Book Five: Chapter 2 - The End of the Affair

I was late for the funeral. I had gone into town to meet a man called Waterbury who was going to write an article on my work in one of the little reviews. I tossed up whether I'd see him or not: I knew too well the pompous phrases of his article, the buried significance he would discover of which I was unaware and the faults I was tired of facing. Patronizingly in the end he would place me - probably a little above Maugham because Maugham is popular and I have not yet committed that crime - not yet, but although I retain a little of the exclusiveness of unsuccess, the little reviews, like wise detectives, can scent it on its way.

Why did I ever trouble to toss up? I didn't want to meet Waterbury, and certainly I didn't want to be written about. For I have come to an end of my interest in work now: no one can please me much with praise or hurt me with blame. When I began that novel about the civil servant I was still interested, but when Sarah left me, I recognized my work for what it was - as unimportant a drug as cigarettes to get one through the weeks and years. If we are extinguished by death, as I still try to believe, what point is there in leaving some books behind any more than bottles, clothes or cheap jewellery? and if Sarah is right, how unimportant all the importance of art is. I tossed up, I think, simply from loneliness. I hadn't anything to do before the funeral: I wanted to fortify myself with a drink or two (one may cease to care about one's work, but one never ceases to care about conventions, and a man must not break down in public).

Waterbury was waiting in a sherry-bar off Tottenham Court Road. He wore black corduroy trousers and smoked cheap cigarettes, and he had with him a girl much taller and better-looking than he was who wore the same kind of trousers and smoked the same cigarettes. She was very young and she was called Sylvia and one knew that she was on a long course of study that had only begun with Waterbury - she was at the stage of imitating her teacher. I wondered where, with those looks, those alert good-natured eyes and hair the gold of illuminations, she would end. Would she even remember Waterbury in ten years and the bar off Tottenham Court Road? I felt sorry for him. He was so proud now, so patronizing to both of us, but he was on the losing side. Why, I thought, catching her eye over my glass at a particularly fatuous comment of his about the stream of consciousness, even now I could get her from him. His articles were bound in paper, but my books were bound in cloth. She knew she could learn more from me. And yet, poor devil, he had the nerve to snub her when occasionally she made a simple human unintellectual comment. I wanted to warn him of the empty future, but instead I took another glass and said, 'I can't stay long. I have to go to a funeral in Golders Green.'

'A funeral in Golders Green,' Waterbury exclaimed. 'How like one of your own characters. It would have to be Golders Green, wouldn't it?'

'I didn't choose the spot.'

'Life imitating art.'

'Is it a friend?' Sylvia asked with sympathy and Waterbury glared at her for her irrelevance. 'Yes.'

I could see that she was speculating - man? woman? what kind of a friend? and it pleased me. For I was a human being to her and not a writer: a man whose friends died and who attended their funerals, who felt pleasure and pain, who might even need comfort, not just a skilled craftsman whose work has greater sympathy perhaps than Mr Maugham's, though of course we cannot rank it as high as...

'What do you think of Forster?' Waterbury asked.

'Forster? Oh. I'm sorry. I was just wondering how long it took to Golders Green.'

'You ought to allow forty minutes,' Sylvia said. 'You have to wait for an Edgware train.'

'Forster,' Waterbury repeated irritably.

'You'll have to take a bus from the station,' Sylvia said.

'Really, Sylvia, Bendrix hasn't come here to talk about how to get to Golders Green.'

'I'm sorry, Peter, I just thought... '

'Count six before thinking, Sylvia,' Waterbury said. 'And now can we get back to E. M. Forster?'

'Need we?' I asked.

'It would be interesting as you belong to such different schools... '

'Does he belong to a school? I didn't even know that I did. Are you writing a text-book?'

Sylvia smiled and he saw the smile. I knew from that moment he would grind sharp the weapon of his trade, but it didn't matter to me. Indifference and pride look very much alike, and he probably thought I was proud. I said, 'I really ought to be going.'

'But you've only been here five minutes. It's really important to get this article right.'

'It's really important for me not to be late at Golders Green.'

'I don't see why.'

Sylvia said, 'I'm going as far as Hampstead myself. Ill put you on your way.'

'You never told me,' Waterbury said with suspicion.

'You know I always see my mother on Wednesdays.'

'Today's Tuesday.'

'Then I needn't go tomorrow.'

'It's very good of you,' I said, 'I'd like your company.'

'You used the stream of consciousness in one of your books,' Waterbury said with desperate haste. 'Why did you abandon the method?'

'Oh, I don't know. Why does one change a flat?'

'Did you feel it was a failure?'

'I feel that about all my books. Well, good-bye, Waterbury.'

'I'll send you a copy of the article,' he said as though he were uttering a threat. 'Thanks.'

'Don't be late, Sylvia. There's the Bartok programme on the Third at six-thirty.'

We went together into the débris of Tottenham Court Road. I said, 'Thank you for breaking up the party.'

'Oh, I knew you wanted to get away,' she said.

'What's your other name?'

'Black.'

'Sylvia Black,' I said, 'it's a good combination. Almost too good.'

'Was it a great friend?'

'Yes.'

'A woman?'

'Yes.'

'I'm sorry,' she said, and I had the impression that she meant it. She had a lot to learn, in the way of books and music and how to dress and talk, but she would never have to learn humanity. She came down with me into the crowded tube and we strap-hung side by side. Feeling her against me I was reminded of desire. Would that always be the case now? Not desire, but only the reminder of it. She turned to make way at Goodge Street for a newcomer, and I was aware of her thigh against my leg as one is aware of something that happened a long time ago.

'This is the first funeral I've ever been to,' I said to make conversation.

'Are your father and mother alive, then?'

'My father is. My mother died when I was away at school. I thought I'd get a few days' holiday, but my father thought it would upset me, so I made nothing out of it at all. Except I was let off prep, the night the news arrived.'

'I wouldn't like to be cremated,' she said.

'You'd prefer worms?'

'Yes, I would.'

Our heads were so close together that we could talk without raising our voices, but we couldn't look at each other because of the press of people. I said, It wouldn't matter to me one way or the other,' and wondered immediately why I had bothered to lie, because it had mattered, it must have mattered, for it was I in the end who had persuaded Henry against burial.