The Complete Works of W.R. Bion

Volume 12

W. R. Bion, Chris Mawson

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2021
• eBook ISBN: 9781000566819
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Psychology
• Subtopic: Mental Health in Psychology
• Index: Psychology

A figurative and free-ranging psychoanalytic novel was not something Bion would have felt free to write and – more to the point – to publish had he and his wife, Francesca, not moved to Los Angeles, which they did in 1968. Once there, Bion set about adjusting to the new culture, establishing links with the analysts who had invited him, and setting up an analytic practice. He also began work on a book, which he called The Dream, published in 1975. Two years later he added The Past Pre-sented, and in 1979 – with the addition of The Dawn of Oblivion – the novel had become a trilogy. In 1991, at the instigation of Francesca Bion, the three were finally published in one volume, with corrections, together with an enlarged version of A Key to A Memoir of the Future, which had first been published in 1981. Francesca Bion has described the Memoir asa fictionalised, dramatised presentation of a lifetime's experiences, filled with a crowd of character; voicing the many facets of his own personality and thought; at the same time we recognise ourselves among the dramatis personae.

1

‘O dear, oh dear’, said Alice rubbing her eyes and pushing away the shower of leaves which had awoken her. ‘I had such a queer dream that I was the Empress of India. Rosemary! Now where has that tiresome girl gone? I had quite forgotten I had dismissed her! For such impudence too. Ah, here she is – with her suitcase packed I am glad to see.’ Alice sounded quite severe as her maid came into the room, with her shawl and bonnet, ready to leave. She was deferential, almost obsequious, Alice was glad to note. ‘You called me, Ma’am?’ ‘Before you go – there is still half an hour before the last train so you have plenty of time just gather up these leaves which have blown in through the window you so carelessly left open.’ The maid put down her case and shawl before falling on her knees to gather up the mess. She was attractive, Alice had to admit; indeed her attractiveness had been ‘the last straw’, for she had appealed so strongly to Roland, Alice’s husband, that his wayward glances lingered, in Alice’s opinion, a shade too long upon her features. Misgivings that she had been unfair awoke at the sight of the slim kneeling figure gathering up the leaves. They were stifled; ‘her behaviour to poor Tom was really quite intolerable’.

‘I’ve cleared it all, Ma’am’, she said at last, ‘can I go now?’ Alice was almost ready to let her go when Rosemary added, ‘It is almost time now and they do say it is the last train’. Alice, herself famous for her beauty, allowed the compassion in her expression to relax into its customary insolence. ‘Let me look at what you have gathered’, she said, taking the leaves from Rosemary’s nervous hands. She was aware that the leaves which she was scrutinizing with deliberate slowness were the pages of a dismembered Bible.

‘Oh please, Ma’am, may I go now?’ she broke in, ‘or I shall miss the train and they do say it will be the last before the enemy come. I want to go – please!’ she begged. ‘With Tom?’ ‘Yes, Ma’am – and please won’t you and Roland leave too? I’m sure it won’t be safe when the enemy soldiers come.’

Alice drew herself up haughtily. ‘I am sure that Mister Roland will be quite safe with me.’ ‘Oh, Ma’am, I didn’t mean that – really I didn’t – please can I go now?’ ‘We shall not run away. These are civilized enemies . . .’. But Rosemary, unable to stand it any more, had picked up her traps and run. Alice, realizing she was alone, was reading the words on a torn scrap. ‘And the Satyr shall cry to his fellow.’ That was all.

For a time she sat brooding in silence. Night was falling; she could hear carts lumbering westwards; men and women; animals. She was brave; she prided herself on not being afraid like her maid. What could be expected of Rosemary? ‘Tell Mister Roland to come . . .’. but Rosemary had gone; with Tom.

2

Tom was a powerful lout who worked about the farm attached to the main building. He was an excellent servant and reliable in work which required strength but no initiative or intelligence. His grin was a feature of the homestead. Roland had sometimes spoken of his cruelty, but Alice did not think it amounted to much more than the thoughtlessness of a good-humoured but otherwise likeable person. It was exasperating when Rosemary complained that she had been assaulted by him. Roland was unwilling to dismiss him. He was too valuable a worker, he said; besides, who knew what Rosemary had been up to? She was no saint – always making eyes at all and sundry. ‘Well, you ought to know’, said Alice with meaning that made Roland colour angrily. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Alice. You’re jealous. She’s pretty in a servant-girlish sort of way and she may have made eyes at Tom I admit – very probable in fact; but I don’t want to lose a good workman.’ So it fell to Alice to see her lady’s maid as the culprit. This she was willing to do, for she was jealous and her jealousy was not appeased by her own very good looks. After thinking the matter over she called Rosemary to see her privately.

‘I am very worried by what you told me yesterday, Rosemary. The master says Tom is a good worker and he is certain – he told me positively – that he would not do anything bad. Are you sure you didn’t lead him on?’ The girl coloured indignantly. ‘Oh no, Ma’am – I would never do such a thing. I was passing by the dairy and he called me to tell me something – I went into the barn where he was standing and . . .’ Alice dropped her eyes but listened with attention to a sordid story of near rape and not so distant seduction. Rosemary was angry – and frightened. Alice paused; then went on thoughtfully, ‘You have to be careful. You are a girl that men find pretty and it would be awkward if you had a baby. Especially by Tom because I know my husband, Mister Roland, wouldn’t like that.’ Alice’s face, despite its beauty, was hard as she watched her maid to detect a reaction to her words. Rosemary’s eyes had become hard and bright. Alice went on, ‘Have you any followers, Rosemary? You can tell me without fear. I only want to help you.’ ‘No, Miss, except . . .’ ‘Yes? Except?’ ‘Only Tom, Miss.’ Alice relaxed. ‘Yes, I think he is a nice boy. And God-fearing. It will help you if . . .’ ‘I know he’s in love with me, Ma’am . . .’. Rosemary’s eyes did not relax their hard, animal stare, ‘. . . if you have a man’s love to fall back on’. ‘Oh, I have indeed, Miss . .. Ma’am, I mean.’ Alice dismissed her after some more minutes of near conversation; she had wondered if she could dare to mention how great a support it had always been to her that she could fall back on the security of Roland’s love. It was only after she had told Rosemary she could go that she began to suspect that her assumption of her maid’s need for warning, maternal love was misplaced. Her small sarcasm at Roland’s susceptibility to a pretty face began to harden, to remain undigested. Envy lay waiting, single-celled, to become malignant.

All night long the noise of traffic rolled; distant gunfire occasionally flickered, like summer lightning, noiselessly in the clouds. Alice composed herself to sleep in her chair, judging that anything more elaborate would scarcely be appropriate to the reception of the enemy forces when they arrived. Roland, having seen that the rituals about the farm had been ceremonially accomplished, drew a chair up next to Alice and set himself to ignore the rolling of the tumbrils. As dawn revealed the shapes of the furniture, Alice awoke to the strange familiarity of things familiar to her since babyhood; even her feelings seemed like old friends, made strange by their inappropriateness to the arrival of a conquering army. She rehearsed each step with a sleepless, unkempt Roland. ‘Of course I shall not hide anything. “Here are the keys to all the locks on these premises. I think you will find everything correct.” Then I shall retire.’ Roland agreed that this would be the most dignified course. ‘I don’t think you are really putting your mind to it, dear’, said Alice solicitously. ‘When do you think they will arrive?’ He examined his fingers meticulously. ‘They are not like invited guests you know. They have not told me when the party is due to start.’ She was vexed and felt the occasion was too serious for sarcasms.

3

Gunfire died away: the enemy did not come; preparations for his reception languished, first misted over by Alice’s vivid but diminishing anxiety, finally swallowed by the background of her boring life with Roland, the routine of the farm. Alice noticed with surprise that she was bored when something made her tax Roland with lack of interest. He flushed guiltily – itself a novel change in the level uniformity of the ardours of their passion. He tried to restore the familiarity of love. Alice was not reassured as his protestations and denials formed into a hard, smooth coat of love which fitted like a strait-jacket.

She purred furiously till her rage turned to clanging heartbeats beating the murder out of her. ‘I will be good . .. no hate or bitterness in my . .. write it out, fifty times . . .’

There was a disturbance in the yard, hurried footsteps and a woman’s voice crying furiously, ‘Let go! Let me go!’ A man swore in pain. ‘You bloody bitch . . .!’And then steps running up to the room where Alice and Roland waited in sudden fear to see – what next?

It was typical of these times: an eternity of boredom displaced without warning by flaming dread. Alice and Roland waited with ashen faces and staring, questioning eyes. The pounding footsteps fused with their pounding hearts – battered from without and within. The door crashed open and a woman half fell into the room.

She was gorgeously dressed in a quilted, crimson gown. With open mouth she looked from Alice to Roland, stammering with fear. ‘Oh, Miss! I’m sorry, Miss. I couldn’t help it, Miss! You sent me away before! I couldn’t . .. the last train couldn’t go. They stopped it and turned us off.’

A car in the yard started up and drove away, the sound of its engine fading into the distance. Then silence flowed back into the room where the three had stopped to listen. Alice recovered her voice first. ‘Rosemary! What are you doing here?’ Roland relaxed as if resigning further part in the talk. He noticed that Rosemary was naked but for the gown and ill-fitting shoes. Roland excused himself. ‘Must see to the cows; bye-bye’, and he bowed himself out of the scene.

The two women faced each other, Alice’s restrained, good taste contrasting drably with the tattered splendour of her maid’s finery. Alice was tense; Rosemary stared as if unable to comprehend her mistress’s incomprehension. ‘You can’t send me away! They will catch me, like they did before, before I got to the train.’ ‘You must go! – at once!’

‘I can’t. I won’t! How can you be so cruel?’ Alice stretched out her hand as if to compel her towards the door. The movement released something in Rosemary who at once held Alice’s hand and bathed it in kisses. Alice was angry, frightened, tense. ‘Go! Go! you fool! Can’t you see? You put us all in danger!’

‘I won’t! I’m frightened!’

‘Fool! There’s nothing to be frightened of.’ As she said it she was aware of the fear in her own voice. ‘Let me go!’ Alice struggled to free herself. Rosemary was startled by her own success. ‘Oh, Miss! Forgive me. I’m sorry, really I am’, but she did not let her advantage go. Alice, weakened by the months of anxiety since the day the invasion had become inevitable, was no match for her maid. Rosemary knew something of that bright world outside. Alice and Roland existed in a cocoon of fear that gripped them like steel; Alice did not know the world of which Rosemary had had a glimpse.

Alice struggled furiously to free her hands, both now gripped by her maid. ‘Please forgive me!’ Frightened and humiliated, ‘Let go! How dare you!’ Her maid stared uneasily into Alice’s frightened face. It was fear now . .. not anger. Rosemary’s flood of apology and prayers for forgiveness did not cease. Nor did she loosen her grip. ‘Let go!’ Alice could hardly hide that she was near to tears. Her background of wealthy home, conventional schooling and religion did not provide her with the dam to hold back her fear.

She was standing very near to the bed behind her. In her anxiety Rosemary had pressed her mistress ever nearer to it and a last struggle to release her wrists led Alice to pull Rosemary to her. Both girls fell over onto the bed, Rosemary uppermost. Rosemary’s anxiety and guilt were overcome by lusty strength; Alice’s weakness inflamed her passion.

The physical contact, her body against the young girl beneath her, caused Rosemary to stare intently into the tear-soiled face. All guilt and subordination gone, she pressed Alice’s head back, exposing her throat. She forced the eyelids apart and peered into her eyes. Then she laughed – no trace of shyness now but frank curiosity. ‘Why – they are blue! Such a pretty blue too! Not dark and brown like mine.’ Alice was indeed a pretty and intelligent blonde, contrasting with her maid’s dark colouring. The convention of the superiority of wealth combined with Alice’s striking looks served to dim the power of real beauty. Alice’s advantages were in eclipse. It was Rosemary who was flushed, the physically dominant, privileged girl.

Both girls were ignorant of sensuous pleasure. For Rosemary, the vital force coursing through arteries, battering her heart and temples, brought thoughts from a reservoir unknown to her. As she gazed she knew triumph. When Alice at last brought herself to meet her maid’s stare, the past had gone as if it had never been. Not only had her situation changed, she had herself become the home of feelings that might have belonged to someone else, they were so strange.

Rosemary adjusted her position. The slum child, robust and dominant, luxuriated in the physical mastery. ‘They are the same as we are; just as bad if we teach them what we know.’ The response from her mistress was unmistakable. Alice had for so many years been starved of passionate life that she was vulnerable to her maid’s manipulations. As soon as she had elicited the proof she wanted, Rosemary tossed the hair back from her eyes, sat up and rested on the edge of the bed. Alice also rose, but it was a new Alice, rosy, submissive. ‘What does madam wish now?’ Rosemary half turned, but without looking directly at her ‘servant’ held out her hand. ‘The nail file, please, Alice.’ ‘Will that be all, Ma’am?’ ‘All for the present; get on with tidying the room till I want you.’ Alice flushed with pleasure, but this time she was angry and resentful too. When Rosemary looked at Alice she too was aware that Alice’s new-found beauty reflected a complex emotion. She might have said something if she had not at that moment seen a face in the mirror beyond Alice’s shoulder. She spun round startled. Rosemary’s sudden movement made Alice follow her gaze; it was only Roland.

‘Roland! What are you doing here?’ It was Rosemary who had recovered first. ‘I see’, said Alice icily, ‘you have met before’. ‘Oh, rather!’ babbled Roland. ‘What an utter damned fool’, Alice thought bitterly, ‘that husband of mine is. Can he really ever have imagined that I didn’t know what those two beauties were up to?’ In one respect she was herself surprised. Rosemary recovered, to settle into that very same state of mind which Alice half expected her to deny with confusion. ‘My lipstick, Alice’, she said with calm authority. Unprepared for this, Alice obeyed and placed it – her special lipstick – in her maid’s hand. ‘Well, Roland, what have you been up to?’

It was Roland’s turn to be at a loss. Rosemary was not acting a part; it was clear that there was something genuine about her hatred and contempt for both husband and wife. Without looking at either she continued her make-up in leisurely style.

Suddenly Alice lost self-control and slapped the manicure set, a present from her father, out of her maid’s hand. Rosemary stood up, pale and tense. ‘All right, you bloody bitch, I’ll make you pay for this. This is not capitalist England now, you know!’ For a moment Roland thought he understood it all. ‘You fool!’ he said to his wife. ‘God knows what you have done with your tantrums!’ For an instant Alice was abashed. Her sudden rage had taken her by surprise and now she was flooded with a feeling of intense remorse and menace.

‘Come, Roland dear’ – it was Rosemary speaking – ‘I am sure you have had a very trying day. Come to your lovey’s arms.’ She glared at Alice whose turn it was to be pale and frightened. ‘I’m sure Alice won’t mind will you? Don’t bother about the manicure set – forgive and forget I say! Come, Roland’, and she opened her arms in a wide embrace.

For all his hatred, Roland was not prepared for this. He hesitated, scared also by the cold contempt in his wife’s eyes. ‘Darling!’ – it was Rosemary’s mocking invitation, but she had overdone it. Roland made a response of disapproval as if the episode were some improbable joke. Were it not for the tense faces of the women and the reality of their hate for each other and the man, the participants could have been an hallucination.

A car was drawing up outside. Rosemary, nearest the window, looked out. A man in a dark suit, athletic, with a slight tendency to corpulence, was carefully closing the car door. The tension, made worse by the banality of the scene, rose to higher pitch. Rosemary had lost her arrogant assurance and turned dead white. ‘Who is the Duke?’ whispered Roland. ‘Shut up, you bloody fool!’ The man had heard something from the window at which they stood; he turned his face up to the three and froze; the stare bound them together, as it were, in perpetuity. He stared with a calm deliberation which contrasted eerily with the horror with which they looked at him. Rosemary had beads of sweat on her now sallow face. Alice could not understand.

Another man, who had been hidden by a buttress of...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half Title
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Table of Contents
• A MEMOIR OF THE FUTURE
• 1
• 2
• 3
• 4
• 5
• 6
• 7
• 8
• 9
• 10
• 11
• 12
• 13
• 14
• 15
• 16
• 17
• 18
• 19
• 20
• 21
• 22
• 23
• 24
• 25
• 26
• 27
• 28
• 29
• 30
• 31
• 32
• 33
• 34
• 35
• 36
• 37
• 38
• 39
• 40
• 41
• 42
• 43
• 44