hadn’t she looked, last night? She cursed her memory. But last night Magnus had been
in the house
. Could he be so childish as to go about turning on the heaters?—but if he could stoop to smashing things up, terrorizing her as bluntly as the boys had Mrs. Fludd, it was impossible to say what he might not do. Angry, Magnus was capable of anything. She turned the heater off once again; then, on an afterthought,took a roll of tape from her closet and taped the switch to the fixture.
Though she shrank from the very idea, Magnus had to be faced: as did her feelings about him. What
were
those feelings? Julia felt at once as though she were on the crumbling lip of a precipice; her control, her hold on things sound and normal, was fragile; she knew that much of her seeming calm and placidity was a performance. Horror lay beneath the surface—horror was what inhabited the abyss below the precipice. The image of Magnus murdering Kate, that sight of him plunging the knife into Kate’s throat while she thrashed on the floor, could rise in her at any time, as it had before she had been taken to the hospital and drugged into insensibility. Even then she had been tortured by waking dreams. Over and over, her wrists strapped to the side of the bed, she had imagined grasping Magnus’s arm and turning the knife to her own throat. That image, too, had haunted her. Dying for Kate—she would gladly die for Kate. Instead, she had passively watched the clumsiest of murders. Magnus was inextricably tied to this horror, the horror of inanition, of drift which meant loss, of lying, of emptiness without end or meaning: that was death indeed, and it seemed to crawl forth from the walls of this house.
A child and a man. Kate and Magnus. Mrs. Fludd had seen them. And what had she said, before the trance? It had been something about hate or envy—they were what made a spirit “malefic.” Kate was present; Kate lay behind Magnus’s mad forays into Ilchester Place. She was unforgiving. Logic took her relentlessly to this illogical conclusion. Julia began to rock from side to side on her bed, moaning. She was breaking down. It was an image, again, of the precipice where she had so carefully walked, of clods and pebbles shredding away,breaking up on the long fall down. It was Kate. Mrs. Fludd had seen Kate. In some vivid, dreamlike way, Magnus was dominated by Kate; he was an unthinkable danger to her mind.
Unable to sleep, unable to control her thoughts, Julia snapped on the reading lamp at the head of the bed. She forced herself to extend her arms alongside her body. Flatten the fingers so the palms touch the sheet, extend the thumbs. Relax. She breathed deeply, twice. She would talk to Mrs. Fludd. If she had to leave the house to escape the danger Magnus posed, she was capable of leaving. For now, sleep was impossible: but she would not leave this bedroom. This room was hers. If she were to be driven from the room, she would leave the house.
Julia turned her head to see the books on the little stand beside the bed. She had finished the Bellow novel, and now had
The Millstone, The White House Transcripts, The Golden Notebook
, and
The Unicorn
on the table; she needed something less stimulating than any of these. Kate and Magnus: Mrs. Fludd’s hints and warnings outlined a dread possibility. Kate’s spirit still living, hating her and using Magnus’s anger, feeding that anger, Kate’s spirit seething through this house.… All of this was real, happening to her.
Julia had to call Miss Pinner as well as Mrs. Fludd; before the departure of the West Hampstead ladies, Miss Pinner had been too shaky and distraught to describe what she had seen in the bathroom.
Then she saw another book which she had recently placed on the bedside table, hidden behind the little stack of paperbacks. It was
The Royal Borough of Kensington
, Lily’s present to her. A sober, judicious list of facts, a few anecdotes, color plates—it was just what she needed, a
in the house
. Could he be so childish as to go about turning on the heaters?—but if he could stoop to smashing things up, terrorizing her as bluntly as the boys had Mrs. Fludd, it was impossible to say what he might not do. Angry, Magnus was capable of anything. She turned the heater off once again; then, on an afterthought,took a roll of tape from her closet and taped the switch to the fixture.
Though she shrank from the very idea, Magnus had to be faced: as did her feelings about him. What
were
those feelings? Julia felt at once as though she were on the crumbling lip of a precipice; her control, her hold on things sound and normal, was fragile; she knew that much of her seeming calm and placidity was a performance. Horror lay beneath the surface—horror was what inhabited the abyss below the precipice. The image of Magnus murdering Kate, that sight of him plunging the knife into Kate’s throat while she thrashed on the floor, could rise in her at any time, as it had before she had been taken to the hospital and drugged into insensibility. Even then she had been tortured by waking dreams. Over and over, her wrists strapped to the side of the bed, she had imagined grasping Magnus’s arm and turning the knife to her own throat. That image, too, had haunted her. Dying for Kate—she would gladly die for Kate. Instead, she had passively watched the clumsiest of murders. Magnus was inextricably tied to this horror, the horror of inanition, of drift which meant loss, of lying, of emptiness without end or meaning: that was death indeed, and it seemed to crawl forth from the walls of this house.
A child and a man. Kate and Magnus. Mrs. Fludd had seen them. And what had she said, before the trance? It had been something about hate or envy—they were what made a spirit “malefic.” Kate was present; Kate lay behind Magnus’s mad forays into Ilchester Place. She was unforgiving. Logic took her relentlessly to this illogical conclusion. Julia began to rock from side to side on her bed, moaning. She was breaking down. It was an image, again, of the precipice where she had so carefully walked, of clods and pebbles shredding away,breaking up on the long fall down. It was Kate. Mrs. Fludd had seen Kate. In some vivid, dreamlike way, Magnus was dominated by Kate; he was an unthinkable danger to her mind.
Unable to sleep, unable to control her thoughts, Julia snapped on the reading lamp at the head of the bed. She forced herself to extend her arms alongside her body. Flatten the fingers so the palms touch the sheet, extend the thumbs. Relax. She breathed deeply, twice. She would talk to Mrs. Fludd. If she had to leave the house to escape the danger Magnus posed, she was capable of leaving. For now, sleep was impossible: but she would not leave this bedroom. This room was hers. If she were to be driven from the room, she would leave the house.
Julia turned her head to see the books on the little stand beside the bed. She had finished the Bellow novel, and now had
The Millstone, The White House Transcripts, The Golden Notebook
, and
The Unicorn
on the table; she needed something less stimulating than any of these. Kate and Magnus: Mrs. Fludd’s hints and warnings outlined a dread possibility. Kate’s spirit still living, hating her and using Magnus’s anger, feeding that anger, Kate’s spirit seething through this house.… All of this was real, happening to her.
Julia had to call Miss Pinner as well as Mrs. Fludd; before the departure of the West Hampstead ladies, Miss Pinner had been too shaky and distraught to describe what she had seen in the bathroom.
Then she saw another book which she had recently placed on the bedside table, hidden behind the little stack of paperbacks. It was
The Royal Borough of Kensington
, Lily’s present to her. A sober, judicious list of facts, a few anecdotes, color plates—it was just what she needed, a
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