan
had a talent for commercial drawi
n
g. She was humorous about the advertisements she was responsible for,

1

discrimination
—
a distinction in the treatment of different categories of people or things, esp. unjustly or
prejudicially against people on grounds of race, colour, sex, social status, age, etc
.

arid
—
of a substance, eg. the skin, dry, parched, withered. Here it figuratively refers to the unmarried people are
uninteresting and dull.
3

abstinenc
e
—
the act of voluntarily refraining from any action.
2

but she did not feel strongly about them one way

or the other.
Both, before they married, had had pleasant flats, but they felt it unwise to base a marriage on either
flat, because it might seem like a submission of personality on the part of the one whose flat it was not.
They
moved
into
a
new
flat
in
South
Kensington
4

on
the
clear
understanding
that
when
their
marriage had settled down (a process they knew would not take long, and was in fact more a humorous
concession to popular wisdom than what was due to themselves) they would buy a house and start a family.
And this is what happened. They lived in their charming flat for two years, giving parties and going
to them, being a popular young married couple, and then Susan became pregnant, she gave up her job,
and they bought a house in
Richmond
5
. It was typical of this couple that they had a son first, then a
daughter, then twins, son and daughter. Everything right, appropriate, and what everyone would wish
for, if they could choose. But people did feel these two had chosen; this balanced and sensible family was
no more than what was due to them because of their infallible sense for
choosing
right.
And so they lived with their four children in their gardened house in Richmond and Were happy.
They had everything they had wanted and had planned
for.
And yet ...

Well, even this was expected, that there must be a certain flatness....

Yes, yes, of course, it was natural they sometimes felt like this. Like what?
Their life seemed to be like a snake biting its tail. Matthew
’
s job for the sake of Susan, children,
house, and garden
—
which
caravanserai
6

needed a well-paid job to maintain it. And Susan
’
s practical
intelligence for the sake of Matthew,
the
children,
the
house
and
the
garden
—
which
unit would
have collapsed in a week without her.
But there was no point about which either could say:
“
For the sake of
this
is all the rest.”


Children? But children can
’
t be a centre of life and a reason for being. They can be a thousand things
that are delightful, interesting, satisfying, but they can
’
t be a wellspring to live from. Or they shouldn
’
t be.
Susan and Matthew knew that well enough.
Matthew
’
s job? Ridiculous. It was an interesting job, but scarcely a reason for living. Matthew took
pride in doing it well; but he could hardly be expected to be proud of the newspaper: the newspaper he
read,
his
newspaper, was not the one he worked for.
Their
love
for
each
other?
Well,
that
was
nearest
it. If
this
wasn
’
t
a
centre,
what
was? Yes, it
was
around
this
point,
their
love,
that
the
whole
extraordinary
structure
revolved.
For
extraordinary
it
certainly was. Both Susan and Matthew had moments of thinking so, of looking in secret disbelief at
this thing they had created: marriage, four children, big house, garden, charwomen, friends, cars ... and
this
thing,
this entity, all of it had come into existence, been blown into being out of nowhere, because
Susan
loved
Matthew
and
Matthew
loved
Susan.
Extraordinary.
So
that
was
the
central
point,
the
wellspring.
And if one felt that it simply was not strong enough, important enough, to support it all, well whose
fault was that? Certainly neither Susan
’
s nor Matthew
’
s. It was in the nature of things. And they sensibly
blamed neither themselves nor each other.
On the contrary, they used their intelligence to preserve what they
had created from a painful and
explosive world: they looked around them, and took lessons.
All around them,
marriages collapsing, or
breaking, or rubbing along (even worse, they felt). They must not make the same mistakes, they must not.

4

South Kensington
—
part of the fashionable West End of London.
5

Richmond
—
one of the outer boroughs of Greater London.
6

caravanserai
—
an Eastern inn with a large inner court where caravans rest.

They
had avoided the
pitfall
7
so many of their friends had fallen into
—
of buying a house in the
country
for the sake of the children,
so that the husband became a weekend husband, a weekend father, and
the wife always careful not to ask what went on in the town flat which they called (in joke) a bachelor
flat. No, Matthew was a full-time husband, a full-time father, and at nights, in the big married bed in
the big married bedroom (which had an attractive view of the river), they lay beside each other talking
and he told her about his day, and what he had done, and whom he had meet; and she told him about
her day (not as interesting, but that was not her fault), for both knew of the hidden resentments and
deprivations
of
the
woman
who
has
lived
her
own
life
—
and
above
all,
has
earned
her
own
living
—
and is now dependent on a husband for outside interests and money.
Nor did Susan make the mistake of taking a job for the sake of her independence, which she
might very well have done, since her old firm, missing her qualities of humour, balance, and sense,
invited her often to go back. Children needed their mother to a certain age, that both parents knew
and agreed on; and when these four healthy wisely brought-up children were of the right age, Susan
would work again, because she knew, and so did he, what happened to women of fifty at the height
of their energy and ability, with grown-up children who no longer needed their full devotion.
So here was this couple, testing their marriage, looking after it, treating it like a small boat full
of helpless people in a very stormy sea. Well, of course, so it was.... The storms of the world were
bad, but not too close
—
which is not to say they were selfishly felt: Susan and Matthew were both
well-informed and responsible people. And the inner
storms
and
quicksands
8
were understood and
charted. So everything was all right. Everything was in order. Yes, things were under control.
So
what
did
it
matter
if
they
felt
dry,
flat? People
like
themselves,
fed
on
a
hundred books
(psychological,
anthropological,
sociological)
could
scarcely
be
unprepared
for
the
dry,
controlled
wistfulness which is the distinguishing mark of the intelligent marriage. Two people, endowed with
education,
with
discrimination,
with
judgement,
linked
together
voluntarily
from
their
will
to
be
happy
together
and
to
be
of
use
to
others
—
one
sees
them
everywhere,
one
knows
them,
one
even
is
that
thing
oneself:
sadness
because
so
much
is
after
all
so
little. These
two,
unsurprised,
turned towards each other with even more courtesy and gentle love: this was life, that two people, no
matter how carefully chosen, could not be everything to each other. In fact, even to say so, to think in
such a way, was
banal
9
, they were ashamed to do it.
It was banal, too, when one night Matthew came home late and confessed he had been to a
party, taken a girl home and slept with her. Susan forgave him, of course. Except that forgiveness is
hardly the word. Understanding, yes. But if you understand something, you don
’
t forgive it, you
are the thing itself: forgiveness is for what you don
’
t

understand. Nor had he
confessed
—
what

sort of
word is that?
The
whole
thing
was
not
important.
After
all,
years
ago
they
had
joked:
Of
course
I
’
m
not
going to be faithful to you, no one can be faithful to one other person for a whole lifetime. (And there
was the word
“
faithful
”—
stupid
,
all these words, stupid, belonging to a savage old world.) But the
incident left both of them irritable. Strange, but they were both bad- tempered, annoyed. There was
something
unassimilable
10

about it.
Making
love
splendidly
after
he
had
come
home
that
night,
both
had
felt
that
the
idea
that

7

8

pitfall
—
a hidden or unsuspected danger, drawback, difficulty or opportunity for error
storms and quicksands
—
It figuratively refers to

a treacherous thing or (rare) person.

9

banal
—
commonplace, trite, trivial.
10

unassimilable
—
unable to be absorbed and incorporated.
Myra Jenkins, a pretty girl met at a party, could be even relevant was ridiculous. They had loved
each other for over a decade, would love each other for years more. Who, then, was Myra Jenkins?
Except, thought Susan, unaccountably bad-tempered, she was (is?) the first. In ten years. So
either
the
ten
years
’
fidelity was not important, or she isn
’
t. (No, no, there is something wrong
with
this
way
of
thinking,
there
must
be.)
But
if
she
isn
’
t
important,
presumably
it
wasn
’
t
important either when Matthew and I first went to bed with each other that afternoon whose delight
even now (like a very long shadow at sundown) lays a long, wand-like finger over us. (Why did I
say
sundown?)
Well,
if
what
we
felt
that
afternoon
was
not
important,
nothing
is
important,
because
if
it
hadn
’
t
been
for
what
we
felt,
we
wouldn
’
t
be
Mr.
and
Mrs.
Rawlings
with
four
children, etc., etc. The whole thing is
absurd
—
for him to have come home and told me was absurd.
For him not to have told me was absurd. For me to care, or for that matter not to care, is absurd ...
and who is Myra Jenkins? Why, no one at all.
There was only one thing to do, and of course these sensible people did it:
they put the thing
behind them, and consciously, knowing what they were doing, moved forward into a different phase
of their marriage, giving thanks for past good fortune as they did so.
For
it
was
inevitable
that
the
handsome,
blond,
attractive,
manly
man,
Matthew
Rawlings,
should be at times tempted (oh, what a word!) by the attractive girls at parties she could not attend
because
of
the
four
children;
and
that
sometimes
he
would
succumb
11

(a
word
even
more
repulsive,
if
possible)
and
that
she,
a
good-looking
woman
in
the
big
well-tended
garden
at
Richmond,
would
sometimes
be
pierced
as
by
an
arrow
from
the
sky
with
bitterness.
Except
that
bitterness was not in order, it was out of court. Did the casual girls touch the marriage? They did not.
Rather it was they who knew defeat because of the handsome Matthew Rawlings
’
marriage body and
soul to Susan Rawlings.
In that case why did Susan feel (though luckily not for longer than a few seconds at a time) as
if life had become a desert, and that nothing mattered, and that her children were not her own?
Meanwhile
her
intelligence
continued
to
assert
that
all
was
well.
What
if
her
Matthew
did
have
an
occasional
sweet
afternoon,
the
odd
affair?
For
she
knew
quite
well,
except
in
her
moments of aridity, that they were very happy, that the affairs were not important.
Perhaps that
was the trouble? It
was
in the nature of things that
the adventures
and
delights
could
no
longer
be
hers,
because
of
the
four
children
and
the
big
house
that
needed
so
much
attention. But perhaps she was secretly wishing, and even knowing that she did, that the wildness and
the beauty could be his. But he
was
married to her. She was
married to him. They
were married
inextricably. And therefore the gods could not strike him with the real magic, not really. Well, was
it
Susan
’
s
fault
that
after
he
came
home
from
an
adventure
he
looked
harassed
12

rather
than
fulfilled? (In fact, that was how she knew
he had been
unfaithful,
because of his
sullen
13

air, and
his glances at her, similar to hers at him: What is it that I share
with this person that shields all
delight
from
me?)
But
none
of
it
by
anybody
’
s
fault.
(But
what
did
they
feel
ought
to
be
somebody
’
s fault?) Nobody
’
s fault, nothing to be at fault, no one to blame, no one to offer or to take
it ... and nothing wrong, either, except that Matthew never was really struck, as he wanted to be, by
joy; and that Susan was more and more often threatened by emptiness. (It was usually in the garden
that
she
was
invaded
by
this
feeling:
she
was
coming
to
avoid
the
garden,
unless
the
children
or

11

12

13

succumb
—
sink under pressure; give way
to
force, authority, emotion, etc
.

harassed
—
overwhelm with cares, misfortunes.
sullen
—
solitary, alone, melancholy temperament.
Matthew were with her.) There was no need to use the dramatic words, unfaithful, forgive, and the
rest:
intelligence
forbade
them.
Intelligence
barred,
too,
quarrelling,
sulking,
anger,
silences
of
withdrawal, accusations and tears. Above all, intelligence forbids tears.
A high price has to be paid for the happy marriage with the four healthy children in the large
white gardened house.
And they were paying it, willingly, knowing what they were doing. When
they lay side by
side or breast to breast in the big civilised bedroom overlookin
g
the wild sullied river, they laughed,
often, for no particular reason; but they knew it was really because of these two small people,
Susan
and
Matthew,
supporting
such
an
edifice
on
their
intelligent
love.
The
laugh
comforted
them; it saved them both, though from what, they did not know.
They
were
now
both
fortyish.
The
older
children,
boy
and
girl
were
ten
and
eight, at
school.
The
twins,
six,
were
still
at
home.
Susan
did
not
have
nurses
or
girls
to
help
her:
childhood
is
short;
and
she
did
not
regret
the
hard
work.
Often
enough
she was bored,
since
small
children
can
be
boring;
she
was
often
very
tired;
but
she
regretted
nothing.
In
another
decade, she would turn herself back into being a woman with a life of her own.
Soon
the
twins
would
go
to
school,
and
they
would
be
away
from
home
from
nine
until
four.
These hours, so Susan saw it, would be the preparation for her own slow emancipation away from the
role of hub-of-the- family into woman-with-her-own-life. She was already planning for the hours of
freedom when all the children would be
Matthew and
by Susan and by their friends, for the moment when the youngest child went off to school.
off
your
hands,
darling
Susan,
and
you'll
have
time
to
yourself.
So
said
Matthew,
the
intelligent
husband, who had often enough commended and consoled Susan, standing by her in spirit during the
years when her soul was not her own, as she said, but her children's.
What it amounted to was that Susan saw herself as she had been at twenty-eight, unmarried; and
then
again
somewhere
about
fifty,
blossoming
from
the
root
of
what
she
had
been
twenty
years
before.
As
if
the
essential
Susan
were
in
abeyance,
as
if
she
were
in
cold
storage.
Matthew
said
something like this to Susan one night: and she agreed that it was true
—
she did feel something
like
that.
What,
then,
was
this
essential
Susan?
She
did
not
know.
Put
like
that
it
sounded
ridiculous, and she did not really feel it. Anyway, they had a long discussion about the whole thing
before going off to sleep in each other
’
s arms.
So
the
twins
went
off
to
their
school,
two
bright
affectionate
children
who
had
no
problems
about it, since their older brother and sister had trodden this path so successfully before them. And now
Susan was going to be alone in the big house, every day of the school term, except for the daily woman
who came in to clean.
It
was
now,
for
the
first
time
in
this
marriage,
that
something
happened
which
neither
of
them had foreseen.
This is what happened. She returned, at nine-thirty, from taking the twins to the school by car,
looking forward to seven
blissful
14

hours of
freedom. On
the
first
morning
she
was
simply
restless,
worrying about the twins
“
naturally enough
”
since this was their first day away at school. She was
hardly able to contain herself until they came back. Which they did happily, excited by the
world of
school, looking forward to the next day. And the next day Susan took them, dropped them, came back,
and found herself reluctant to enter her big and beautiful home because it was as if something was
waiting for her there that she did not wish to confront. Sensibly, however, she parked the car in the

14

blissful
—
perfectly joyous or happy; happily oblivious.
garage, entered the house, spoke to Mrs. Parkes the daily woman about her duties, and went up to her
bedroom.
She
was
possessed
by
a
fever
which
drove
her
out
again,
downstairs,
into
the
kitchen,
where Mrs Parkes was making cake and did not need her, and into the garden. There she sat on a
bench and tried to calm herself, looking at trees, at a brown glimpse of the river. But
she was filled
with tension, like a panic: as if an enemy was in the garden with her. She spoke to herself severely,
thus: All this is quite natural. First, I spent twelve years of my adult life working,
living my own life.
Then I married, and from the moment I became pregnant for the first time I signed myself over, so to
speak, to other people. To the children. Not for one moment in twelve years have I been alone, had
time to myself. So now I have to learn to be myself again. That
’
s all.
And she went indoors to help Mrs. Parkes cook and clean, and found some sewing to do for the
children. She kept herself occupied every day. At the end of the first term she understood she felt two
contrary
emotions.
First:
secret
astonishment
and
dismay
that
during
those
weeks
when
the
house
was empty of children she had in fact been more occupied (had been careful to keep herself occupied)
than ever she had been when the children were around her
needing her continual attention. Second:
that now she knew the house would
be full of them, and for five
weeks, she resented the fact she
would
never
be
alone.
She
was
already
looking
back
at
those
hours
of
sewing,
cooking
(but
by
herself), as at a lost freedom which would not be hers for five long weeks. And the two months of term
which
would
succeed
the
five
weeks
stretched
alluringly
15

open
to
her
—
freedom.
But
what
freedom
—
when
in
fact
she
had
been
so
careful
not
to
be
free
of
small
duties
during
the
last
weeks? She looked at herself, Susan Rawlings, sitting in a big chair by the window in the bedroom,
sewing shirts or dresses, which she might just as well have bought. She saw herself making cakes for
hours at a time in the big family kitchen: yet usually she bought cakes. What she saw was a woman
alone, that was true, but she had not felt alone. For instance, Mrs. Parkes was always somewhere in
the
house.
And
she
did
not
like
being
in
the
garden
at
all,
because
of
the
closeness
there
of
the
enemy
—
irritation,
restlessness,
emptiness,
whatever
it
was
—
which
keeping
her
hands
occupied
made less dangerous for some reason.
Susan did not tell Matthew of these thoughts. They were not sensible. She
did not recognize
herself in them. What should she say to her dear friend and husband Matthew?
“
When I go into the
garden, that is, if the children are not
there, I feel as if there is an enemy there waiting to invade
me.
”

“
What
enemy,
Susan
darling?
”

“
Well
I
don
’
t
know,
really. ..,
”

“
Perhaps
you
should
see
a
doctor?
”

No, clearly this conversation should not take place. The holidays began and Susan welcomed
them. Four children, lively, energetic, intelligent, demanding: she was never, not for a moment
of her day, alone. If she was in a room,
they would be in the next room, or waiting for her to do
something for them; or it would soon be time for lunch or tea, or to take one of them to the dentist.
Something to do: five weeks of it, thank goodness.
On the fourth day of these so welcome holidays, she found she was storming with anger at the
twins,
two
shrinking
beautiful
children
who
(and
this
is
what
checked
her)
stood
hand
in
hand
looking at her with sheer dismayed disbelief. This was their calm mother, shouting at them. And for
what?
They
had
come
to
her
with
some
game,
some
bit
of
nonsense.
They
looked
at
each
other,
moved closer for support, and went off hand in hand, leaving Susan holding on to the windowsill of
the living room, breathing deep, feeling sick. She went to lie down, telling the older children she

15

alluringly
—
attractively, charmingly.
allure
—
attract or tempt by something advantageous, pleasant, or
flattering.
had
a
headache.
She
heard
the
boy
Harry
telling
the
little
ones:
“
It
’
s
all
right,
Mother
’
s
got
a
headache.
”
She heard that
It
’
s all right
with pain.
That
night
she
said
to
her
husband:
“
Today
I
shouted
at
the
twins,
quite
unfairly.
”

She
sounded miserable, and he said gently:
“
Well, what of it?
”

“
It
’
s more of an adjustment than I thought, their going to school.
”

“
But Susie, Susie darling. ...
”
For she was crouched weeping on the bed. He comforted her:
“
Susan, what is all this about? You shouted at them? What of it? If you shouted at them fifty times a
day it wouldn
’
t be more than the little devils deserve.
”
But she wouldn
’
t laugh. She wept. Soon he
comforted her with his body. She became calm. Calm, she wondered what was wrong with her, and
why she should mind so much that she might, just once, have behaved unjustly
with the children.
What did it matter? They had forgotten it all long ago: Mother had a headache and everything was
all right.
It was a long time later that Susan understood that that night, when she had wept and Matthew
had driven the misery out of her with his big solid body, was the last time, ever in their married life,
that
they
had
been
—
to
use
their
mutual
language
—
with
each
other.
And
even
that
was
a
lie,
because she had not told him of her real fears at all.
The five weeks passed, and Susan was in control of herself, and good and kind, and she looked
forward to the end of the holidays with a mixture of fear
and longing. She did not know what to
expect.
She
took
the
twins
off
to
school
(the
elder
children
took
themselves
to
school)
and
she
returned to the house
determined to face the enemy wherever he was, in the house, or the garden
or
—
where?
She
was
again
restless,
she
was
possessed
by
restlessness.
She
cooked
and
sewed
and
worked as before, day after day,
while Mrs. Parkes
remonstrated
16
:
“
Mrs. Rawlings, what
’
s the
need for it? I can do that, it
’
s what you pay me for.
”

And it was so irrational that she checked herself. She would put the car into the garage, go up to
her
bedroom,
and
sit,
hands
in
her
lap,
forcing
herself
to
be
quiet.
She
listened
to
Mrs.
Parkes
moving around the house. She looked out into the garden and saw the branches shake the trees.
She sat defeating the enemy, restlessness. Emptiness. She ought to be thinking about her life, about
herself.
But
she
did
not.
Or
perhaps
she
could
not.
As
soon
as
she
forced
her
mind
to
think
about
Susan
(for
what
else
did
she
want
to
be
alone
for?)
it
skipped
off
to
thoughts
of
butter
or
school
clothes. Or it thought of Mrs. Parkes. She
realised
that
she
sat
listening
for
the
movements
of
the
cleaning woman, following her every turn, bend, thought. She followed her in her mind from kitchen
to bathroom, from table to oven, and it was as if the duster, the cleaning cloth, the saucepan, were
in her own hand. She would hear herself saying: No, not like that, don
’
t put that there.... Yet she
did not give a damn what Mrs. Parkes did, or if she did it at all. Yet she could not prevent herself
from
being
conscious of
her, every
minute. Yes,
this
was
what
was
wrong
with
her:
she
needed,
when she was alone, to be really alone, with no one near. She could not endure the knowledge that
in ten minutes or in half an hour Mrs. Parkes would call up the stairs:
“
Mrs. Rawlings, there
’
s
no silver polish. Madam, we
’
re out of flour.
”

So she left the house and went to sit in the garden where she was
screened
17

from the house
by trees. She waited for the demon to appear and claim her, but he did not.
She
was
keeping
him
off,
because
she
had
not,
after
all,
come
to
an
end
of
arranging

16

17

remonstrated
—
point out (a fault etc.) to someone by way of reproof or complaint; protest against (a wrong).

screened
—
sheltered, protected, or concealed with the trees.
herself.
She was planning how to be somewhere where Mrs. Parkes would not come after her with a
cup
of
tea,
or
a
demand
to
be
allowed
to
telephone
(always
irritating since Susan did not care
who she telephoned or how often), or just a nice talk about something. Yes, she needed a place, or a
state
of
affairs,
where it
would not be necessary to
keep reminding
herself: In ten
minutes I
must
telephone Matthew about ... and at half past three T must leave early for the children because the car
needs
cleaning.
And
at
ten
o
’
clock
tomorrow
I
must
remember....
She
was
possessed
with
resentment that the seven hours of freedom in every day (during weekdays in the school term) were
not free, that never, not for one second, ever, was she free from the pressure of time, from having
to
remember
this
or
that.
She
could
never
forget
herself;
never
really
let
herself
go
into
forgetfulness.
Resentment. It was poisoning her. (She looked at this emotion and thought it was absurd. Yet
she felt it.) She was a prisoner. (She looked at this thought too, and it was no good telling herself it
was a ridiculous one.) She must tell Matthew
—
but what? She was filled with emotions that were
utterly ridiculous, that she despised, yet that nevertheless she was feeling so strongly she could
not
shake them off.
The
school
holidays
came
round,
and
this
time
they
were
for
nearly
two
months,
and
she
behaved with a conscious controlled decency that nearly drove her crazy. She would lock herself in
the bathroom, and sit on the edge of the bath, breathing deep, trying to let go into some kind of calm.
Or she went up into the spare room, usually empty, where no one would expect her to be. She heard
the children calling
“
Mother, Mother,
”
and kept silent, feeling guilty. Or she went to the very end of
the garden, by herself, and looked at the slow-moving brown river; she looked at the river and closed
her eyes and breathed slow and deep, taking it into her being, into her veins.
Then she returned to the family, wife and mother, smiling and responsible, feeling as if the
pressure of these people
—
four lively children and her husband
—
were a painful pressure on
the surface of her skin, a hand pressing on her brain. She did not once break down into irritation
during these holidays, but it was like living out a prison sentence, and when the children went
back to school, she sat on a white stone seat near the flowing river, and she thought: It is not even
a year since the twins went to school, since
they were off my hands
(What on earth did I think I
meant when I used that stupid phrase?) and yet I
’
m a different person. I
’
m simply not myself. I
don
’
t understand it.
Yet she had to understand it. For she knew that this structure
—
big white house, on which
the
mortgage
18

still cost
four hundred
19

a year, a husband, so good and kind and insightful,
four
children,
all
doing
so nicely,
and
the
garden
where
she
sat,
and
Mrs.
Parkes
the
cleaning
woman
—
all this depended on her, and yet she could not understand why, or even what it was she
contributed to it.
She said to Matthew in their bedroom:
“
I think there must be something wrong with me.
”

And he said:
“
Surely not, Susan? You look marvelous-you
’
re as lovely as
ever.”

She looked at the handsome blond man, with his clear, intelligent, blue-eyed face, and thought:
Why is it I can
’
t tell him? Why not? And she said:
“
I need to be alone more than I am.
”

At
which
he
swung
his
slow
blue
gaze
at
her,
and
she
saw
what
she
had
been
dreading:

18

mortgage
—
the charging of real or personal property by a debtor in favour of a creditor as security for a money
debt (esp. one incurred by the purchase of the property), on the condition that the property be discharged on
payment of the debt within a certain period.


19

four hundred
—
four hundred pounds.
Incredulity. Disbelief. And fear. An incredulous blue stare from a stranger who was her husband,
as close to her as her own breath.
He said: “But the children are at school and off your hands.”

She said to herself: I’ve got to force myself to say: Yes, but do you realise that I never feel free?
There’s never a moment I can say to myself: There’s not
hing I have to remind myself about, nothing I
have to do in half an hour, or an hour, or two hours....
But she said: “I don’t feel well.”

He said: “Perhaps you need a holiday.”

She
said,
appalled:
“But
not
without
you,
surely?”
For
she
could
not
imagine
he
rself
going
off
without him. Yet that was what he meant. Seeing her face, he laughed, and opened his arms, and she
went into them, thinking: Yes, yes, but why can’t I say it? And what is it I have to say?

She tried to tell him, about never being free. And
he listened and said: “But Susan, what sort of
freedom can you possibly want
—
short of being dead! Am I ever free? I go to the office, and I have to
be there at ten
—all right, half past ten, sometimes. And I have to do this or that, don’t I? Then I’ve got
to come home at a certain time
—I don’t mean it, you know I don’t—but if I’m not going to be back
home at six I telephone you. When can I ever say to myself: I have nothing to be responsible for in the
next six hours?”

Susan,
hearing
this,
was
remorseful.
Because
it
was
true.
The
good
marriage,
the
house,
the
children, depended just as much on his voluntary bondage as it did on hers. But why did he not feel
bound? Why didn’t he
chafe
20

and become restless? No, there was something really wrong with her
and this proved it.
And that word “bondage”—
why had she used it? She had never felt marriage, or the children, as
bondage. Neithe
r had he, or surely they wouldn’t be together lying in each other’s arms content after
twelve years of marriage.
No,
her
state
(whatever
it
was)
was
irrelevant,
nothing
to
do
with
her
real
good
life
with
her
family. She had to accept the fact that after all, she was an irrational person and to live with it. Some
people had to live with crippled arms, or stammers, or being deaf. She would have to live knowing she
was subject to a state of mind she could not own.
Nevertheless, as a result of this conversation with her husband, there was a new regime next
holidays.
The spare room at the top of the house now had a cardboard sign saying: PRIV
ATE! DO
NOT
DISTURB!
on
it.
(This
sign
had
been
drawn
in
coloured
chalks
by
the
children,
after
a
discussion between the parents in which it was decided this was psychologically the right thing.)
The
family
and
Mrs.
Parkes
knew
this
was
“Mother’s
Room”
an
d
that
she
was
entitled
to
her
privacy.
Many
serious
conversations
took
place
between
Matthew
and
the
children
about
not
taking Mother for granted. Susan overheard the first, between father and Harry, the older boy, and
was surprised at her irritation over it. Surely she could have a room somewhere in that big house
and retire into it without such a fuss being made? Without it being so solemnly discussed? Why
couldn’t
she
simply
have
announced:
“I’m
going
to
fit
out
the
little
top
room
for
myself,
and
when
I’m in it I’m not to be disturbed for anything short of fire”? Just that, and finished; instead
of long earnest discussions. When she heard Harry and Matthew explaining it to the twins with
Mrs Parkes coming in
—“Yes, well, a family sometimes gets on top of

a woman”—
she had to go
right away to the bottom of the garden until the devils of exasperation had finished their dance in

20

chafe
—
be or become impatient, irritated, or annoyed because of sth.
her blood.
But now there was a room, and she could go there when she liked, she used it seldom: she felt
even
more
caged
there
than
in
her
bedroom.
One
day
she
had
gone
up
there
after
a
lunch
for
ten
children she had cooked and served because Mrs. Parkes was not there, and had sat alone for a while
looking into the garden. She saw the children stream out from the kitchen and stand looking up at the
window where she sat behind the curtains. They were all
—
her children and their friends
—
discussing
Mother’s Room. A few minutes later, the chase of children in some game came pounding up the stairs,
but
ended
as
abruptly
as
if
they
had
fallen
over
a
ravine,
so
sudden
was
the
silence.
They
had
remembered
she
was
there,
and
had
gone
silent
in
a
great
gale
of
“Hush!
Shhhhhh!
Quiet,
you’ll
disturb her. ...” And they went tiptoeing downstairs like criminal conspirators. When she came down
to make tea for them, they all apologised. The twins put their arms around her, from front and back,
making a human cage of loving limbs, and promised it would never occur again. “We forgot, Mummy,
we forgot all about it!”

What it amounted to was that Mother’s Room
, and her need for privacy, had become a valuable
lesson in respect for other people’s rights. Quite soon Susan was going up to the room only because it
was a lesson it was a pity to drop. Then she took sewing up there, and the children and Mrs Parkes
came in and out: it had become another family room.
She sighed, and smiled, and resigned herself
—
she made jokes at her own expense with Matthew
over the room. That is, she did from the self she liked, she respected. But at the same time, something
inside her howled with impatience, with rage.... And she was frightened. One day she found herself
kneeling by her bed and praying: “Dear God, keep it away from me, keep him away from me.” She
meant the devil, for she now thought of it, not caring if she were irrational, as some sort of demon.
She imagined him, or it, as a youngish man, or perhaps a middle-aged man pretending to be young. Or
a man young-looking from immaturity? At any rate, she saw the young- looking face which, when she
drew
closer,
had
dry
lines
about
mouth
and
eyes.
He
was
thinnish,
meagre
in
build.
And
he
had
a
reddish complexion, and ginger hair. That was he
—
a gingery, energetic man, and he wore a reddish
hairy jacket, unpleasant to the touch.
Well, one day she saw him. She was standing at the bottom of the garden, watching the river ebb
past, when she raised her eyes and saw this person, or being, sitting on the white stone bench. He was
looking at her, and grinning. In his hand was a long crooked stick, which he had picked off the ground,
or
broken
off
the
tree
above
him.
He
was
absent-mindedly,
out
of
an
absent-minded
or
freakish
21

impulse of
spite
22
, using the stick to stir around in the coils of a
blindworm
23

or a grass snake (or
some kind of snakelike creature: it was whitish and unhealthy to look at, unpleasant). The snake was
twisting
about,
flinging
its
coils
from
side
to
side
in
a
kind
of
dance
of
protest
against
the
teasing
prodding stick.
Susan
looked
at
him
thinking:
Who
is
the
stranger?
What is
he
doing
in
our
garden? Then
she
recognised the man around whom her terrors had
crystallised
24
. As she did so, he vanished. She made
herself
walk
over
to
the
bench.
A
shadow
from
a
branch
lay
across
thin
emerald
25

grass,
moving
jerkily over its roughness, and she could see why she had taken it for a snake, lashing and twisting.
She went back to the house thinking: Right, then, so I’ve seen him with my own eyes, so I’m not crazy

21

22

freakish
—
capricious, whimsical; irregular, unpredictable; curious.
spite
—
a feeling of annoyance.
23

blindworm
—
a kind of crawl animal. (
无脚蜥蜴
)
24

crystallised
—
give a definite, precise, and usually permanent form to

her.
25

emerald
—
the colour of bright green
.

after all
—there is a danger because I’ve seen him. He is
lurking
26

in the garden and sometimes even
in the house, and he wants to
get into me and to take me over
.
She dreamed of having a room or a place, anywhere, where she could go

and sit, by herself, no one
knowing where she was.
Once, near
Victoria
27
, she found herself outside a news agent that had Rooms

to Let advertised.
She decided to rent a room, telling no one. Sometimes she
could take the train in to Richmond and
sit alone in it for an hour or two, yet

how could she? A room would cost three or four pounds a week,
and she earned no money, and how could she explain to Matthew that she needed such a sum? What for?
It did not occur to her that she was taking it for granted she wasn
’
t going to tell him about the room.
Well, it was out of the question, having a room; yet she knew she must.
One day, when a school term was well established, and none of the children had measles or other
ailments, and everything seemed in order, she did the
shopping early, explained to Mrs. Parkes she
was meeting an old school friend, took the train to Victoria, searched until she found a small quiet
hotel, and asked for a room for the day. They did not let rooms by the day, the manageress said, looking
doubtful, since Susan so obviously was not the kind of woman who needed a room for unrespectable
reasons. Susan made a long explanation about not being well, being unable to shop without frequent
rests for lying down. At last she was allowed to rent the room provided she paid a full night
’
s price for
it. She was taken up by the manageress and a maid, both concerned
over the state of her health ...
which must be pretty bad if, living at Richmond (she had signed her name and address in the register),
she needed a shelter at Victoria.
The room was ordinary and anonymous, and was just what Susan needed. She put a shilling in
the
gas
fire,
and
sat,
eyes
shut,
in
a
dingy
armchair
with
her
back
to
a
dingy
window.
She
was
alone.
She
was
alone.
She
was
alone.
She
could
feel
pressures
lifting
off
her.
First
the
sounds
of
traffic came very loud; then they seemed to vanish; she might even have slept a little. A knock
on
the door: it was Miss Townsend the manageress, bringing her a cup of tea
with her own hands, so
concerned was she over Susan
’
s long silence and possible illness.
Miss Townsend was a lonely woman of fifty, running this hotel with all the
rectitude
28

expected
of
her,
and
she
sensed
in
Susan
the
possibility
of
understanding
companionship.
She
stayed
to
talk.
Susan
found
herself
in
the
middle
of
a
fantastic
story
about
her
illness,
which
got
more
and
more
improbable as she tried to make it tally with the large house at Richmond, well-off husband, and four
children. Suppose she said instead: Miss Townsend, I'm here in your hotel because I need to be alone
for a few hours, above all
alone and with no one knowing where I am.
She said it mentally, and saw,
mentally, the look that would inevitably come on Miss Townsend
’
s elderly maiden
’
s face.
“
Miss Town-
send, my four children and my husband are driving me insane, do you understand that? Yes, I can see
from the gleam of hysteria in your eyes that comes from loneliness controlled but only just contained
that I
’
ve got everything in the world you
’
ve ever longed for. Well, Miss Townsend, I don
’
t want any
of
it.
You
can
have
it,
Miss
Townsend.
I
wish
I
was
absolutely
alone
in
the
world,
like
you.
Miss
Townsend, I
’
m besieged by seven devils, Miss Townsend, Miss Townsend, let me stay here in your
hotel where the devils can
’
t get me
....
”
Instead of saying all this, she described her
anaemia
29
, agreed
to try Miss Townsend
’
s remedy for it, which was raw liver, minced, between whole-meal bread, and

lurk
—
be hidden; lie in ambush; conceal oneself
.

27

Victoria
—
one of the main railway stations in central London.
28

rectitude
—
moral uprightness, integrity, virtue, and also, self-righteousness.
29

anaemia
—
a deficiency of red blood cells or their haemoglobin, often causing pallor
.

26