by Gail Godwin
I ask how to get Vulcan. It says PEACE. I ask how to behave now regarding my life in general. It gives that horrible ABYSS reading: six in the first and in the last place, which is not only misfortune, but misfortune for three years.15 I ask how I shall act today, and I get abysmal again. I leave, utterly defeated, go to Whiteway, buy food, come home—eat sandwiches, drink beer, and read The Owl and Nightingale.16 Back to office at 5:30 to begin the painful sixth-chapter rewrite. Did four pages, polishing, repolishing, then typed up “Blue” on a stencil.
Came home. Brisk cold, stars; a truck in distance. I’m alone with my companion: me. Whenever I start to go to pieces, it’s because I’m looking outside and trying to guide myself by the charts of others.
With my studies and teaching the novel, plus whatever story comes up, I have enough to put me to sleep at night without a social life, too much alcohol, or Vulcan’s caresses. If anything happens that is pleasant, it belongs to the periphery, where all things perish, change, fly, disappear.
“THE ILLUMINED MOMENT”—revisions.17 Focus in on his personality at the beginning. The vicar is a young man, thirty-one last June. Physical description: eyes that have seen things. He’s suited best for country roads, gratefully munched-over scones in a parishioner’s drawing room. He’s going to pieces over his picture in Time magazine. His rib cage might be protecting a little bird. His bishop keeps hinting he should marry.
Metaphor for artist who has just published his first book. He sees that it will never be so simple or so quiet again. He’s on to something new.
Excerpt from “An Intermediate Stop,” Published in
Dream Children (Knopf, 1976)
The vicar, just turned thirty-one, had moved quietly through his twenties engrossed in the somewhat awesome implications of his calling. In the last year of what he now referred to nostalgically as his decade of contemplation, he had stumbled upon a vision in the same natural way he’d often taken walks in the gentle mist of his countryside and come suddenly upon the form of another person and greeted him. He was astonished, then grateful. He had actually wept. Afterward he was exhausted. Days went by before he could bring himself to record it, warily and wonderingly, first for himself and then to bear witness to others. Even as he wrote, he felt the memory of it, the way the pure thing had been, slipping away. Nevertheless, he felt he must preserve what he could.
Somewhere between the final scribbled word of the original manuscript and the dismay with which he now (aboard a Dixie Airways turboprop flying above red flatlands in the southern United States) regarded the picture of himself on the religion page of Time magazine, his tenuous visitor had fled him altogether. The vicar was left with a much-altered life, hopping around an international circuit of lecture tours (the bishop was more than pleased) that took him further and further from the auspicious state of mind which had generated that important breakthrough.
NOVEMBER 30
December may be better. Struggling with the novel. I know I’m beyond this story, this woman, now. But I think I can make an honest novel out of it, and one with some black punch to it. After that, I want to try something completely fanciful, break away from the Gwen-Dane woman-in-the-single-room syndrome. Like Lawrence after Sons and Lovers saying “This is the last of its kind.” Tomorrow I’d like to get into the torture of the riding ring scene18 before the onslaught of my classes.
It begins to occur to me that Vulcan is painfully shy that his social life about equals mine, that he, too, hopes for a savior, but is not about to lose his pride. He came down, worked till about nine. He made the long journey down to his office by going by mine, rattled keys, unlocked, locked, came back, knocked, came in and looked rather pale, his hair washed and flying away again like I like it. He was limping, said he sat down on a Condé chair and reslipped a disc. Said, “I called you Wednesday night. I was going to invite you for a cocktail or even invite myself over for a Bloody Mary.” So I do know he’s trying. I invited him over tomorrow morning. Instead of morbidly expecting the worst, I shall expect him. The trouble with being lonely is, I tend to forget that other people are lonely, have barricades against disappointment, too. So, I admire Vulcan’s caution; it is charming, honest. It is as if he is saying, “I am coming as fast as I can.” I think he needs encouragement, but no games; he would recoil from games. And this, after all, is a not-bad stage: a potential companion in the mead hall. I think one has to go the rest of the way alone.
DECEMBER 1
This apartment. The radio. Enough to eat. Drink. At least my husband was not sealed up in the West Virginia coal mine catastrophe. Mother just called: “You’ve still got us. Come for Christmas.” This morning Monie told her: “I dreamed last night I lost my horse, Jim.” Mother: “That’s funny! Last night I dreamed I found a horse. I gave it to Rebel. It must have been Jim.”
DECEMBER 2
Hit bottom last night. Cried, drank, sobbed, cursed, prayed. The solitude. Nothing to hope for. Then Old W.,19 of all people, called at ten and I went over there, stayed till three listening to his stories of broken marriage. How his wife made him drive straight from the church to the cemetery, where she laid her wedding bouquet on her father’s grave. Smelling of Guerlain men’s cologne, he begged me to spend the night, and I noticed he’d put fresh sheets on the bed. His hands were clammy and he was going on about how he’d failed to get it up with some girl last week. I had a difficult time getting out of there.
I had six to seven hours’ sleep, woke hungover, prepared my class, barely made it. Have felt sore-throaty all day. Cold feet. Went to see Bev in the psychiatric ward. She’s holding out for perfection, and she still thinks she’ll get it. Even when she’s telling me about her breakdowns, screaming, wanting to die, I have this eerie feeling she’s dramatizing it all.
Back to the EPB—Jane had read my note, all’s well there again. Encountered poor Vulcan limping along with his back ailment—had been to the doctor, who’d prescribed hot pads, and if that failed, a corset. I wished him better. He said he wished himself better, as it was separating him from the mainstream of life. No mention of Sunday. Mother called again. Christmas at home.
DECEMBER 3
Composing myself at the bottom of the abyss. If I go home, it will be with the promise to myself to write the Chamberlain paper there and prepare to teach The Canterbury Tales. Rewards today: an A on McDowell’s20 midterm with notes like “Excellent work” and “A pleasure to read.” Vulcan still scarce and limping. I said, “Better?” He said, “A little.” I learned a good lesson from Tristan. At the moment I don’t really want to suffer.
Now when the maid and the man, Isolde and Tristan, had drunk the draught, in an instant that arch-disturber of tranquility was there, Love, wayiayer of all hearts … [Tristan] at once remembered loyalty and honour, and strove to turn away [but] love tormented him to an extreme … He fixed his mind on escape and how he might elude her … But the noose was always there.
—GOTTFRIED VON STRASSBURG, TRISTAN, translated by A. T. Hatto
DECEMBER 4
Night before last: a dream—a nightmare—from which I awoke in despair. I dreamed Vulcan came to Kathleen and Frank’s house. It was the present temporary one, very cramped.21 Everyone in the family was on their worst behavior. My mother went around in a dirty girdle. We were all going out, and I became so ashamed, I couldn’t go with them. I stayed home and cried. Next day, I asked my mother about it. She said, “He was very formal and thanked me for dinner. He left with another girl.” Mother showed me the girl’s picture. She was that rather homely but sincere type. I woke up saying, “Oh no.”
This afternoon in the graduate bitch-session: listening to the women PhD candidates. One blond divorcée who tried to kill herself last year; and poor Winifred, whose comps start tomorrow, and whose office is overrun with mice!
DECEMBER 5
Vulcan knows what he likes and wants, and is discreet and cautious. He will not have his credentials trod upon. Tonight was the first time I saw him show enthusiasm for something—
his hand-printed books. He doesn’t want to reprint anything. He has interesting ideas. Jane had said he hadn’t shown up at a Condé dinner party. His place had been laid. He apparently disappeared for two days.
Tonight, he was having a late dinner at Jane’s. She was stooping to put a casserole in the oven. “There’s a woman!” he said as he spun and pointed.22 He said he’d been drinking less. He likes Nightwood.23 He told me he’d read my professors’ comments on the PhD sheet. Coover had said: “Outstanding writer. I only hope she doesn’t get the PhD and writes instead.” I grow more and more attracted to Vulcan and refuse to deny it.
He was explaining to his mother about modern art: “the landscape as seen whizzing by in a car. Grandfather never saw it like that.” I told him about Philobiblon.24 I think I’ll just regard him as a male friend. If he is a man of habit and security—and all points that way—then I slowly will become more important to him.
DECEMBER 6
I feel like a mouse that a cat has been toying with for several hours. That foxy Prussian knew damn well every effect and side effect he had on me. I must acknowledge the fact that, for his own good reasons, this man is not interested in me. He has his freedom, a fantastic car due in two weeks, lots of friends. He’s invited to a dinner and three parties tonight. There is no room for me in his life. All he likes to do is peep in to see me working. The way he kept playing with the I Ching tonight and reading out terrible answers: “You should not marry such a maiden.” And then asking: “Will I find romance at the party?”
If only I could get a fix on him, but he’s foxier than I am, and I can’t fathom him. I can’t go on with this dragging, lackluster hope. The I Ching says SPLITTING APART: take no action. OUTSIDE CIRCUMSTANCES. All I can do is refine my character, hope for greater understanding, and put this energy into writing.
Maybe I can work this out tomorrow in my “Morningside” story about Mrs. Pedersen and her daughter. The daughter is young, demanding of love. The mother is the stoic who accepts love in whatever shape it comes. Use this frustration about the Prussian to put power into this story. Write a high-quality Virginia Woolf story.
DECEMBER 7
No nonsense on weekends. They’re my only time with no duties other than to write. I see, in the morning’s clearer light, that with him it could be worse. If he started taking me out secretly, then I’d want to go out with him publicly. I’d start wondering where he was every night. The more familiar I became with his habits, the more they would trap me. I’d much rather carry on this sort of flirtation. I thought for a while I was abnormal, but one can’t close down. Because then when something does come, you’re cold to it. If I could work out my premises on this subject in that story, then maybe I could go beyond it both in life and art. Also, I want to rewrite Ambrose—make it more mythical.
THE FUTURE VULCAN
He is a man pretty well settled in his life.
He will live here. Be near his children.
Have his press. Work himself and others
hard in the shop. Go out with his cronies.
Be invited everywhere as the extra man.
Drive around in his rebuilt Jaguar.
Put out elegant little books. Be good at
what he does. Be fashionable.
Dapper. Prussian. Humorous.
And maybe or maybe not he’ll miss something.
He goes on and on about women
being serving, gentle creatures. He said
once, when drunk, “She was a fine woman,
it’s just that she had nothing of her own.”
Almost midnight
Wrote three single-spaced pages of Mrs. Pedersen, somewhat losing it at the end.
Got a step further this evening through Kent’s idea about paradigms in psychology. If a certain evasive type of man appeals to me over and over again, it may be I’m asking my father to desert me over and over again.
DECEMBER 8
Hold on hold on hold on. Wrote six and a half good pages of “Morningside.”25 The people are becoming real. Will write more tomorrow, and several nights through the week—send to John Hawkins next weekend.
Ace came by. He said he knew when women were after him. “The first sign is when they’re always around.” Two more years in this place. Ayyyeee … I live in a world in which people get married. As a single woman graduate student, I will not be invited to parties of couples. Single men faculty will. That is a social rule. Don’t say I’m going away for Christmas. Just disappear.
Excerpt from “Last Summer on Pelican Island”
—
“What were you thinking?” Horace Mayberry presently inquired.
“Goodness! About someone who was very important to me as a child. An island woman named Flavia who took care of me while we vacationed at the inn. Flavia and I spent our days and nights together. She slept on a cot in my room. We were so close. I believed she was partly me. At night I sometimes felt sure I could hear her thoughts. But then—oh dear. Daddy took some movies of our vacation one summer, and when the family was watching them at home the next winter I went into hysterics. When I saw Flavia in the movie I realized she was just like our other servants. She had dark skin and was wearing a uniform. I felt they had done something terrible to her. I was completely bereft; I felt I’d lost her.
“And I had. The war started that same winter, and my father was killed in it, and we never went back to Pelican Island. But I just realized Flavia may have been the person who taught me what might be expected from love.”
“My late wife would have been absolutely fascinated by that story,” said Horace Mayberry.
“Why is that?” asked Evangeline, who had been obliged to accept his handkerchief to dry her eyes.
“Because it’s about, oh, the mysterious things. The ones that truly turn us into human beings.”
“You must miss your wife terribly.”
“Our marriage was like one long conversation.”
DECEMBER 9
Jane has a girl. Horrible labor—twenty-four hours almost.
I hereby give notice. How long, little book, is this to go on? Really, I am dying.
Peter Ellis, a Workshop student, came in, read aloud from his work, said I fascinated him, said, “You are the dragon.” Vulcan calls after me in the hall. He waits till I come back. All friendly. “Gail, you know what happened to me the other night?—–left me at the party.” He comes again to sit and talk. Round and round we go.
What is killing me is the trudge, trudge, trudge, with no reward. One day follows the next, my hair gets dirty every Wednesday, I can hardly stand myself, I can’t see any way to get out of this damn trap. Except, in times when you can’t do anything about the external: Refine your patience, your work, sentence by sentence.
On December 10, 1968, Gail’s agent, John Hawkins, took the editor David Segal of Harper & Row to lunch at the Brussels in New York City. Having admired the first forty-eight pages of “The Beautiful French Family” along with Gail’s outline for the rest of the novel, Segal made an offer of $1,250 for an option on the book. Hawkins told him how much happier his client would be with an actual contract for $2,500, part payment on signing and the rest on delivery. Over dessert Segal agreed. Delivery date was set for May 1969. Though Segal was willing to work with Gail during the intervening months, he also offered her the freedom to complete the manuscript without consulting him—the choice she ended up taking.
DECEMBER 11
EPIGRAM: AND STILL PEOPLE GET TOOTHACHE …
I find it almost impossible to put this down (Why? Am I really, then, conditioned for failure, so that when success comes I hardly know how to handle it?):
I SOLD MY BOOK.
Hawkins called me at home at just slightly before 6:00 p.m. yesterday. I can’t write any more now.
Later. I found: (1) I could not believe what he was saying; (2) could not concentrate on hearing the things I wanted to hear most.
Afterward, I made $100 worth of calls: Mother, John Bowe
rs,26 Lorraine—and Ian.
Then Vulcan called to say there was a note on my door to call New York collect. I told him come round. He came about 11:30, was terribly charming, appreciative—kept saying, “I knew it was too good to be true. Just before I get the relationship started, she goes into another sphere.”
“Not so,” I said. “Still here, but going my own way more.”
“That’s what I mean,” he said.
He’s taking his kids to Chicago, Friday or Saturday. Said he felt guilty and sometimes thought of going back to his wife. Said he liked his children in the abstract, but not all that noise. Then he said suddenly as if to say more, “Oh, so many people are in love with me.”
I said, “Who else is in love with you?” And he kissed me. He kept looking at me and kissing me. I would say, “What are you looking at?” He would say, “Just smiling at you.” He rubbed my back. He kept saying, “I know now we’re going to end up in that double bed, though maybe not tonight.” And when he stood up to go, he put his hands on me, and kissed me for a long time, and said, “You’re nice. I like you.” And all this, dear reader, was like being hot and twenty-one again, but with new wisdom and appreciation. Several times, he started abasing himself, saying he had to “make something of his life.” There was some Virginia–Leonard Woolf conversation, too, though I can’t remember it, and him saying, “You’ve got to have money, of course you know that.” I told him how I thought he had everything—a business of his own, pride, respect from everyone—and he would just look at me and kiss me. The effect of all of this plus codeine from the dentist is to make me float like a feather.27
