Unfinished Portrait. Агата Кристи

thought about it a good deal,’ she said. ‘And it really is best. It’s simple and easy and—quick. And it won’t be—inconvenient to anybody.’

      I realized by that last phrase that she had been what is called ‘well brought up’. ‘Consideration for others’ had been impressed upon her as a desirable thing.

      ‘And what about—afterwards?’ I asked.

      ‘One has to risk that.’

      ‘Do you believe in an afterwards?’ I asked curiously.

      ‘I’m afraid,’ she said slowly, ‘I do. Just nothing—would be almost too good to be true. Just going to sleep—peacefully—and just—not waking up. That would be so lovely.’

      Her eyes half closed dreamily.

      ‘What colour was your nursery wallpaper?’ I asked suddenly.

      ‘Mauve irises—twisting round a pillar—’ She started. ‘How did you know I was thinking about them just then?’

      ‘I just thought you were. That’s all,’ I went on. ‘What was your idea of Heaven as a child?’

      ‘Green pastures—a green valley—with sheep and the shepherd. The hymn, you know.’

      ‘Who read it to you—your mother or your nurse?’

      ‘My nurse …’ She smiled a little. ‘The Good Shepherd. Do you know, I don’t think I’d ever seen a shepherd. But there were two lambs in a field quite near us.’ She paused and then added: ‘It’s built over now.’

      And I thought: ‘Odd. If that field weren’t built over, well, perhaps she wouldn’t be here now.’ And I said: ‘You were happy as a child?’

      ‘Oh, yes!’ There was no doubting the eager certainty of her assent. She went on: ‘Too happy.’

      ‘Is that possible?’

      ‘I think so. You see, you’re not prepared—for the things that happen. You never conceive that—they might happen.’

      ‘You’ve had a tragic experience,’ I suggested.

      But she shook her head.

      ‘No—I don’t think so—not really. What happened to me isn’t out of the ordinary. It’s the stupid, commonplace thing that happens to lots of women. I wasn’t particularly unfortunate. I was—stupid. Yes, just stupid. And there isn’t really room in the world for stupid people.’

      ‘My dear,’ I said, ‘listen to me. I know what I’m talking about. I’ve stood where you are now—I’ve felt as you feel that life isn’t worth living. I’ve known that blinding despair that can only see one way out—and I tell you, child—that it passes. Grief doesn’t last forever. Nothing lasts. There is only one true consoler and healer—time. Give time its chance.’

      I had spoken earnestly, but I saw at once that I had made a mistake.

      ‘You don’t understand,’ she said. ‘I know what you mean. I have felt that. In fact, I had one try—that didn’t come off. And afterwards I was glad that it hadn’t. This is different.’

      ‘Tell me,’ I said.

      ‘This has come quite slowly. You see—it’s rather hard to put it clearly. I’m thirty-nine—and I’m very strong and healthy. It’s quite on the cards that I shall live to at least seventy—perhaps longer. And I simply can’t face it, that’s all. Another thirty-five long empty years.’

      ‘But they won’t be empty, my dear. That’s where you’re wrong. Something will bloom again to fill them.’

      She looked at me.

      ‘That is what I’m most afraid of,’ she said below her breath. ‘It’s the thought of that that I simply can’t face.’

      ‘In fact, you’re a coward,’ I said.

      ‘Yes.’ She acquiesced at once. ‘I’ve always been a coward. I’ve thought it funny sometimes that other people haven’t seen it as clearly as I have. Yes, I’m afraid—afraid—afraid.’

      There was silence.

      ‘After all,’ she said, ‘it’s natural. If a cinder jumps out of a fire and burns a dog, he’s frightened of the fire in future. He never knows when another cinder might come. It’s a form of intelligence, really. The complete fool thinks a fire is just something kind and warm—he doesn’t know about burning or cinders.’

      ‘So that really,’ I said, ‘it’s the possibility of—happiness you won’t face.’

      It sounded queer as I said it, and yet I knew that it wasn’t really as strange as it sounded. I know something about nerves and mind. Three of my best friends were shell-shocked in the war. I know myself what it is for a man to be physically maimed—I know just what it can do to him. I know, too, that one can be mentally maimed. The damage can’t be seen when the wound is healed—but it’s there. There’s a weak spot—a flaw—you’re crippled and not whole.

      I said to her: ‘All that will pass with time.’ But I said it with assurance I did not feel. Because superficial healing wasn’t going to be any good. The scar had gone deep.

      ‘You won’t take one risk,’ I went on. ‘But you will take another—a simply colossal one.’

      She said less calmly, with a touch of eagerness:

      ‘But that’s entirely different—entirely. It’s when you know what a thing’s like that you won’t risk it. An unknown risk—there’s something rather alluring about that—something adventurous. After all, death might be anything—’

      It was the first time the actual word had been spoken between us. Death …

      And then, as though for the first time a natural curiosity stirred in her, she turned her head slightly and asked:

      ‘How did you know?’

      ‘I don’t quite profess to be able to tell,’ I confessed. ‘I’ve been through—well, something, myself. And I suppose I knew that way.’

      She said:

      ‘I see.’

      She displayed no interest in what my experience might have been, and I think it was at that moment that I vowed myself to her service. I’d had so much, you see, of the other thing. Womanly sympathy and tenderness. My need—though I didn’t know it—was not to be given—but to give.

      There wasn’t any tenderness in Celia—any sympathy. She’d squandered all that—and wasted it. She had been, as she saw herself, stupid about it. She’d been too unhappy herself to have any pity left for others. That new hard line about her mouth was a tribute to the amount of suffering she had endured. Her understanding was quick—she realized in a moment that to me, too, ‘things had happened’. We were on a par. She had no pity for herself, and she wasted no pity on me. My misfortune was, to her, simply the reason of my guessing something which on the face of it was seemingly unguessable.

      She was, I saw in that moment, a child. Her real world was the world that surrounded herself. She had gone back deliberately to a childish world, finding there refuge from the world’s cruelty.

      And that attitude of hers was tremendously stimulating to me. It was what for the last ten years I had been needing. It was, you see, a call to action.

      Well, I acted. My one fear was leaving her to herself. I didn’t leave her to herself. I stuck to her like the proverbial leech. She walked down with me to the town amiably enough. She had plenty of common sense. She realized that her purpose was, for the moment, frustrated. She didn’t abandon it—she merely postponed it. I knew that without her saying a word.

      I’m not going into details—this isn’t a chronicle of such things. There’s no need