3
Miriam ordered another cup of coffee and went on reading. There was plenty of time. Eve would not appear at Tansley Street until half-past. In looking up at the clock she had become aware of detailed people grouped at tables. She plunged back into Norway, reading on and on. Each line was wonderful; but all in a darkness. Presently on some turned page something would shine out and make a meaning. It went on and on. It seemed to be going towards something. But there was nothing that anyone could imagine, nothing in life or in the world that could make it clear from the beginning, or bring it to an end. If the man died the author might stop. Finis. But it would not make any difference to anything. She turned the pages backwards re-reading passages here and there. She could not remember having read them. Looking forward to portions of the dialogue towards the end of the book she found them familiar; as if she had read them before ... she read them intently. They had more meaning read like that, without knowing to what they were supposed to refer. They were the same, read alone in scraps, as the early parts. It was all one book in some way, not through the thoughts, or the story, but something in the author. People who talked about the book probably understood the strange thoughts and the puzzling hinting story that began and came to an end and left everything as it was before. The author did not seem to suggest that you should be sorry. He seemed to know that at the end everything was as before, with the mountains all round.... The electric lights flashed out all over the A.B.C. at once.... Miriam remained bent low over her book. Only you had been in Norway, in a cottage up amongst the mountains and out in the open. She read a scene at random and another and began again and read the first scene through and then the last. It was all the same. You might as well begin at the end.... In Norway, up among the misty mountains, in farms and cottages looking down on fiords with glorious scenery about them all the time are people, sitting in the winter by fires and worrying about right and wrong. They wonder but more gravely and clearly than we do. Torrents thunder in their ears and they can see mountains all the time even when they are indoors. “Ibsen’s Brand” is about all those worrying things, in magnificent scenery. You are in Norway while you read. That is why people read books by geniuses and look far-away when they talk about them. They know they have been somewhere you cannot go without reading the book.... Brand. You are in the strangeness of Norway—and then there are people saying things that might be said anywhere. But with something going in and out of the words all the time. Ibsen’s genius. You can’t understand it or see where it is. Each sentence looks so ordinary, making you wonder what it is all about. But taking you somewhere, to stay, forgetting everything, until it is finished. An hour ago Ibsen was just a name people said in a particular way, a difficult wonderful mystery, and improper. Why do people say he is improper? He is exactly like everyone else, thinking and worrying about the same things. But putting them down in a background that is more real than people or thoughts. The life in the background is in the people. He does not know this. Why did he write it? A book by a genius is alive. That is why “Ibsen” is superior to novels; because it is not quite about the people or the thoughts. There is something else; a sort of lively freshness all over even the saddest parts, preventing your feeling sorry for the people. Everyone ought to know. It ought to be on the omnibuses and in the menu. All these people fussing about not knowing of Ibsen’s Brand. A volume, bound in a cover. Alive. Precious. What is Genius? Something that can take you into Norway in an A.B.C.
She wandered out into Oxford Street. There was a vast fresh gold-lit sky somewhere behind the twilight. Why did Ibsen sit down in Norway and write plays? Why did people say Ibsen as if it were the answer to something? Walking along Oxford Street with a read volume of Ibsen held against you is walking along with something precious between two covers which makes you know you are rich and free.... She wandered on and on in an expansion of everything that passed into her mind out and out towards a centre in Norway. She wondered whether Ibsen were still alive. A vast beautiful Norway and a man writing his thoughts in a made-up play. Genius. People go about saying Ibsen’s Brand as if it were the answer to something and Ibsen knows no more than anyone else.... She arrived at Tansley Street as from a great distance, suddenly wondering about her relationship with the sound of carts and near footfalls. Mrs. Bailey was standing in the doorway seeing someone off. Eve. Forgotten. I couldn’t get here before; I’m so sorry. Mrs. Bailey had disappeared. Eve stepped back into the hall and stood serenely glowing in the half-light. Are you going? I must, in a minute. Eve was looking sweet; slenderly beautiful and with her crimson-rose bloom; shy and indulgent and unenviously admiring as she had been at home; and Mrs. Bailey had been having it all. Can’t you come upstayers? Not this time; I’ll come again some time. Well; you must just tell me; wot you been doing? Talking to Mrs. Bailey? Yes. Eve had been flirting with Mrs. Bailey; perhaps talking about religion. Isn’t she funny? I like her; she’s perfectly genuine, she means what she says and really likes people. Yes; I know. Isn’t it funny? I don’t think it’s funny; it’s very beautiful and rare. Would you like to be here always? Yes; I could be always with Mrs. Bailey. Every day of your life for ever and ever? Rather. Yes; I know. And y’know there are all sorts of interesting people. I wish you lived here Eve. Eve glanced down wisely smiling and moved slenderly towards the door. What about Sunday? Couldn’t you come round for a long time? No breathed Eve restrainingly, I’m going to Sallies. All Eve’s plans were people. She moved, painfully, through things, from person to person.
4
Dr. Hurd held the door wide for Miriam to pass out and again his fresh closely knit worn brick-red face was deeply curved by the ironically chuckling hilarious smile with which he had met the incidents of the “awful German language.” That of the fatherland, the happy fatherland, nearly dislocates my jaw she could imagine him heartily and badly singing with a group of Canadian students. She smiled back at him without saying anything, rapidly piecing together the world that provoked his inclusive deeply carved smiles; himself, the marvellous little old country he found himself in as an incident of the business of forcing himself to be a doctor, his luck in securing an accomplished young English lady to prepare him for the struggle with the great medical world of Germany; his triumphant chuckling satisfaction in getting in first before the other fellows with an engagement to take her out.... The grandeur of this best bedroom of Mrs. Bailey was nothing to him. The room was just a tent in his wanderings.... For the moment he was going to take a young lady to a concert. That was how he saw it. He was a simple boyish red-haired open extension of Dr. von Heber. When she found herself out in the large grime and gloom of the twilit landing she realised that he had lifted her far further than Dr. von Heber into Canada; he was probably more Canadian. The ancient gloom of the house was nothing to him, he would get nothing of the quality of England in his personal life there, only passing glimpses from statements in books and in the conversation of other people. He did not see her as part of it all in the way Dr. von Heber had done talking at the table that night and wanting to talk to her because she was part of it. He saw her as an accomplished young lady, but a young lady like a Canadian young lady and a fellow was a fool if he did not arrange to take her out quick before the other fellows. But there was nothing in it but just that triumph. “I’ll get a silk hat before Sunday”; he would prepare for her to go all the way down to the Albert Hall as a young lady being taken to a concert; the Albert Hall on Sunday was brass bands; he thought they were a concert. His world was thin and open; but the swift sunlit decision and freedom of his innocent reception of her in his bedroom lifted the dingy brown house of her long memories into a new background. She was to be fêted, in an assumed character and whether she liked it or no. The four strange men in the little back sitting-room were her competing friends, the friends of all nice young ladies. He was the one who had laughed the laugh she had heard in the hall, of course. They never appeared but somehow they had got to know of her and had their curious baseless set ways of thinking and talking about her. Being doctors and still students they ought to be the most hateful and awful kind of men in relation to women, thinking and believing all the horrors of medical science; the hundred golden rules of gynæcology; if they had been Englishmen they would have gone about making one want to murder them; but they did not; Dr. Hurd was studying gyn’kahl’jy, but he did not apply its ugly lies to life; to Canadians women were people ... but they were all the same people to Dr. Hurd.