COV02 - A Proper Marriage

by Doris Lessing

  There was a small laugh around the room: it was an embarrassed one. Mr Pyecroft smiled indulgently, and asked their good friend Boris from Poland to remember that this was a general discussion on education; it was not in their province to discuss the techniques of revolution.

  The young man Boris said sarcastically that he should have thought it was a key question. A short silence ensued; Martha saw that the fair girl looked with passionate support into his eyes, and even touched his hand with her own. He remained passive but bitter for a few moments, until he flashed out a warm, grateful smile at her. Various people looked at them tolerantly, but with a touch of malice, as Martha noted angrily.

  Since there seemed to be no further contributions, Mr Pyecroft asked their good friends and visitors from the Air Force to contribute. Two looked at the floor to avoid the invitation. One, a bulky shockheaded mechanic, got up and said that he would like to take up Boris’s argument, with which he disagreed, but he was forbidden while in uniform to discuss politics. Here he gave a rather sarcastic laugh, which provoked sarcastic laughter from everybody. He proceeded to describe his own education, which had finished at the age of fourteen, in London. When he modestly sat down, he was regarded with interest and compassion by them all: here was the subject of their discussion in person, the working man from England.

  All this time, Mr Matushi had been listening intently. Now he stood up and asked leave to speak. They all leaned forward to listen. He began by saying that he had heard with gratitude the address given by Mr Pyecroft, he was sure everyone would be grateful to him for the trouble he had taken. But what had interested him very much was what the last speaker had said. Because it was always surprising and interesting to hear that white men were not always well educated and doing only nice work. (Here people looked at each other self-consciously, but with a certain satisfaction.) A great many of his people would not believe that in England white men lived in bad houses, and with not enough to eat, and had to dig coal and make roads. He wished very much that a great many of his people could hear what the last speaker had said. Then perhaps - he said this with a gentle humour — they might not be so hurt by the newspapers when they said all black men were centuries in evolution behind the white men. But what he really wanted to say was this: There was a problem that interested him even more than the wonderful and intelligent lecture of Mr Pyecroft. It was the question of the education that African children were given - if you could call it an education, he added apologetically. It would give him great pleasure, he would be very grateful, if that problem could be discussed.

  He sat down and looked at them in his characteristic way: patient, dignified, but stubborn.

  Mr Pyecroft at once rose, thanked Mr Matushi for his contribution, and said they would certainly have a discussion on African education very soon. Here he looked at jasmine. ‘In a month’s time, Miss Cohen?’

  Jasmine said it must be two months’ time, since there was another meeting already arranged.

  Mr Pyecroft looked around, his hand resting on the table before him. ‘If no one wants to say anything?’ he began; but Mr Maynard remarked, ‘I should rather like to say something.’

  Close attention was focused on him. ‘I will be brief. The assumption behind the speaker’s very interesting address was this and I want to challenge it: that education is a good thing. There is no evidence at all that sow’s ears can be made into silk purses. Papular education in Britain has existed, such as it is, for some decades; are the people better or happier as a result? I doubt it.’

  There was a chorus of ‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’

  Mr Maynard waited until it had subsided, and said, ‘Is there any evidence whatsoever that a person educated in one way rather than another will have different qualities, different abilities? And is there any evidence that the mass of human beings are better than brutes?’

  He paused. Everyone exchanged ironical glances. There was also a feeling of discomfort, due to his repeated use of the word ‘evidence’: there was that gap between him and them that is always filled by silence; it was as if a peasant had asked them to prove that the world was round.

  ‘I would be the first to admit that I am an avowed reactionary,’ said Mr Maynard urbanely. There was a relieved laugh.

  Mr Perr the statistician rose eagerly. ‘This is my province,’ he said, and they laughed again. He was a thin, dark man, with close gleaming black hair and pale gleaming cheeks with a ruddy patch on each. He held himself in such a way that he looked as if he might suddenly fold up like a hinged ruler. He quoted statistics plentifully from various countries, which - if it were necessary - proved to everyone that Mr Maynard was talking nonsense; Mr Maynard was obviously unimpressed, however. He smiled ironically until people began chanting all around him in lugubrious tones, ‘The more things change the more they remain the same,’ and ‘Everything is the same under the sun.’

  ‘That is my contention,’ remarked Mr Maynard.

  The deadlock might have been prolonged indefinitely, to peter out, as they do, in frustrated anger and hostility. But Mr Matushi, who had been regarding Mr Maynard with a sorrowful face, stood up and began passionately, in marked contrast with his controlled speech of a few minutes before, ‘Our friend Mr Maynard says that people don’t need to be educated. Well, I know that our people suffer from not being educated. Perhaps Mr Maynard has had too much education - then he doesn’t want other people to be educated. All I know is that our children want to go to school, they want to learn, and they cannot because there are schools for a tiny number of them only.’

  ‘You misunderstand me,’ interrupted Mr Maynard.

  ‘Oh, no, no, no, I don’t misunderstand you, I understand you very well,’ cried Mr Matushi.

  ‘Mr Matushi …’ said Mr Pyecroft urgently, half rising from his seat.

  Mr Matushi hesitated, looking around him at faces which for the most part regarded him with interested compassion. He slowly seated himself. ‘If I am out of order, I am sorry.’

  ‘I think we should close the meeting,’ said Mr Pyecroft. ‘Are there any announcements?’

  Jasmine rose, in her demure, self-contained way, and laid a slip of paper before him, and returned to her seat.

  Mr Pyecroft read the slip, and then smiled in a way which prepared them all for a joke. ‘The next meeting, which will take place here four weeks from tonight, will be addressed by Mr Dunhill.’ There was a titter. ‘Mr Dunhill, who, as we all know, is from the CID, has asked to address us on the comparative incidence of crime in industrial and agricultural areas in Britain.’

  They all laughed loudly, and looked at a smooth clerkly man who sat, self-conscious, in a corner. ‘It’s a hobby of mine,’ he muttered.

  Could this be all that was meant by the gossip that the CID attended all their meetings? Martha felt indignant and let down.

  ‘It is now ten o’clock,’ said Mr Pyecroft. ‘Before I close the meeting, there is the little matter of funds.’

  Discreet tolerant smiles were held while Jasmine, who had apparently been secreting it about her person, produced a cocoa tin with a jagged rent in its lid. It went from hand to hand about the room, to the accompaniment of the small tinkling of falling coins. This incident, like every other, seemed to provide everyone here with the comforting sense of repetition, the safe, the familiar. These people, who all knew each other so well, who exchanged understanding glances at a word, who knew at once at which points to laugh in discussion - these people had been meeting once a month for years, to reassure themselves that their ideas were shared by enough others to make them valid; for years they had discussed education in Chile, or medicine in India; and for years respectable tea tables had been humming with talk of their dangerous activities. Martha found herself succumbing to something rather like fear: the old fear as if nets were closing around her, that particular terror of the very young. This was such a small town - the size of a small market town in England, so they said; and yet it was possible for so many different groups to form thems
elves, to lead their own self-contained lives, without affecting, or so it seemed, the existence of any other. She was instinctively shaking herself free of this mesh of bonds before she had entered them; she thought that at the end of ten years these people would still be here, self-satisfied in their unconformity, talking, talking endlessly.

  All about her she heard small jokes, half-finished phrases that needed only an understanding laugh to complete them. People were rising, going to find particular friends, making plans to meet for sundowners, tea, or children’s tea parties.

  Jasmine had crossed the room and stood before her, smiling in her quiet friendly fashion. ‘It’s nice to see you here,’ she began, and involuntarily shot a questioning look towards Mr Maynard, who was talking to Mr Perr the statistician. Mr Perr laughed; it had a note of flattered eagerness which Martha found unpleasant. She saw that Jasmine was observing the couple satirically.

  ‘Did you enjoy it?’ she inquired, turning her critical but patient attention back to Martha.

  ‘Why England, why not Africa?’ burst our Martha hotly.

  Jasmine smiled her agreement, saying, ‘Well, there are some of us who feel the same way …’ She glanced round, looking at Boris. ‘This crowd are a waste of time,’ she added. Someone grasped her arm. She smiled hastily at Martha, saying, ‘I’ll get in touch with you,’ and turned away, having thus dismissed the organization for which she had been acting as secretary for some years.

  Her place was taken by the fair girl, Betty, who eagerly clasped Martha’s arm, searching her face with warm brown eyes; behind her stood Boris, smiling.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Betty urgently. ‘Jasmine’s told us about you - we’re pleased to see you here. How about coming to tea with us, and - ‘

  ‘You are overwhelming the poor woman,’ said Boris humorously, in his clear, correct voice. Betty fell back, laughing, looking at him with eyes full of love. For a moment they smiled at each other, in a way which isolated them from everyone else in the room. A pang of pure envy shot through Martha: she immediately saw their relationship as something lofty, beautiful, on a plane infinitely higher than anything she herself had ever known.

  Boris withdrew his eyes from Betty with difficulty, and said with the slow humour which made him sound pompous, ‘If you would care to come to tea with us and discuss certain matters? There might be a place, for instance, for a discussion group which is not quite so - cautious?’

  ‘They’re really too scared to live,’ flamed Betty. ‘They’re so scared of the word “Left” that they won’t even use it in their name, and-’

  They both fell back as Mrs Perr came forward, shouldering them aside absently. Martha saw them exchange humorous glances.

  Mrs Perr, a tall, thin dark woman, with hair cut straight around her face like a Dutch doll, loose straight discordantly coloured clothes, and a large dry orange mouth, looked closely at Martha and said, ‘Oh - we’ve met before.’

  ‘Yes, about two years—’

  ‘Well, we’re pleased to see you again. I’ll ask Jasmine to send you notices of the meetings.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  Mrs Perr narrowed her eyes at her for a moment, in a way which suggested that she was mentally ticking off items on a list, and said, ‘And, of course, there’s the Book Club, if you want to join that.’ She glanced over her shoulder, frowned, then smiled with pleasurable malice. Betty and Boris were leaning against the wall on the other side of the room, talking in low voices, face to face. It was not only Mrs Perr who smiled in that discreet, faintly malicious way. ‘Betty does the books, but since she’s been in love they’re neglected. Betty!’ she called.

  Betty slowly turned and blinked across at them, her small, warm, delicately pink face illuminated.

  Martha saw that Mr Maynard was looking at her impatiently across the room, and said, ‘I’ll have to go, anyway.’ She smiled apologetically at Mrs Perr, whom she disliked quite finally for being malicious about love, and joined Mr Maynard.

  They went out into the long, dim, dusty corridor. The laughter and talk from the room they had left became a unit of cheerful sound, and Martha stopped, afflicted by the desire to return and belong to the warm community.

  ‘And how did that strike you?’ inquired Mr Maynard affably.

  Martha was not going to confess to the criticism that was at the root of her confused disappointment: while they were a community, each of them seemed anxious to repudiate the others to an outsider at the first opportunity.

  ‘That man Perr has real ability,’ observed Mr Maynard. ‘And so has Forester.’

  ‘And not Mr Pyecroft?’ Martha could see no difference between Forester, Perr and Pyecroft, all of them as far as she was concerned equally verbose, self-satisfied and elderly.

  ‘Pyecroft has a head on his shoulders, but he’s got bogged down in this talking shop. It’s all very well as an amusement, but not as a lifework, after all.’ He added, ‘There is a certain type of man who leaves the common rooms and lecture halls of Britain simply because he will strike enlightened communities like this one as the last word in education and intellectual daring.’

  Martha was digesting this when he said, ‘I’ve never been able to understand why left-wing women choose to be so unattractive. A remarkable phenomenon.’

  ‘They might have better things to do.’

  ‘Conceivably.’

  Martha was thinking of the imposing Mrs Maynard, who clearly regarded clothes as so many badges of office. She was wondering how Mr Maynard saw his wife, when feet hesitated behind them. It was Mr Matushi.

  ‘Ah, Matushi,’ exclaimed Mr Maynard, ‘I’m glad of the opportunity to talk to you.’

  They were on the dark platform of iron which was the landing on the second floor. This was where he had tried to kiss her. She would have liked to go quickly past it. But she waited calmly while Mr Matushi descended. She noted that Mr Maynard did not use the ‘Mister’, which the others had been so careful to do; she most bitterly resented, on Mr Matushi’s behalf, the casual, authoritative manner of Mr Maynard.

  Mr Matushi was now standing quietly on the landing, drooping his length from his shoulders: he was a head taller than even Mr Maynard.

  ‘I understand you regard yourself as a kind of leader of your - compatriots?’ Mr Maynard inquired.

  ‘Yes, I think that is so.’ The voice was soft, firm, a little hesitant.

  ‘Well, then - there’s this question of the war. Would you like to represent your — followers, on a committee for raising funds, eh?’

  Mr Matushi appeared to reflect. Then he said, ‘Our people all support the war against fascism.’

  Mr Maynard let out a surprised grunt. ‘Eh?’ It was the word ‘fascism’; as far as he was concerned, England was fighting Germany again. ‘So, you do, do you?’

  ‘Our people are well aware of the danger Hitler represents to the civilized world.’

  ‘I don’t suppose that more than half of one per cent know who Hitler is.’

  ‘In that case, it is not … democratic’ - Mr Matushi hesitated delicately over the word – ‘to make them soldiers in this war, is that not so, Mr Maynard?’ He stooped before Mr Maynard, stubborn, gentle, expressing with every line of his body an infinite willingness to wait.

  Mr Maynard looked at him heavily, and said, ‘Be that as it may, it would be appreciated if a well-known and acknowledged leader - a man like yourself - would represent your people on the committee.’

  Mr Matushi smiled gently. ‘Perhaps there might be a better man for the position? A person like myself, fined in the courts, might not be - acceptable?’

  Mr Maynard’s black eyebrows shot up, and he said severely, ‘Matushi, if you don’t keep the law, it’s my job to fine you. That’s all there is to it.’

  Mr Matushi was smiling, biting his lips, smiling again; he shook gently with laughter. ‘But, Mr Maynard, you are a very good magistrate, we all know that; we all know you as a very just man.’

  There was no resen
tment in his manner, not even the impertinence which Mr Maynard was certainly looking for - nothing, apparently, but that genuine bubbling amusement. Suddenly he stopped his long body from the slight pervasive shaking, and said, ‘Mr Maynard, our people will do everything they can in this terrible war. They will fight well. It is only fifty years since we were honourably defeated by your soldiers. Our soldiers have already gone to fight with your soldiers against fascism for democracy.’ He waited, stooping and smiling.

  ‘Good night, Matushi,’ said Mr Maynard.

  ‘Good night, sir.’ He stood to one side while Mr Maynard and Martha went down the stairs before him, and then followed at a polite distance. They reached the street.

  ‘What did you fine him for?’

  ‘For not having a pass after nine o’clock.’

  Martha was silent with hostility.

  ‘I don’t make the laws, I am their servant.’

  Martha laughed angrily.

  He looked at her in surprise. ‘Personally I should be in favour of issuing educated men - comparatively educated, that is - with a special pass to exempt them from carrying other passes. I believe it is under consideration now.’

  ‘Why not abolish passes altogether?’

  ‘Why not? I suggest you put pressure on your Parliamentary representative to that effect.’

  Martha laughed again.