Vol. VI No. 1 - Modernist Magazines Project

THE BERMONDSEY BOOK
lying ready for the coffin and the fire. He had never seen anyone deadj
he felt afraid, suddenly, of what she might look like. Lovely, Mrs.
Clay ton had said. Lovely? He went slowly down the little hallway,
stopped a moment with his hand on the door, then quietly opened it.
The room was terribly silent. He would not look at the bed. But,
slowly, his eyes moved towards it. For a moment he thought she was
gone, that there was no one there, and then he saw her, slighter, frailer
than he could have imagined, but lovely, lovelier than he had ever
known her. His heart seemed to melt suddenly. She was beautiful,
with her dark hair braided, her face white and her lips pale, like faintly
coloured marble. There was a marvellous certainty and assurance in
her face. Death seemed a lovely and a wonderful thing. He had never
seen her look so still, so utterly tranquil, save when listening to music.
Brenda, listening to Bach, had always seemed transformed, removed
to another world where there were no doubts, but understanding only.
That was how she looked now, and he envied her. Death was
fulfilment, certainty, completeness. He knew that now. And he knew
too, that he loved her, as he had known he loved her in brief, blessed
moments, that almost burst his heart now with the pain of their remembered
sweetness. That evening before their marriage when he
had sat gazing at her, not daring to speak, and had suddenly buried
his head in her lap, weeping 5 that night after "Tristan" when they
had driven out into the country, dark and still in the moonlight -y that
foggy afternoon when he had come back, late and tired and worried,
from a business trip to the North, and found her asleep before the fire,
waiting his return.
And now he began to weep. She was beyond him, but she had been
his and he had loved her with a longing that he had forgotten in these
last months of deadening misery. And she had loved him, too. He
wanted to kiss her as she lay there, and dared not. He stood still, staring
at her, hot tears pushing their way out, burning his lids. His teeth
bit into his lips, which were trembling now. He made a movement
with his hands towards her, and then turned and went out of the room,
back to the divan, and lay there crying quietly, happily almost, happy
that he could cry at last. *
But the day had to be lived out. There was lunch to be endured,
with Mrs. Clayton facing him, grey and silent, and the long afternoon,
and how many other days? And, all the while, she lay there in that
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