I like translating …. I’ve done a little. — Twosmall⟨thin⟩ volumes of poems, one large⟨thick⟩volume of sociology.— … How do you know? — Elementary, my dear … I encour-raged your friends to talk about you. — I must be a complete idiot. I never thought of that … But why didn’t you ask me? — My love… do you realise thatmost of our… verbal intercourse has been spent in myasking questions and your evading them? — [...] — Peter, I always answered you. — You have a genius for giving answers that are at once true and uninformative. You should be in Parliament. — Peter. — Anyways I cannot imagine myself makinga social call armed with a list of ⟨all the⟩ possible - or even [...]⟨only the⟩ probable human activities, and endeavouring to obtain a yes or a no to each item. Why didn’t you tell me you had done those translations? … No, you needn’t bother, I know the answer by now: You did not think it might amuse me… If you are someone I picked up on a street corner to give a pleasant evening to, it would seem that I am someone who must be kept amused with enter-taining stories and pretty pictures… Yes, I was waiting for you to laugh… Indeed it’s enough to make a dozen cats laugh… or even wildcats. — — … I suppose I’d better tell you the truth. I thought you would not like it. — … Did you?... In that case it might interest you to know that you were right. I disliked it intensely. — Peter… — I ought to make myself clear: I found your translations excellent. And I was exceedingly annoyed to see that you could do that work - which was not specifically a woman’s work - far better than I could have done it myself… Some-how it seemed an added insult that you had been pleased to show me your posters and your drawings… If I had been able to make love to you at once I’d Folio JHT/1995/00045/3/7 verso have got the poison out of my system — but I darednot even touch you, so it took me days to get rid ofit - days during which I was not at allnice to you. And you looked at me in apuzzled way that made me want to kickmyself… So you see, my love, when you deci-ded not to tell me, you had formed - consciously or not - a very fair estimate of my unpleasantcharacter …. Are you willing to kiss me? . —— Don’t you think it’s time to go to bed? … We cansee about these letters to-morrow morning. — — Mary… Don’t shame me with your kindness,I shall be all right now.

⟨In fact,⟩ I feel quite sure ⟨I strongly suspect ⟩that you are deliberately goading me X Do[?] you⟨I wish to>⟩⟨Would you care to... ⟩deny it? —... ⟨My sweet⟩ I have always found it [...] ⟨unadvisable to deny⟩ something you feel quite sure ⟨of⟩about. You don’t like it. — … … Mary… Come with me. At once. — … I was rather expecting that.— I shall take great care to fulfill your expectations… My love Andyou need not try so hard to look like a martyr. Leave it to me.

Did you sleep well? — Very[?] well. — You were not afraid? — Afraid? What of?— Being⟨John slept right at the other end. You were practically⟩ alone in the place[?]. — My sweet — [...] ⟨There’s nothing to be afraid ofin the house⟩when you'renot in it. — Madonna… do you realise it is the first night you haveslept alone since we are married? Where’s that faultlessmemory of yours? Or were you being disrespectful?[?]I had slept alone forthe last time... since eighteen days before we were married … Or is it thatyou are inclined to admit thatmarriage⟨the ritual⟩does not make such adifference after all? I shall never admit that. — No, I don’tsuppose you will. — What I wanted to say is that I was rather disappointed to find you looking just as happy and satisfied as if I had slept with you. — Good gracious, Peter — I have noticed that you are doing your best to make an addict of me. Allthe same, I think you would feel slightly anxious⟨worried⟩ if I could not spend one night alone without showing all theexact symptoms of acute want⟨sex-starvation⟩. — You always manage to twist what I say so as to make it sound absurd. — You beauty… Madonna⟨Mary⟩! — What’s the matter now? — I want no misunderstandings between us. I can hardly believe that you really wish our interrupted relation-ship to be resumed in this manner. — What on earth are you talking about? — You know that I will not tolerate your insolence — … Oh, because I called you ‘beauty’. That was not an insolence. — ... If you tell me that I am bound to accept it. But I do not find it easy. — I can explain. — Would you? — You lectured me once on the dangers of the vocabulary. — — Mmm, I remember. — I thought you might. This is an extrapolation[?] ⟨illustration⟩ of your lecture. Out of the many meanings you could find in⟨I gave⟩ the word ‘beauty’ we have used two different ones. (Go on) one meaning, and you took it in a different one. — Go on. — You took it with the meaning it has in American slang: a specimen of a certain type (often unpleasant) which presents the most extreme characteristics of the type. Is that right? — You make it sound almost scientific - but on the whole I agree. May I ask the meaning you gave it? — I prefer the Stendhalian definition: beauty is a promise of happiness. And when I see you standing there, and think that - as far as one can be sure of anything in this world - I am sure of lying in your arms before the sun rises again — Well, I cannot imagine a more comprehensive promise of happiness. — [...] … I must say it sounds better when you put it like that. — It does sound rather nice… — … Look at me… The eyes are marvellouslyincrediblyunbelievably innocent — be careful not to overdo thatperhaps a little too innocent...don't overdo thatThe leftcorner of your mouth is twitching... My love...Your eyes are incredibly innocent... My love, you’re overdoing it - and the left corner of your mouth is twitching.

Your curiosity is quite normal, but your range is abnormal. Instead of wanting to know who Mrs Jones sleeps with or how much she paid for her pearls, you want to knowhow>⟨what⟩ it feels ⟨like⟩ to fly upside down — what her⟨or⟩ if you are clever enough to make me dance to one of my own tunes.

I sincerely hope you are going to like it. — But Peter - what if I don't? ...But if... Will it make a difference whether I like it or not? Will it?[?]— Indeed it will. I shall be very sorry if you don’t like it, because you will find it harder to get used to — ... I see. — You must not think that I don’t appreciate your position. — My sweet, I am quite sure you do. You appreciate it so much that you wouldn’t lift a finger to help me out of it. — Is that intended to be sarcastic? — Not at all. A plain statement of a plain fact. — Would it be any use if I denied it? — Well… yes, I think it might be. — You are not suggesting that you would believe me? — Of course not. It’s just that I might find it But it might be useful to know that I can expect — occasionally — to find a straight lie amongst your misleading half-truths. — ... My love... you are being exceedingly insolent. I am quite aware of it. I am also aware that you have been exceedingly provoking. — — So… Tell me, Madonna - what do we do in such a case then in such a case? Do we both apologise? — Certainly not — You do. You started it. — Mm… I suppose you are right. What exactly do I apologise for? — Better make it comprehensive: for being absolutely intolerable. — But I cannot help that. — Of course you can’t. Neither can you help when you are relatively intolerable. Your responsibility is merely a polite fiction — but you must wear it if you live in society — just as you wear pants. — Very well. I apologise for being. Is that comprehensive enough?

I have told you already that you must not kiss me when we are out in the garden. — Not even on the back of the neck? — Not even. — … Is it because of the black-birds who are nesting in the privet? — … Where? — I’ll show you with the endof a stick. If I go too near they get quite annoyed…. Just there — about 18 inches inside. — Do you mean they are actually raising a family there… Within reach of your hand? — Mm… The cats can’t get at them because the hedge is too thick… and they know I won’t touch them — even if they swear at me when I want to see the babies… You know, Peter, I believe that if you’d been Adam we wouldn’t have to deplore original sin. — … Why? — Well, I wonder how you’d have managed in the Garden of Eden, with all the animals looking on. — …… I …. Mary, this is not only utterly idiotic, it is … — I know. I love to make you blush… After all, it’s the one and only way in which I can rape you — and you can’t stop me, because you don’t know what I’m going to say until I have spoken. — ….. I think we had better go in. — Why? … It’s lovely out here… It reminds me of our courting days. — Quite so… and I feel strongly urged to remind you that those days are over. Are you coming, or shall I pick you up? — Oh, all right… if you’re sure that’s what you want… — I am … I am also quite sure it’s what youneed. Come with me.

Madonna — Look at me… You have been very nice to me this evening… I wonder why? — … I like being nice to you… but I don’t think I have been nicer than usual. — Indeed you have… It is - almost - as if you were feeling guilty about something… Look at me… What is it? Tell me. — … There’s absolutely nothing… — Mary. Don’t lie to me. What have you been doing? — I haven’t done anything… It’s just that… well, I suppose I do feel guilty somehow… because I take a pleasure from you that I cannot share with you. — … So? … How? … Tell me what you mean. — … Sometimes when I look at you… when you’re reading, or listening to music, and quite unconscious of me… it is as if I didn’t exist any more as a person, but only as something inside you… and then I am so happy that I can’t help feeling a little guilty about it afterwards… Peter… You don’t mind, do you? — … I shall have to understand this - if I can - before I [...] tell you whether I mind or not… Anyway, I have no complaint about the consequences…

You have written? — Yes. Refused with thanks. — Hm… Did you give any motive? — Of course. It always sounds nicer. — I don’t want you to be particularly nice to that woman. She would only ask you again. What did you tell her? — The truth. — I might have known that. Am I to understand that you told her I forbade you to go? — No. That would have been rude. I said I was prevented by circumstances over which I have no control. I think that describes you rather well. — Do you? .. Will she understand, I wonder? — I shouldn’t be surprised. She’s rather good at insinuating. — … So? … Tell me, Madonna — do you feel very disappointed? — About the party? Not at all. I’ve been told that her parties are very gay - but I never expected to go. — … ... Why not?... Well… considering the way you behaved to Mrs. N. when we met her at Salzburg — and the amount of trouble you took to have our reservation changed — I should have ⟨been⟩ very surprised if you had wanted me to accept her invitation. — … Was my behaviour so noticeable? — Oh, Peter, it was beautiful. I’ve seen you being coldly polite to people you dislike - but I’d never have thought that you could reach such a degree of icy perfection. In all my life I’ve only met with it once before. — Indeed? … Mary, who was it? — It was a marvellous white Persian Tom at the Cat Club. He looked at us as if he wondered how anybody had dared to bring such things before him - but he respected himself too much to comment on it. — … So… I should rather like to know why - since you realised that I disliked the woman - you made a point of being somewhat more friendly to her than you are as a rule to people you meet for the [...]first time? Was that just to annoy me? — No, indeed it wasn’t. But at first I felt a little sorry for her… Though when she started being motherly and insinuating — well, I don’t care much for that kind of thing. — Yes… While Villars kept me talking I could not follow your conversation. But after he had gone I noticed that you had reverted to your usual detached manner - and that she looked rather more constrained than before… What are you smiling at? — Have you made up your mind to ask me — at last? — … Would you be kind enough to explain what you mean? — Well, that night at Salzburg, I expected you to ask - as soon as we got back to our room - what Mrs N. had told me. And you did not even mention her. I was so surprised[?]⟨astonished⟩ that I could hardly go to sleep. The next day, you were slightly on edge, as you are when you’re unsatisfied in one way or another — but when I saw the day pass without one question, for one dizzy moment I imagined that you had decided to reform. — Did you really? — … Not quite really. I tried to imagine it, but it stuck in my throat. Suddenly it dawned upon me that you simply did not quite know how to handle this - and you do hate making mistakes. — So… you despised me, did you? — I don’t quite know what you mean by that. I wanted to take you in my arms and comfort you… wouldyou call that ‘despising’?.. And time and again I’ve been on the brink oftelling you without being asked. — … Mary, you little wretch, why didn’t you? — I’m not at all sure that a surfeit of kindness is the proper diet for you. You wouldn’t be quite happy if I didn’t give you a chance to assert yourself - occasionally. — Just at present I shan’t be happy at all unless you’re very nice to me… Won’t you come here a moment? — I will — and I’ll tell you all I can. I’m sorry I can’t give you Mrs. N.’s exact words… I couldn’t have done it, even on that very evening. She’s much too fluid… It is like running water leaving a sediment on the river bed: you can collect and examine the sediment — but not the charm of the river… She’s a lovely woman. — Mary - I want to know what the bitch told you. — Peter! — Never mind what I call her. I have ample justification. My love, it has tormented me all these weeks. Tell me. —

Now that I have told you all about my day, you’re going to tell me some-thing about yours. This one-sided Inquisition has lasted long enough. — So? .. Feeling rebellious? — … You didn’t even kiss me when you came home. — I beg your pardon, I did. I can still taste your lipstick. — Oh? … I must have been thinking about something else. — Mary … — All right… I just thought if you thought you’d forgotten you might do it again. — I don’t have to forget to do it again… Come here: I’ve brought you something. — What is it? — A coincidence. I know you like them. I’ve seen you play with them like a kitten with a paper ball. — Tell me. — You remember that we spoke of inspects yesterday? — Mm. — And it is not a subject that often comes under our consideration. Well, I’ve had them positively thrust upon me to-day. — Peter… surely not in your nice clean office? .. — Not lice, my love. Only a letter and a booklet that Con will bring you to-morrow. I never thought I should receive anything — in the way of business — that might really interest you. But you will like that. The photographs are beautiful. — What is it about? — Insects, as I told you. It seems that in some parts of the world, the insects which destroy the crops could be kept in check by the importation of other insects which have a natural taste for them — I mean, for preying upon them. Some scientists are working on this, starting from the original habitat of a given plant, and the natural balance of plant and insect life in the district. Con is already dreaming up the best system of transportation. He’s quite excited about it. — It’s very interesting… Instead of using insecticides you get nature to do the dirty work herself. I’ll be glad to see that booklet… Peter - doesn’t it make you dizzy to think of that endless chain of living things eating and being eaten under the benevolent eye of Providence? — My love, I am afraid you will find me very self-centred, but all afternoon I have been feeling grateful to that inconceivable Providence. — Whatever for? — For putting you on my road just at the time of my life when you were exactly what I needed - to prey upon… There’s no reason why this prey and predator relationship should not be pre-ordained between human individuals just as it is between insect species… What do you think? — … My sweet - I’m sorry. That’s the kind of thing I am quite unable to produce any coherent thoughts about… It’s beyond me. — Hm… Anyway, I rather fancy that I know what you think of me… You think I am perfectly childish and absurd. — … I think you are perfectly adorable. — Well… I suppose it is a question of terminology.

Peter? — Mm? .. — I haven’t done anything - have I? — … I beg your pardon — There is something you’re not at all happy about. What is it? — … My love… forgive me… Was there anything you wished to do to-night? — Nothing special… But there is one thing I should very much like to know. Will you tell me? … Are we really married? — Are you asking me that seriously? — Quite. — So… Will you tell me what you mean? — I will. Sometimes I have a feeling that the real, the permanent part of your life, is at the office - and that you have only picked me up on a street corner with the generous intention of giving me a pleasant evening. — Mary! — I know that I am putting it too strongly, but I want to make my meaning perfectly clear. — … I have a suspicion that you are trying to be kind to me. — My sweet, you’re an optimist. I am merely asser-ting my rights. — Is that so? … My love, I am aware that I am not always a pleasant person to live with. But I liked to think that at least I never bored you… And I know that you find business matters boring - if not distasteful. — That’s perfectly true - in a general way. The fact is that I am interested in you… You’ve wanted that, haven’t you? .. Well, now you’ve got it. Don’t blame me if it amounts to more than you bargained for… The result is that whatever touches you closely interests me - even if it is something I should find boring in a general way. And when it can make you look as preoccupied as you did a while ago - well, I mean to know what it is… What are you going to do about it? — … Madonna, I am rather worried because we are short-handed… Old Jansen is in bed with bronchitis. — … Did you ask Charles to see him? — Hm. He’s not really bad - but he is sixty-two. Charles says he will be up in ten days or so - but I shouldn’t allow him to come back for another week. — I see… What does that mean to you personally - in terms of extra work? — That’s just the point. I’ve shared out most of his work amongst the others, and Con is very helpful. But I have to take on some of it — I reckon an average of two hours a day. And that has to come out of the real and permanent part of my life - whatever you may think. — Thank you… That will be the foreign mail won’t it? — … How do you know? — … You must have a very affectionate nature. — .. So? .. — That might explain why you are really devoted to me - although you are convinced that I am deaf, blind, and mentally deficient. — Mary… — My sweet, it does not even occur to you that I am able to follow an ordinary conversation. — … I suppose you mean when Con dines with us… But I am always careful to avoid.. — You both make a point of never talking shop during the meal - and it’s very nice of you. But when I’ve given you your coffee I usually settle on the couch with a book, and you forget me. — My love, I beg your pardon. We should go in my study. — If I had wanted you to do that, I’d have said so. But I like to hear you. — … Do you? — — Mm. It is like finding a few odd pieces of a puzzle and trying to imagine the picture… One of the things I know is that Jansen does most of the foreign mail… Though if there is any correspondence with Slav countries, Con deals with it… and one evening I was truly delighted when I understood that you did the Dutch. — … Truly delighted… My Folio JHT/1995/00045/3/14 love, I can’t imagine why you should have been… — It’s perfectly absurd. I don’t know Dutch at all, but there’s a quantity of languages I don’t know and they don’t affect me in the same way. When I see Dutch printed or when I hear it spoken, I… I just can’t believe it. — … So? — … And I often have the same feeling when I look at you. — … You might find it easier to ‘believe’ if you were not so careful to stay at the other end of the room. — I’m not at the other end of the room. — You are out of my reach. — … All right, I’m coming. Anyway I want something from you. — My love… this is an unusually direct approach. — Well, I’m in earnest about this… Peter, you don’t think I’m given to boasting do you? — I don’t. — If you would only allow me to try - I know I could do the French and the German easily… and if you lent me your dictionaries I believe I could do any Spanish and Italian that might be wanted… That would leave you the Scands, and that’s nothing for you… Peter, I really mean it. — … I am quite sure you can do it, but I am afraid it would bore you dreadfully. — Let me try… I like trans-lating - just for the fun of it. And I’ve noticed that I can taken an interest in the oddest things if I try to do them well. — … Mary? .. Did I teach you that, or did you know it before we married? .. Ow… is that all the answer I’m going to get? — You are my master and I love you - but for the moment I don’t feel like condoning your impertinence. Did you bring any work to-night? — I did, my love. That’s precisely why I was sulking… What do you want to get up for? Don’t you like it here? — I’m coming back. I went to fetch your briefcase… Now… show me what you brought… Let me see… Yes. You read them yourself, and you note the essentials of the answer in the margin… It’s very clean… of course it would be… My sweet? .. Are you mine to command? — Occasionally. — Well, this is an occasion. I want you to bring me a sample of Jansen’s letters in each language — You’re sure to have the duplicates filed? — We have, Madonna. — Well, if I can have that just for a day or two, it will give me the general tone and the polite trimmings, and I should be able to dish it up just the way you’re used to. — … Do you really think I could not adjust myself to the slightest change? — — I should expect you to if I thought I could improve on Jansen. But I know I can’t… And, Peter, I want you to get those samples yourself. I mean, don’t tell anyone at the office to get them for you… except Con, if it is more convenient… If you find I can do the work well enough… if you allow me to help you, I had rather your staff did not know it. — — … Mary - they would respect you for it. — Possibly. But Jansen would be sure to hear, and I think it might worry him… You don’t have to say anything. Just let them go on thinking that you’re doing it yourself. — … As you wish… Tell me, Mary: what makes you think old Jansen might worry? — Well… I don’t really know him, but one does get impressions like that. — Yes? — I’ve only met him a few times… and at the staff party last year I talked with him… and with his wife. — Yes? — — For a senior clerk - and one who is bound to know his employer trusts him… — Yes? — Well, he seems very diffident… very unsure of himself… I may be quite wrong, but I imagine anything… unprecedented Folio JHT/1995/00045/3/15 would seem to him - particularly when he is ill - as if it held some obscure threat. — Yes? — He knows you will do the work. He is sure to believe that you will do it better than he ever did. But then he would expect you to do it better than anyone else in the world, so it does not matter. He knows you will be glad when he comes back, because you have so much to do. But if he heard that someone else was doing his work… I think he would be torn between two conflicting fears. — Yes? — … The fear that they might do it better than he did - and, so to speak, take his place in your affections… And the fear that they might do it too badly, and let the firm down. — .. So.. — The first would be predo-minant — very… I believe it’s his wife’s fault. — Do you? .. I think I agree with what you have said up to now - but how does the wife come into it? — Too overbearing. — … So? — … Why do you look at me like that? — … I am trying to find some trace… any trace… of diffi-dence… No, Mary, not on the ear… it tickles… Moreover, it’s a sinful waste. — Don’t talk nonsense, then… After all, you must consider how long the treatment has lasted… and the condition of the material at the time you start on it… Peter, keep still. I’m quite serious about this… If you honestly think the work I shall do to-morrow is good enough - and remember I’m open to any criticism from you to improve it - do I get the job? — You do — And you won’t say anything to anybody - except Con - and you’d better tell him not to talk… Is it a deal? — It is. — give me your hand on it? ….. Peter… if that’s your idea of a reasonable interpretation, I’ll never trust you to translate anything. — My love… if you will insist on being my secretary, you must be prepared to accept the occupational hazards. — … But you’ve always had male secretaries. — That was the best safeguard I could think of.

Madonna… Come here… Now tell me a story. — But I’ve told you all my stories. — Never mind. Tell me anything. I want to hear you talk. — Oh… all right. You’ll stop me when you’ve had enough… Once upon a time… a long long time ago… — How long? — Oh… seven-eight years ago… I had a cactus. — are you sure that you don’t mean you were a cactus? — Quite sure. I had him given me. — Him? .. You mean it was a male cactus? — I’ve no idea… I should say he was bisexual. But Miriam called him Jonathan. So of course we always said ‘he’ when we spoke of him. — I see. Miriam gave you Jonathan. And who is Miriam? — A woman I knew in those days, who went off to South America. — … Are you telling me a white slave traffic story, by any chance? — No such luck. She went to Sao Paulo, not to Buenos-Ayres. Her husband, who taught mathematics, had been asked to go there for three years - and they offered the kind of salary that no poor European dares refuse… Perhaps it isa kind of white slave traffic after all… Have you noticed how South Americans seem to be worse than the others when it comes to thinking they can buy anything? — Mm… How did Miriam and her mathematician like it? — They liked it so well that they stayed. And so you kept Jon And so I kept Jonathan. Because I forgot to tell you I had only taken him as a boarder. — I see… Now tell me about him. — He lived in a flowerpot on a window sill… the south window of the drawing-room if you remember my little house. — Of course I remember it. But I am quite sure I never saw him there. — No. By the time you came he had changed his habits. — So… Tell me: Did you ever find out why Miriam called him Jonathan? — I asked her. But she either could not or would not tell. She said that when she first saw him in the shop the name came to her with such certainty that she only just stopped herself asking: How much does Jonathan cost? — … So… There is a question I have often wanted to ask, but I feared that you might find it impertinent. — Did you? .. It seems you will never cease to surprise me. — My love — when I say that I fear to be impertinent, that’s no reason why you should immediately proceed to be… What I want to know is this: are all your friends lunatics, or are you improving on nature for my benefit? — Well… I shouldn’t like to swear that I never do that… But not in this case… and what’s more I don’t see what you find so strange about it. — … Don’t you? .. Ah, well… if you say so… Tell me: What did Jonathan look like? — In shape, he was an architecture of rackets… rackets without handles. They grew close to one another and sometimes out of one another. And once in a way, as if he had dreamt of ancient Greece, he would start a thin column with vertical grooves, but only in a tentative manner, and he would Folio JHT/1995/00045/3/18 give [...]⟨it⟩ up and go back to his rackets. In colour, he was a dullgreen, almost exactly the colour of those stuffed olives you like. Hewas leathery and prickly, and he looked thoroughly respectable. … Also, he bred with commendable moderation. — How did he breed? — Oh, it was all quite simple and straightforward. He slowly covered his Lebensraum until the flowerpot was covered with⟨a mass of⟩rackets. Then one day I found one near him on the window sill. I did not feel like starting another pot, and I threw the racket⟨it⟩ out of the window. I remember thinking, when I saw it lying flat on the ground in the little border, that it looked as helpless as a tortoise you’ve turned over… A few days later it caught my eye… it looked different somehow. I went out and knelt on the path to see it better, and it had put forth small roots - from where the handle should have been -, anchored them in the ground, and he⟨it⟩ was trying to pull himself⟨itself⟩ up. Already he⟨it⟩ was no longer lying flat, but slanting. That’s what made it look queer. After about a week it stood quite upright. Some weeks later Jonathan threw another one overboard, and it behaved in exactly the same way. — So… I notice you say ‘it’? — Well, I never named them. They were just Jonathan’s babies. — I see… Rather a [...] ⟨dreary⟩ way of propagating one’s species, don’t you think? — Mm… After all, when you’ve seen one of the rackets right itself, or perhaps two, you’re apt to lose interest. — I quite agree… It would look well across a front page: BIRTH OF A RACKET… there’s an American flavour about it… Was that really allyour Jonathan could do? — You don’t think much of him? .. I didn’t either. The first year I had him, he just went on as I told you - very quiet, and, I admit, rather dull. And since he was a full-grown adult I never expected him to do anything else. But during the second year, towards the end of June, he suddenly went all romantic and produced a flower… It came as a shock, because I was so used to his monotony that I had long ceased watching him. I only thought of him when he needed watering, so I hadn’t noticed the bud… Not that it would have given me any idea of what he was up to, because he bloomed again the following June, and that time I was keeping an eye on him. The bud was just like a stiff bit of brownish string sticking up from the edge of one of the rackets… But the first time… I looked towards the window, and Jonathan was almost hidden behind a large pale yellow crinoline, with a thick inner crown of ivory stamens pressing against the petals like the frill of a starched petticoat. The pistil in the centre was hardly noticeable… Anyway one couldn’t help expecting a pair of legs… It looked so incongruous on Jonathan… as if one had spread out a lace tablecloth to dry on a gorse bush. I should have a sketch somewhere, and some Folio JHT/1995/00045/3/19 photographs. I did little else that day but try to learn it by heart, because it looked as if it might collapse at any moment. … But it didn’t… And at dusk it began to smell… although it was quite unbearable… So strong that it was difficult to believe there wasn’t something visible and solid to show for it. But the flower looked exactly as it had looked all day. It just sent forth that very sweet and somehow feminine smell, so overpowering that I had to open all the windows upstairs and make a draught right through my bedroom before I could sleep… When I woke up the smell was gone. I thought, the flower must be dead… anybody would be after such an effort. But when I came down it was staring at me with an air of complete innocence, seemingly quite unaware that anything had happened. I sniffed at it again and again, and there was no trace of smell. It started again at dusk. So I thought it probably stopped at dawn, and I set my bedside clock at 3 a. m. — You would do anything in pursuit of knowledge, wouldn’t you? — Well, I was curious. I got down just as the smell was beginning to fade, and in about ten minutes it was quite gone. Altogether this happened three nights at full strength. On the fourth evening the crinoline was beginning to droop, the smell was very weak, and the next morning all that remained was something like a bit of damp and crumpled tissue paper hanging between the prickles. And Jonathan looked so ashamed of himself that I took pity on him and cut it off. So I can’t say if it would have come to anything… but I don’t think so… That maddening smell must have been a call for help addressed to some exotic insect that couldn’t live around here. — Tell me - Did Jonathan recover his dignity? — Oh, quite. He was rather like a very ascetic man who runs wild occasionally, but manages to forget between the bouts… I saw it happen three times. Then Bob gave me the wax-flower plant - the one I brought here - and I needed the window-sill for it. So I decided to try Jonathan outside, though one isn’t supposed to. I took him out of the pot and planted him in a sheltered corner. — … And what happened? — He flourished … exceedingly. True, I covered him in frosty weather. But one winter there was a quite unexpected snowfall and I gave him up for dead. Well, the larger rackets died, but when I cleared the rotting stuff away there were quantities of live [...]bits that simply started again… I wonder how he’s doing now… and what sort of people live in the house… — And I wonder what the story means. Because if you were thinking of planting me out - even in the most sheltered corner - there’s nothing doing. — But I wouldn’t dream of doing that… If you started flourishing more exceedingly than you do at present, I just couldn’t cope… The story means nothing. I talked Folio JHT/1995/00045/3/20 because you told me to. — Hm… I have often found a hidden meaning underlying your words - when they sounded most innocuous… Still: Thank you, my Sheherazade. — Not very apt. I always finish my stories… You could have me put to death any morning. — I could. But I know there will always be another story. When you say you have told them all, it only means that at the moment you are too lazy to remember. Therefore I wish to keep you alive… Besides, I have other reasons. — Have you? — … If you don’t give me that kiss of your own accord, I shall take it…. I wish I had seen Jonathan’s flower… and smelt it. — Do you know, I’ve thought of it sometimes, and looked at the shops… There’s a man who has a fine choice of cacti… but he looks like a fox. — … Would that affect the plant? — The trouble is there are quite a few varieties with that racket structure, and I don’t know enough about them to tell them apart… I’ve known one that looked very much like Jonathan, but it produced small red flowers that had no smell at all… If I described the flower, that man would probably know what I want, but if he hadn’t got it I’m sure he would sell me any cactus that had the same type of leaves. And if two years later it produced a completely different flower… well, unless it were much more beautiful than Jonathan’s crinoline I should feel somehow that the man had cheated me out of two years of patient waiting and for a moment I should hate him. — … And you don’t want to hate him? — It’s a very uncomfortable feeling. — More uncomfortable than love? — Oh no, much less… but it’s all bad. There’s nothing on the credit side. At least… I suppose there might be for some people, but not for me. That’s why I find it so depressing. — Mm… I have noticed you seem allergic to that kind of emotion. It’s very curious… Well, never mind. I dare say we shall find some other florist - less unprepossessing than your fox. — If only I knew Jonathan’s proper name it would make things much easier. — Would it? … I cannot see that it would make any great difference. — Oh, but it would… For one thing, I shouldn’t look such a fool. As it is, with that type of man, I might as well ask him to cheat. If I knew the name, I’d tell him I want that cactus and no other, and I’d make him write the name very clearly on the receipted bill, and say that if I found later there had been a mistake he would hear about it. So if he hadn’t got the right kind he would think it wasn’t worth forcing a sale with a tough customer who might turn unpleasant… What are you laughing at? — … My love… I can just see you doing that… In fact, I want to see you do it. If I get Jonathan’s official name, may I come and stand in a corner of the shop? — … If you do come, you had better stand by me to show that we are together. You look rather impressive. — But I shan’t see so well if I stand near you. — … This is perfectly⟨perfectly⟩ [...] ⟨absurd… and quite pointless⟩, because you’ll never find out the name. — Oh yes, I shall. — … What will you do? — You are going to Folio JHT/1995/00045/3/21 lend me the sketch and the photographs you said you have somewhere, and I shall get an expert to put a name to them. — … Well… I don’t quite know where they are, but I shall look for them… You always seem to find a way out… — That’s because I am a man. — … Is it? — Didn’t you know that men are always busy finding a way out - when they are not busy finding a way in? — … Peter. — I beg your pardon. — I had never heard it, but somehow I feel sure that every man who ever lived on this Earth has committed that idiotic joke at least once in his life. — You’re quite right. Adam started it when he was chucked out of the Garden, and we have all followed suit. Can you ever forgive this excess of vulgarity? — I don’t mind at all… It’s usually a good sign. — … A good sign? .. A sign of what? — It means you are feeling better. — … What makes you say that? — Well… I believe that when you want me to talk to you… just to talk, about nothing in particular… it often means that you’ve been concentrating too much on something or other and that you want to shake it off. You are too polite to let me talk without giving me some attention… That weakens your chain of thought, and when it snaps you celebrate the release by doing or saying something perfectly absurd. It’s like - no, it’s not like it at all, but it always reminds me of it - the yelling of children when they run out of the schoolroom. They make a lot of noise afterwards while they are playing, but it is never the same as that first great shout… like an explosion of life. — … You have no objection? — To what? — … My using you like that. — Do you think I am a complete idiot? — No, I don’t. — Then why do you ask me that? .. You could not ‘use me like that’ if I had no power over you. — … You realize that, do you… Tell me: what were you thinking underneath? — … Underneath? — I don’t mean that you were trying to hide anything from me. But there was a look in your eyes that I’ve come to know - abstracted - as if you were listening to someone even while you are speaking. .. It always means that you are trying to follow two different ideas at the same time. — Oh… I was only thinking that perhaps the man did not know his cacti much better than I do, and that he might make a genuine mistake… Life is very complicated.

Oh dear, this is awful. — What, my love? — I had⟨I've had⟩a growing suspicion that I was losing whatever adult restraint I had acquired … and now I’m sure of it. I caught myself behaving with you exactly as I did when I was ten years old. — … I don’t believe it. — But it’s true! — … Who did you sleep with when you were ten years old? — Peter! .. I don’t mean that. — What do you mean then? — When I was a child, if I argued with Bob and got excited, I would lose sight of our starting-point and get so completely immersed in the technique of arguing that I could say the most outrageous and insincere things - until Bob stopped me⟨pulled me up⟩by repeating something I had just said, and it startled me so that I stopped dead… I had quite outgrown that, oh, long before I was twenty. But lately I’ve caught myself doing it several times… It’s no laughing matter… — My love, I am delighted. Few things could please me more than to know I bring back to you something of your childhood - with Bob. … I have always been [...]⟨slightly⟩ jealous of him. And if your [...] [...] ⟨arguments are at times somewhat⟩ eristic [...]… well, who am I to blame you?

Mary. You can’t possibly like that thing. Why did you buy it? — … But you said… when I told you we were going to the Exhibition, you did say I could buy anything I liked… It wasn’t expensive. — Don’t be a fool. The point is that you don't like it. And I want to know why you have bought a thing that in your normal state you would rather avoid looking at… That leatherwork is abominably vulgar… Did you buy it because you know someone who likes that kind of thing - or just because the smell of the Fair went to your head? — Peter… the man who makes them was so proud of them… I couldn’t disappoint him. I had to say they were beautiful… And after that of course I had to buy one, or he would have thought I didn’t mean it. — … You little hypocrite. Do you have to please all men? — Only the nice ones. That one was very nice. Almost black, with white hair - like a baby lamb ⟨new lamb⟩after you’ve washed it… And I don’t know why, but I find it very moving to see a man - I mean a human being - or an animal, because some of them do it too - take a pride in what they have achieved. — … In what way, moving? — I don’t know… I don’t think I want to know. It’s rather like the feeling you have when you see a small child behave for a moment like an adult… only worse.

Mary? .. Why did you never tell me the story of the woman who had seven children and whipped them every Saturday? — … What? — On the principle that if they had behaved better than usual one week they were bound to behave worse than usual the next… A kind of domestic law of averages. — … That’s an outrageous story. I suppose you made it up? — I did not. Lotte told it to me. — Lotte? .. I don’t believe it. It’s not her style at all. She was always scrupulously fair, and I am sure she would find that story perfectly immoral. — I daresay she does. It’s not her story. It seems that your grandmother told it to you when you were four years old, and that you were ⟨quite⟩indignant. about it You went straight to Lotte and repeated the story word for word in a remarkably good imitation of your Grandmother’s voice… Lotte says you had a way of doing that in your childhood, and she fondly imagines that she had cured you of that impertinent⟨irreverent⟩ habit… I thought it kinder not to undeceive her. — Peter? .. What else did she tell you? … I hardly knew I had a past until you started making up to Lotte. — She said that after repeating the story with perfect elocution - looking the while like a very small Fury - you concluded in your normal voice, but with unusual emphasis: [...] ⟨I think she was a⟩ horrid woman. If she had done that to me, I would just have been more wicked than she could whip. — … I have not the slightest recollection of that. But if Lotte says so, it must be true. — Obviously it is true. This ‘scrupulous fairness’ of Lotte’s must have marked you for life before you even understood it. I am sure you would have been quite prepared to die for the sake of these seven fictitious child-martyrs. — Don’t be absurd. — My love, I have with my own eyes seen you take up the cudgel for less worthy causes.

Madonna… — My love? — You shouldn’t be awake at this time of night. — I’ve as much right to be awake as you have. — … What were you doing? — Thinking. — What were you thinking of? — You. — … Come here. — Mm… Give me your shoulder. — … All right? — Mm… — … Madonna… You will not let me die? — No, my heart… Don’t be afraid… I won’t let you go. — Hold me tight… I think I shall sleep now.

Mary? .. Did I wake you up last night? — … No, you didn’t. — I seem to remember that I spoke to you. — You must have been dreaming… Did you have a bad night? — … No… On the whole I slept very well. — Good. Have some more coffee? ..

Look, my sweet, you’d better go and have dinner - and tell John I’d like some coffee. I’ve eaten too much at the party. — Is that why there was nothing left when I got there? — Well… There must have been at least sixty people [...] - and, as far as I could see, all eating too much… And I swallowed some of that horrible akvavit. — Did you? … I should like to know whom you did that for… You’ve always refused to accept any from me. — I didn’t do it on purpose. I had been eating a queer mixture of salt and spices, and I told N. I was thirsty. He handed me a tumbler of something that looked like water, and it was only when it choked me that I realised what it was. — … You must have been very interested in the conversation. I have rarely seen you drink anything without having a discreet sniff at it first - like a cat who wonders if the fish is quite worthy of her… Come with me. You’ll have your coffee in the dining room and talk to me while I eat. — All right… if you don’t object to my looking on. — I don’t. I know that my table manners are above reproach… You need not try to hide that smile. I am well aware of the implication… Now you’re going to tell me how the party went before I came. — Well… I got there at half-past five - according to your instructions, although I thought it was ridiculously early. You were quite right, there was a crowd already. — Mm. The house has a good reputation. — I told N. you could only come later, and of course he was very polite about it. He said the main thing was that I had come, since anyway he saw you two or three times a week… And he started talking about you… You never told me that you had worked with him? — Did he tell you that? — He said he had talked himself hoarse trying to keep you in the Service, but that you were too independant… — What are you smiling for? — He also said that you were extremely stubborn and that you had been almost rude to him… It seems you told him that if you had to lead the kind of life he was leading you would die of boredom. — He has a good memory. — … He wondered if you still thought that the indepdendance and the money were sufficient compensation for the loss of the more leisured life you might have enjoyed… I said I had the impression that you were very interested in your work, and that you did manage an occasional holiday… was that all right? — Quite. — … Then I walked round with him and tried to say something nice to the people I had already met - which was practically the lot of them, except for a Brazilian I did not like much, and the new Japanese attaché… I can’t remember his name. — Toyokouni. — That’s it. He told me he had the ‘honour’ of knowing you… I found him very nice. — The feeling seems to have been mutual. When I spoke to him, his compliments were still more involved than usual, and I could not imagine what he was driving at - until he capped the lot by saying that he was “most wishful to congratulate me on the great wisdom I had shown in attaching to myself such an accomplished person” … I began to wonder what you’d been doing to him. — We talked. — Well… I hardly supposed Folio JHT/1995/00045/3/26 that it had gone any farther. What did you talk about? — The Japanese theatre. — So? .. Do you know anything about it? — Not very much… I heard a few lectures, years ago… I read some of the classics… and one winter I got interested in the scenic side of it because an American woman I knew very well gave some private shows with a small Japanese troupe, and I helped to paint[?] the screens and the backcloths. — … I never met that woman, did I? — No. I haven’t seen her for some years… She turned Buddhist - rather aggressively so. It made conversation very difficult. — … You have a genius for collecting the oddest people… — Yes… it would seem I have… Anyway we gave a Nō at one of these shows that was really very good - and in a style that Europeans could appre -ciate, which isn’t always the case. I mentioned it to… how did you say? — Toyokouni. — Thank you… And he said: ‘But that was at miss L.’s. I saw it’ … It was almost as if we’d found we had been to the same school. We started discussing G. L., and Buddhism. Toyokouni said he was a Buddhist, and he added: “But miss L. is certainly a much better Buddhist than I am. Westerners always are - while it lasts.” .. I answered that with her it was bound to last, because she had built all her social life around it. Then he smiled - not the polite and gentle smile he usually wears, but a really wicked smile… almost like yours… and he said: “You are quite right. If she recanted now it would cause a considerable amount of complications.” … I had not meant it quite that way, so I protested that after all most [...]⟨of us⟩ did very much the same thing… We just drift for a time - like the larvae of some molluscs do - and some day we imagine that we’ve found our place in the scheme of things, and we start building⟨stop and start⟩ building… and we’re stuck there until we die… He got excited about that, and I got rather worried because I could see he was leading straight for metaphysics - and you know how hopeless I am when it comes to that… So I firmly brought him back to the theatre and kept him there… He wants to make the Japanese theatre better known in western countries, but he isn’t allowed much money, so we discussed the possibility of making the shows more or less self-supporting… Don’t look at me like that, I gave him very sound advice. I won’t go into the details, because it would bore you… Do you know… for one split second I forgot that I was married. — … Mary? .. Just what do you mean by that? — Well… I started telling him that if he thought I could be any use… revising translations of the plays, and so on… I’d be very glad to help. And suddenly I thought, good heavens, what will Peter say to that? - and I twisted what I was saying so as to make it sound quite vague and indefinite… And I took shelter behind the facts of life and said I was dreadfully hungry…. Look, my sweet, I’m going to pinch you - hard. — Folio JHT/1995/00045/3/27 — … Are you? .. What for? — That smug look on your face… I know you’ve brought me to heel, but you don’t have to look so indecently pleased about it. It’s abominably tactless. — … Do you really think so? — … Oh… well, I don’t know… I do love you… I can’t help it. — Still trying to? — I can’t help trying to… now you’re laughing at me… — I can’t help it… Go on: what happened when you said you were hungry? — He positively overflowed with apologies… It was almost embarrassing. I managed to steer him towards the buffet, where things were much quieter than at the time I arrived… You know how fascinating smörgbröhe[?] are to look at? .. At one end of the buffet there were three left in a dish - quite different from the others, I had never seen anything like them. — Describe. — … Just like a ten out of a pack of playing cards, save that each one was both red and black… That was the first impression… of course, they were bigger, about twice the size of a card… Brown bread - [...]⟨rye⟩, I think - and the butter on it was mixed with fresh cream… I know the taste, because I used to do that. Each spot of the ten was marked with one round leaf of watercress, and on each leaf there was a little heap that looked as if it has been moulded into shape with a large-sized thimble. The four outer spots at one end of the card were a shiny dark grey - fresh caviare. The opposite half was vermilion - made with the unripe eggs from the inside of of lobsters or crabs - probably crabs, the flavour was more delicate than it usually is with lobsters. The two centre spots stumped me to look at: they were a creamy yellow and very smooth - rather like marzipan. When I ate one I found it was really a kind of marzipan, but it was pine- nuts instead of almonds, pulped into a smooth paste with a little salt… After I had taken a couple of bites, I began to wonder how I could coax or bribe the waiter to hide the last one until you came - and at the very moment that beastly Brazilian grabbed it… I must try to make some. I think John would help me. — Is that why you took a dislike to the man? — No. That only confirmed my feeling. I dislike him at first sight because he reminded me of a centipede. — … I can’t say that I noticed the likeness. — I don’t suppose he smiled at you the way he smiled at me. The number of teeth he showed was as excessive and… and obscene as the number of legs on a centipede. Revolting. — I see… I have the impression that N. does not like him much either - though it can hardly be for the same reason. I don’t think you will meet him very often… What happened after he stole my smörgbrod? — Let me see… N. joined us at the buffet and we went on eating and had a three-cornered conversation about Toyokouni’s Folio JHT/1995/00045/3/30 plans - that was when I drank the akvavit - and very soon after that you came in. — I noticed you did not look quite as… serene as usual. — That’s because I had just been choking. I know I was still short of breath when I heard your voice behind me… I have nothing more to tell you - and I’m sure you’ve had quite enough dinner. Let’s go and sit by the fire. — Mm… Mary. If you think it might interest you to work with Toyokouni, I have no objection. — … Are you sure? — Quite sure. Provided, of course, I always find you here when I come home… I am afraid that if I didn’t - even once - I would be quite unbearable for a few days. — I know that. — Do you? .. I don’t think I even told you so… And I never told you how much I appreciate that way you have of looking as if you had never thought of setting foot outside the house since I left you in the morning… It makes the tale of your day’s doings sound almost miraculous… And in spite of all you tell me of what you have seen and done, when you greet me each evening I cannot escape the absurd and delightful impression that you have spent the day waiting for me - thinking of me… If that’s what you are trying to do, you are very successful. — … Your impression is not so absurd as you think… Peter: if ever you don’t find me here when you come home - at your usual time - you can get busy with the phone at once. I shall be either in jail or in hospital.

Did you have a nice time this afternoon? — Mm. Had tea with Gertrude. — I know that. At least I know you intended to. What else? — We saw the Mexican potteries… I told you we might go. — Did you buy anything? — No… The pieces lent by museums were so beautiful that they put me off the others… We met a friend of yours. — So? .. — Mrs N. — … Did you speak to her? — It was unavoidable. She crossed the room to speak to us. And since she knows Gertrude - there was nothing I could do about it… She was perfectly charming. — Was she? — … She spoke of you in a most touching way. — Indeed? — Yes… I was very annoyed with Gertrude because she kept winking at me and trying to make me laugh… You know, I much prefer Betty - to Mrs. N, I mean. Of course she’s not so lovely to look at, but there’s something direct about her that I rather like. — … Do you mean Miss R.? — Oh… Is that what you call her? I beg your pardon. Yes, I meant Miss R. — Mary? .. Would you - just for a moment - stop being impertinent? — I will… if you stop being silly. — Mary… — All right, my sweet. I meant no harm. I won’t speak of her if it annoys you. — … My love, if you try so hard to make me lose my temper, you will succeed some day… Will you kindly explain how it is that you have met Betty R. without my knowledge? — I met her… two weeks ago, at Sarah’s. If you remember, she had a few people for cocktails, and you came to fetch me, rather late. Betty had left earlier because she was dining somewhere. — I see… And neither you - nor Sarah - happened to think that I might be interested? — We did not discuss it… but I should say we both ‘happened to think’ that you might be embarrassed. — … So… And to-day? — Well… I feel I’ve been a cat about Mrs. N… and I should not like you to think that I react to all your women in that way. — … I wish you would not speak as if I had made a habit of keeping a harem… Tell me: how did you get on with Betty? — Oh… we had a slight skirmish at first… very slight. And after [...]that we were quite friendly. — Mary.. .. Come here, my love. Are you going to be kind to me and tell me all about it? — There’s nothing much to tell… She came unexpectedly, so that we met - so to speak - without warning. When Sarah introduced us, she gave me what is known as a ‘meaning’ look… But you know how it is with meaning looks: unless you know beforehand what they are going to mean you never understand them. For a moment I felt puzzled. Then I saw Betty’s look as she heard my name… It was not a meaning look, it was a measuring look, and I recognized it… Then I remembered the name. — You knew it? — Peter, if you ask me that kind of question, I shall begin to think that you don’t know women as well as I thought you did. — Of course… That was stupid of me. Go on. — There was a very brief silence… I should think of the sort that is sometimes called [...]‘pregnant’… [...]… Then she said: So you’re Peter’s wife… I nodded and smiled politely. And then she asked me how I liked being married to you. — Did she? … And what did you reply? — I said that I liked it well enough - and that it was not very different from living with you without being married. — Mary! .. — Well, she started it. But I did not want to offend her, because I liked her face. So I smiled again - a kind of trusting smile - and I added: I can tell, because I have tried both… That shook her. — … I’m not surprised. — I don’t think you quite understand. What shook her was not that I should speak Folio JHT/1995/00045/3/29 to her in what you would no doubt call a grossly improper manner. — I would. — Yes… and you would be right. I shan’t do it again… What shook her was the idea… I don’t quite know how to put it. — I am glad to hear there is something you don’t know how to put. — … The idea that you knew what you were doing when you married me. Yes - that just about expresses it… I’m afraid you will have some explaining to do if you happen to meet her… privately. — My love, I shall take great care not to meet her privately. There are few things I dislike more than that kind of explanation… Tell me: do you intend to invite her? — I thought…. occasionally… with other people that we both - that is, Betty and I - already know… subject, of course, to your approval … But she’s a nice woman, and I should hate to think that some people in your set feel they must not ask her because they’ve asked us. It would hurt her… She’s very socially minded. — And yet you like her? — I think she’s straight. Few people are - and even fewer women than men… Most of them can’t afford to be.. Now don’t you dare throw that back at me next time you feel like being unpleasant. — I swear I shall never allude to it. Give me a kiss … and tell me the rest of the story.

Go on - say it - I am expecting it... Damn you - Anyway this hasnothing to do with nature. It is a matter of ethics - of artificial rulesagreed upon by socially-minded creatures - and therefore I have aright to use the word. It is not fair to say to the boy and I will not have it.And unless you promise

It’s your absurd insistence on marriage that upsets me. I respect you far too much even to suggest anything else. — Now you’re just being stubborn difficult. You didn’t bother so much about respect last Sunday. — Mary, my behaviour on Sunday was in the worst possible taste, and I deeply regret it — even though I am quite certain you did not take me seriously. — Didn’t I? — … Did you? — Mm … Quite enough not to dare slap your face… I wonder why I didn’t⟨I wish I had⟩ - it would have simplified things beautifully. I’m afraid I am unable to act on impulse. … We can’t possibly go on like this… At least, I don’t know about you… I can’t understand how it is that you have not married again - with these ideas of yours… — You mean that you don’t understand my ideas. I have not married again because I consider marriage as a permanent relationship. This house you are living in is quite charming. Many people would buy it and try to establish a permanent relationship with it. But you don’t care for it enough to do that. — … No… But, Peter, marriage nowadays seems to be far less permanent than real estate — … I believe… I know that if you agreed to marry you wouldsquare no conceivable effort⟨do all in your power⟩to make a success of it - and youwould not give up easily… — Of course. So you understand why I will not marry. I should have to be completely blinded with love to undertake that⟨...⟩ - to be far less permanent than real estate. — … I believe… I know that if you agreed to marry you would devote yourself - entirely - to making a success of it. — … So you understand why I do not want to marry. — Yes… [...] ⟨and so⟩ you might understand why I intend to marry you.

You are not afraid, are you? — Not in the least. Why should I be afraid of something I am not going to do? — I see. You mean you would be afraid if you were going to do it. — I don’t mean anything of the sort. You are absolutely maddening.

I hope you will not think I am presuming if I advise you about your private life? … You should not dream of things you do not really wish to happen. It is unwise. — I do not dream — Since when?[?] Is that true? — Not since I sleep alongside you like a ship tied⟨boat moored⟩ to a jetty. I did not mean in your sleep. — I know, but it comes to the same thing. I used to dream myself to sleep. Now I fall asleep — I can feel myself falling. — Tell me. What does it feel like? — … You know… The whole world ceases to be solid, and you sink down… but you are dead before you reach the bottom. It’s a very nice feeling. — I am glad you like it. But I must be losing my grip. I could have sworn… — Don’t worry, my sweet. Your magic powers haven’t let you down. But it was only the past catching up with me. It has a way of doing that… on occasions. — Just what do you mean by these occasions?.. Tell me. — … You open the doors… No, I cannot give you anything more precise on that point… There is one thing I can tell you

The lie/ “Whom with?” - Surely that was a ⟨very⟩ natural question to ask? - I could have expected it from almost anyone else, but not from you… I used to think in those days, that you were so restrained ⟨reserved and diseased[?]⟩ as to be ⟨quite⟩over-civilized. — … Indeed.. — Yes… And so, when you asked that, I had no answer ready, and I panicked. I groped wildly for ⟨a likely⟩ name, and I [...] ⟨knew⟩ with the crazy certainty one feels in dreams, that you would somehow contrive to meet the person I might [...] ⟨name⟩ and thus learn that I had lied to you. .. By the time it occurred to me ⟨that⟩ I could safely say [...]I was dining with an old school-friend whom you had never met, it was too late. You were watching me with a most disconcerting expression… a [...] faint, mocking smile, and a great tender -ness in your eyes - as though I had been a small child trying to complete⟨attempting⟩ a feat obviously beyond its strength. I looked at you, quite unable to speak, and you said with perfect gravity: ‘My dear, when you can remember who it [...]is you promised to dine with, you will ring them up, tell them that you had forgotten a previous engagement, and apologise nicely for your absent-mindedness. I shall call to-morrow as usual. Good-night.” And while I stood rooted there in the middle of the hall, and feeling guilty right down to my toenails, you let Folio JHT/1995/00045/8/1 verso yourself out and closed the front-door so softly that I hardly realized you had gone.. I spent an awful night. — My poor little love. — You know what night can be when one is worried. — .. I do. — I kept wondering whether you would be brutally sarcastic or just mildly sneering. Xorif, worst of all, you would not come at all... Ibecame aware that in some way you had power of punishment over me, a power I had only acknowledged[?] during childhood in my parents and in Lotte… It was dreadfully upsetting[?]... I spent the day literally doing nothing but waiting for you… And when you came, you were just as usual - if possible even more so. I could have thought I had dreamt it all.

X Or if perhaps, and that was the worst, you [...] ⟨would⟩ decide to punish me by your absence, and notcome that evening after all… That was, I think, what [...]most deeply upset me - the realization thatyou had power of —

When I was seeing you off, and you stopped by the hall-table to pick up your [...] gloves, you began to speak of a film we might see the next evening, and I was suddenly reminded of my very wise reflexions. I took a deep breath, and exclaimed in a beautifully off-hand and casual manner - or so I thought - “Oh! Not to-morrow, I can’t. I am dining out.” And you said: “Whom with?”

You’re not annoyed with me, are you? — — Have I any cause to be? — None that I know of. But if you were in the mood, you wouldn’t let a little thing like that stop you.

Flying lessons — .. I never told you! .. If you want to lead a reasonably peaceful life, you had better [...]⟨give up any⟩ idea ⟨you might entertain⟩ of having a go at the numerous things I never told you not to do. My love - don’t you realize that you gave yourself away when you said that you thought I would not like it?

You said … you’d be obliged if I would go back and change - and be quick about it. (Sarah)

He called me when I was in the middle of a very interesting article.

The ring - I hope it isn’t one of those chunky ones that catch in everything… — Chunky or not, you shall wear it. — Oh, all right… I suppose I had better get used to the idea of doing what you want. — My love, these are the most sensible words I have heard you speak since I know you.

I’m sorry. — Is that all you have to say? — I had intended to offer some polite excuse, but one look at you when you came in was enough to show me that it would be a mistake. — Some polite excuse… Do you mean a lie? — Not at all. A thing can be both polite and true. — Mary. What were you doing yesterday at 6.30 when you should have been here expecting me? — Expecting you? .. I wasn’t aware you didn’t say you would be coming. — So… If that is your polite excuse, I don’t think much of it. You know very well