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The Golden Notebook
Doris Lessing
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The Golden Notebook
Doris Lessing
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The landmark novel by Nobel Prize winner Doris Lessing – a powerful account of a woman searching for her personal, political and professional identity while facing rejection and betrayal.
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Sujet
LiteratureSous-sujet
ClassicsFree Women 1
Anna meets her friend Molly in the summer of 1957 after a separationâŠ
The two women were alone in the London flat.
âThe point is,â said Anna, as her friend came back from the telephone on the landing, âthe point is, that as far as I can see, everythingâs cracking up.â
Molly was a woman much on the telephone. When it rang she had just enquired: âWell, whatâs the gossip?â Now she said, âThatâs Richard, and heâs coming over. It seems todayâs his only free moment for the next month. Or so he insists.â
âWell Iâm not leaving,â said Anna.
âNo, you stay just where you are.â
Molly considered her own appearanceâshe was wearing trousers and a sweater, both the worse for wear. âHeâll have to take me as I come,â she concluded, and sat down by the window. âHe wouldnât say what itâs aboutâanother crisis with Marion, I suppose.â
âDidnât he write to you?â asked Anna, cautious.
âBoth he and Marion wroteâever such bonhomous letters. Odd, isnât it?â
This odd, isnât it? was the characteristic note of the intimate conversations they designated gossip. But having struck the note, Molly swerved off with: âItâs no use talking now, because heâs coming right over, he says.â
âHeâll probably go when he sees me here,â said Anna, cheerfully, but slightly aggressive. Molly glanced at her, keenly, and said: âOh, but why?â
It had always been understood that Anna and Richard disliked each other; and before, Anna had always left when Richard was expected. Now Molly said: âActually I think he rather likes you, in his heart of hearts. The point is, heâs committed to liking me, on principleâheâs such a fool heâs always got to either like or dislike someone, so all the dislike he wonât admit he has for me gets pushed off on to you.â
Itâs a pleasure,â said Anna. âBut do you know something? I discovered while you were away that for a lot of people you and I are practically interchangeable.â
âYouâve only just understood that?â said Molly, triumphant as always when Anna came up withâas far as she was concernedâfacts that were self-evident.
In this relationship a balance had been struck early on: Molly was altogether more worldly-wise than Anna who, for her part, had a superiority of talent.
Anna held her own private views. Now she smiled, admitting that she had been very slow.
âWhen weâre so different in every way,â said Molly, âitâs odd. I suppose because we both live the same kind of lifeânot getting married and so on. Thatâs all they see.â
Free women,â said Anna, wryly. She added, with an anger new to Molly, so that she earned another quick scrutinizing glance from her friend: âThey still define us in terms of relationships with men, even the best of them.â
âWell, we do, donât we?â said Molly, rather tart. âWell, itâs awfully hard not to,â she amended, hastily, because of the look of surprise Anna now gave her. There was a short pause, during which the women did not look at each other but reflected that a year apart was a long time, even for an old friendship.
Molly said at last, sighing: âFree. Do you know, when I was away, I was thinking about us, and Iâve decided that weâre a completely new type of woman. We must be, surely?â
âThereâs nothing new under the sun,â said Anna, in an attempt at a German accent. Molly, irritatedâshe spoke half a dozen languages wellâsaid: âThereâs nothing new under the sun,â in a perfect reproduction of a shrewd old womanâs voice, German accented.
Anna grimaced, acknowledging failure. She could not learn languages, and was too self-conscious ever to become somebody else: for a moment Molly had even looked like Mother Sugar, otherwise Mrs Marks, to whom both had gone for psycho-analysis. The reservations both had felt about the solemn and painful ritual were expressed by the pet name, âMother Sugarâ; which, as time passed, became a name for much more than a person, and indicated a whole way of looking at lifeâtraditional, rooted, conservative, in spite of its scandalous familiarity with everything amoral. In spite ofâthat was how Anna and Molly, discussing the ritual, had felt it; recently Anna had been feeling more and more it was because of; and this was one of the things she was looking forward to discussing with her friend.
But now Molly, reacting as she had often done in the past, to the slightest suggestion of a criticism from Anna of Mother Sugar, said quickly: âAll the same, she was wonderful and I was in much too bad a shape to criticize.â
âMother Sugar used to say, âYouâre Electraâ, or âYouâre Antigoneâ, and that was the end, as far as she was concerned,â said Anna.
âWell, not quite the end,â said Molly, wryly insisting on the painful probing hours both had spent.
âYes,â said Anna, unexpectedly insisting, so that Molly, for the third time, looked at her curiously. âYes. Oh Iâm not saying she didnât do me all the good in the world. Iâm sure Iâd never have coped with what Iâve had to cope with without her. But all the sameâŠI remember quite clearly one afternoon, sitting thereâthe big room, and the discreet wall lights, and the Buddha and the pictures and the statues.â
âWell?â said Molly, now very critical.
Anna, in the face of this unspoken but clear determination not to discuss it, said: âIâve been thinking about it all during the last few monthsâŠno, Iâd like to talk about it with you. After all, we both went through it, and with the same personâŠâ
âWell?â
Anna persisted: âI remember that afternoon, knowing Iâd never go back. It was all that damned art all over the place.â
Molly drew in her breath, sharp. She said, quickly: âI donât know what you mean.â As Anna did not reply, she said, accusing: âAnd have you written anything since Iâve been away?â
âNo.â
âI keep telling you,â said Molly, her voice shrill, âIâll never forgive you if you throw that talent away. I mean it. Iâve done it, and I canât stand watching youâIâve messed with painting and dancing and acting and scribbling, and nowâŠyouâre so talented, Anna. Why? I simply donât understand.â
âHow can I ever say why, when youâre always so bitter and accusing?â
Molly even had tears in her eyes, which were fastened in the most painful reproach on her friend. She brought out with difficulty: âAt the back of my mind I always thought, well, Iâll get married, so it doesnât matter my wasting all the talents I was born with. Until recently I was even dreaming about having more childrenâyes I know itâs idiotic but itâs true. And now Iâm forty and Tommyâs grown up. But the point is, if youâre not writing simply because youâre thinking about getting marriedâŠâ
âBut we both want to get married,â said Anna, making it humorous; the tone restored reserve to the conversation; she had understood, with pain, that she was not, after all, going to be able to discuss certain subjects with Molly.
Molly smiled, drily, gave her friend an acute, bitter look, and said: âAll right, but youâll be sorry later.â
âSorry,â said Anna, laughing, out of surprise. âMolly, why is it youâll never believe other people have the disabilities you have?â
âYou were lucky enough to be given one talent, and not four.â
âPerhaps my one talent has had as much pressure on it as your four?â
âI canât talk to you in this mood. Shall I make you some tea while weâre waiting for Richard?â
âIâd rather have beer or something.â She added, provocative: âIâve been thinking I might very well take to drink later on.â
Molly said, in the older sisterâs tone Anna had invited: âYou shouldnât make jokes, Anna. Not when you see what it does to peopleâlook at Marion. I wonder if sheâs been drinking while I was away?â
âI can tell you. She hasâyes, she came to see me several times.â
âShe came to see you?â
âThatâs what I was leading up to, when I said you and I seem to be interchangeable.â
Molly tended to be possessiveâshe showed resentment, as Anna had known she would, as she said: âI suppose youâre going to say Richard came to see you too?â Anna nodded; and Molly said, briskly, âIâll get us some beer.â She returned from the kitchen with two long cold-beaded glasses, and said: âWell youâd better tell me all about it before Richard comes, hadnât you?â
Richard was Mollyâs husband; or rather, he had been her husband. Molly was the product of what she referred to as âone of those âtwenties marriagesâ. Her mother and father had both glittered, but briefly, in the intellectual and bohemian circles that had spun around the great central lights of Huxley, Lawrence, Joyce, etc. Her childhood had been disastrous, since this marriage only lasted a few months. She had married, at the age of eighteen, the son of a friend of her fatherâs. She knew now she had married out of a need for security and even respectability. The boy Tommy was a product of this marriage. Richard at twenty had already been on the way to becoming the very solid businessman he had since proved himself: and Molly and he had stood their incompatibility for not much more than a year. He had then married Marion, and there were three boys. Tommy had remained with Molly. Richard and she, once the business of the divorce was over, became friends again. Later, Marion became her friend. This, then, was the situation to which Molly often referred as: âItâs all very odd, isnât it?â
âRichard came to see me about Tommy,â said Anna.
âWhat? Why?â
âOhâidiotic! He asked me if I thought it was good for Tommy to spend so much time brooding. I said I thought it was good for everyone to brood, if by that he meant, thinking; and that since Tommy was twenty and grown up it was not for us to interfere anyway.â
âWell it isnât good for him,â said Molly.
âHe asked me if I thought it would be good for Tommy to go off on some trip or other to Germanyâa business trip, with him. I told him to ask Tommy, not me. Of course Tommy said no.â
âOf course. Well Iâm sorry Tommy didnât go.â
âBut the real reason he came, I think, was because of Marion. But Marion had just been to see me, and had a prior claim, so to speak. So I wouldnât discuss Marion at all. I think itâs likely heâs coming to discuss Marion with you.â
Molly was watching Anna closely. âHow many times did Richard come?â
âAbout five or six times.â
After a silence, Molly let her anger spurt out with: âItâs very odd he seems to expect me almost to control Marion. Why me? Or you? Well, perhaps youâd better go after all. Itâs going to be difficult if all sorts of complications have been going on while my back was turned.â
Anna said firmly: âNo, Molly. I didnât ask Richard to come and see me. I didnât ask Marion to come and see me. After all, itâs not your fault or mine that we seem to play the same role for people. I said what you would have saidâat least, I think so.â
There was a note of humorous, even childish pleading in this. But it was deliberate. Molly, the older sister, smiled and said: âWell, all right.â She continued to observe Anna narrowly; and Anna was careful to appear unaware of it. She did not want to tell Molly what had happened between her and Richard now; not until she could tell her the whole story of the last miserable year.
âIs Marion drinking badly?â
âYes, I think she is.â
âAnd she told you all about it?â
âYes. In detail. And whatâs odd is, I swear she talked as if I were youâeven making slips of the tongue, calling me Molly and so on.â
âWell, I donât know,â said Molly. âWho would ever have thought? And you and I are different as chalk and cheese.â
âPerhaps not so different,â said Anna, drily; but Molly laughed in disbelief.
She was a tallish woman, and big-boned, but she appeared slight, and even boyish. This was because of how she did her hair, which was a rough, streaky gold, cut like a boyâs; and because of her clothes, for which she had a great natural talent. She took pleasure in the various guises she could use: for instance, being a hoyden in lean trousers and sweaters, and then a siren, her large green eyes made-up, her cheekbones prominent, wearing a dress which made the most of her full breasts.
This was one of the private games she played with life, which Anna envied her; yet in moments of self-rebuke she would tell Anna she was ashamed of herself, she so much enjoyed the different roles: âItâs as if I were really differentâdonât you see? I even feel a different person. And thereâs something spiteful in itâthat man, you know, I told you about him last weekâhe saw me the first time in my old slacks and my sloppy old jersey, and then I rolled into the restaurant, nothing less than a femme fatale, and he didnât know how to have me, he couldnât say a word all evening, and I enjoyed it. Well, Anna?â
âBut you do enjoy it,â Anna would say, laughing.
But Anna was small, thin, dark, brittle, with large black always-on-guard eyes, and a fluffy haircut. She was, on the whole, satisfied with herself, but she was always the same. She envied Mollyâs capacity to project her own changes of mood. Anna wore neat, delicate clothes, which tended to be either prim, or perhaps a little odd; and relied upon her delicate white hands, and her small, pointed white face to make an impression. But she was shy, unable to assert herself, and, she was convinced, easily overlooked.
When the two women went out together, Anna deliberately effaced herself and played to the dramatic Molly. When they were alone, she tended to take the lead. But this had by no means been true at the beginning of their friendship. Molly, abrupt, straightforward, tactless, had frankly domineered Anna. Slowly, and the offices of Mother Sugar had had a good deal to do with it, Anna learned to stand up for herself. Even now there were moments when she should challenge Molly when she did not. She admitted to herself she was a coward; she would always give in rather than have fights or scenes. A quarrel would lay Anna low for days, whereas Molly thrived on them. She would burst into exuberant tears, say unforgivable things, and have forgotten all about it half a day later. Meanwhile Anna would be limply recovering in her flat.
That they were both âinsecureâ and âunrootedâ, words which dated from the era of Mother Sugar, they both freely acknowledged. But Anna had recently been learning to use these words in a different way, not as something to be apologized for, but as flags or banners for an attitude that amounted to a different philosophy. She had enjoyed fantasies of saying to Molly: Weâve had the wrong attitude to the whole thing, and itâs Mother Sugarâs faultâwhat is this security and balance thatâs supposed to be so good? Whatâs wrong with living emotionally from hand-to-mouth in a world thatâs changing as fast as it is?
But now, sitting with Molly talking, as they had so many hundreds of times before, Anna was saying to herself: Why do I always have this awful need to make other people see things as I do? Itâs childish, why should they? What it amounts to is that Iâm scared of being alone in what I feel.
The room they sat in was on the first floor, overlooking a narrow side street, whose windows had flower boxes and painted shutters, and whose pavements were decorated with three basking cats, a pekinese and the milk-cart, late because it was Sunday. The milkman had white shirt-sleeves, rolled up; and his son, a boy of sixteen, was sliding the gleaming white bottles from a wire basket on to the doorsteps. When he reached under their window, the man looked up and nodded. Molly said: âYesterday he came in for coffee. Full of triumph, he was. His sonâs got a scholarship and Mr Gates wanted me to know it. I said to him, getting in before he could, âMy sonâs had all these advantages, and all that education, and look at him, he doesnât know what to do with himself. And yours hasnât had a penny spent on him and heâs got a scholarship.â âThatâs right,â he said, âthatâs the way of it.â Then I thought, well Iâm damned if Iâll sit here, taking it, so I said: âMr Gates, your sonâs up into the middle-class now, with us lot, and you wonât be speaking the same language. You know that, donât you?â âItâs the way of the world,â he says. I said, âItâs not the way of the world at all, itâs the way of this damned class-ridden country.â Heâs one of those bloody working-class Tories, Mr Gates is, and he said: âItâs the way of the world, Miss Jacobs, you say your son doesnât see his way forward? Thatâs a sad thing.â And off he went on his milk-round, and I went upstairs and there was Tommy sitting on his bed, just sitting. Heâs probably sitting there now, if heâs in. The Gates boy, heâs all of a piece, heâs going out for what he wants. But Tommyâsince I came back three days ago, thatâs all heâs done, sat on his bed and thought.â
âOh, Molly, donât worry so much. Heâll turn out all right.â They were leaning over the sill, watching Mr Gates and his son. A short, brisk, tough little man; and his son was tall, tough and good-looking. The women watched how the boy, returning with an empty basket, swung out a filled one from the back of the milk-cart, receiving instructions from his father with a smile and a nod. There was perfect understanding there; and the two women, both of them bringing up children without men, exchanged a grimacing envious smile.
âThe point is,â said Anna, âneither of us was prepared to get married simply to give our children fathers. So now we must take the consequences. If there are any. Why should there be?â
âItâs very well for you,â said Molly, sour; âyou never worry about anything, you just let things slide.â
Anna braced herselfâalmost did not reply, and then with an effort said: âI donât agree, we try to have things both ways. Weâve always refused to live by the book and the rule; but then why start worrying because the world doesnât treat us by rule? Thatâs what it amounts to.â
âThere you are,â said Molly, antagonistic; âbut Iâm not a theoretical type. You ...