Further discussion. 1. The "them" and "us" mentality is very strong among the working-classes in Britain1. The " them" and " us" mentality is very strong among the working-classes in Britain. Discuss why working people might consider thermselves " outside the law" or not bound by the moral scruples that govern of society. 2. In this and many other Sillitoe stories, no sympathy is shown 3. Compare this story with Joyce's " Counterparts". What similarities differences can you see? 4. Is suicide a solution to all life's problems? Give your opinions. man's suicide prove anything? 5. At the time the story was written, suicide was considered a crime Britain, This is no longer the case. What is the position in your country? Do you think the law should be changed and, if so, how? 6. Suicide is an escape from reality. What other types of escape from reality can you think of (one is mentioned in this story, right at the beginning there any alternative to escaping from reality for the people in this story? 7. Give a full stylistic analysis of the text.
Elizabeth Bowen
Elizabeth Bowen was born in Dublin in 1899 and died in London in 1973. She was a novelist and short-story writer who used fine prose to show poetic truths underlying human relationships. Her characters are, as here, usually upper middle class, and their relationships are often insecure and unfulfilling. Her mother died when she was twelve, hut she had enough money to live independently in London and to spend the winters in Italy. She began writing Short stories in 1919, and the collection from which 'The Demon Lover" is taken was published in 1945. The story is a masterpiece of insecurity, dealing with the culmination of an unfulfilled relationship that had been broken off during the First World War only to be resumed in the Second, 25 years later, with a man " missing, presumed dead" in 1916.
The Demon Lover
Towards the end of her day in London Mrs Drover went round to her shut-up house to look for several things she wanted to take away. Some belonged herself, some to her family, who were by now used to their country life. It was late August; it had been a steamy, showery day: at the moment the trees down the pavement glittered in an escape of humid[676] yellow afternoon sun. Against the next batch[677] of clouds, already piling up ink-dark, broken chimneys and parapets[678] stood out. In her once familiar street, as in any unused channel, an unfamiliar queerness had silted up[679]; a cat wove itself in and out of railings no human eye watched Mrs Drover's return. Shifting some parcels under her arm, she slowly forced round her latchkey[680] in an unwilling lock, then gave the door, which had warped[681], a push with her knee. Dead air came out to meet her as she went in. The staircase window having been boarded up, no light came down into the hall. But one door, she could just see, stood ajar[682], so she went quickly through into the room and unshuttered[683] the big window in there. Now the prosaic[684] woman, looking about her, was more perplexed than she knew by everything that she saw, by traces of her long former habit of life – the yellow smoke-strain up the white marble mantelpiece, the ring left by a vase on the top of the escritoire[685]; the bruise[686] in the wallpaper where, on the door being thrown open widely, the china handle had always hit the wall. The piano, having gone away to be stored, had left what looked like claw-marks on its part of the parquet. Though not much dust had seeped in[687], each object wore a film of another kind; and, the only ventilation being the chimney, the whole drawing-room smelled of the cold hearth[688]. Mrs Drover put down her parcels on the escritoire and left the room to proceed upstairs; the things she wanted were in a bedroom chest. She had been anxious to see how the house was - the part-time caretaker[689] she shared with some neighbours was away this week on his holiday, known to be not yet back. At the best of times he did not look in often, and she was never sure that she trusted him. There were some cracks in the structure, left by the last bombing, on which she was anxious to keep an eye. Not that one could do anything. A shaft[690] of refracted[691] daylight now lay across the hall. She stopped dead and stared at the hall table – on this lay a letter addressed to her. She thought first – then the caretaker must be back. All the same, who, seeing the house shuttered, would have dropped a letter in at the box? It was not a Circular[692], it was not a bill. And the post office redirected, to the address in the country, everything for her that came through the post. The caretaker (even if he were back) did not know she was due in London today – her call here had been planned to be a surprise – so his negligence[693] in the matter of this letter, leaving it to wait in the dusk and the dust, annoyed her. Annoyed, she picked up the letter, which bore no stamp. But it cannot be important, or they would know.... She took the letter rapidly upstairs with her, without a stop to look at the writing till she reached what had been her bedroom, where she let in light. The room looked over the garden and other gardens: the sun had gone in; as the clouds sharpened and lowered, the trees and rank[694] lawns seemed already to smoke with dark. Her reluctance to look again at the letter came from the fact that she felt intruded upon[695] – and by someone contemptuous[696] of her ways. However, in the tenseness preceding the fall of rain she read it: it was a few lines. Dear Kathleen: you will not have forgotten that today is our anniversary, and the day we said. The years have gone by at once slowly and fast. In view of the fact that nothing has changed, I shall rely upon you to keep your promise. I was sorry to see you leave London, but was satisfied that you would be back in time. You may expect me, therefore, at the hour arranged. Until then...K. Mrs Drover looked for the date: it was today's. The dropped the letter on to the bed-springs, then picked it up to see the writing again - her lips, beneath the remains of lipstick, beginning to go white. She felt so much the change in her own face that she went to the mirror, polished a clear patch in it and looked at once urgently and stealthily[697] in. She was confronted by a woman of forty-tour with eyes starting out under a hat-brim that had been rather carelessly pulled down. She had not put on any more powder since she left the shop where she ate her solitary tea. The pearls her husband had given her on their marriage hung loose round her now rather thinner throat, slipping in the V of the pink wool jumper her sister knitted last autumn as they sat round the fire. Mrs Drover's most normal expression was one of controlled worry, but of assent[698] Since the birth of the third of her little boys, attended by a quite serious illness she had had an intermittent[699] muscular flicker to[700] the left of her mouth, but in spite of this she could always sustain a manner that was at once energetic and calm. Turning from her own face as precipitately[701] as she had gone to meet, she went to the chest[702] where the things were, unlocked it, threw up the knelt to search. But as rain began to come crashing down she could not till from looking over her shoulder at the stripped bed on which the letter lay Behind the blanket of rain the clock of the church that still stood struck six-with rapidly heightening apprehension[703] she counted each of the slow strokes. " The hour arranged.... My God" she said, " what hour? How should I...? After twenty-five years… " The young girl talking to the soldier in the garden had not ever completely seen his face. It was dark; they were saying good-bye under a tree. Now and then – for it felt, from not seeing him at this intense moment, as though she had never seen him at all – she verified his presence for these few moments longer by putting out a hand, which he each time pressed, without very much kindness, and painfully, on to one of the breast buttons of his uniform. That cut of the button on the palm of her hand was, principally, what she was tocarry away. This was so near the end of a leave[704] from France that she could only wish him already gone. It was August 1916. Being not kissed, being drawn away from and looked at intimidated[705] Kathleen till she imagined spectral[706] slitters in the place of his eyes. Turning away and looking back up the lawn she saw, through branches of trees, the drawing-room[707] window alight: she caught a breath for the moment when she could go running back there into the safe arms of her mother and sister, and cry: " What shall I do, what shall I do? He has gone." Hearing her catch her breath[708], her fiance[709] said, without feeling: " Cold? " " You're going away such a long way." " Not so far as you think." " I don't understand? " " You don't have to, " he said. " You will. You know what we said." " But that was – suppose you – I mean, suppose" " I shall be with you" he said, " sooner or later. You won't forget that. You need do nothing but wait" Only a little more than a minute later she was free to run up the silent lawn. Looking in through the window at her mother and sister, who did not for the moment perceive[710] her, she already felt that unnatural promise' drive down between[711] her and the rest of all human kind[712]. No other way of having given herself could have made her feel so apart, lost and foresworn[713]. She could not have plighted a more sinister troth[714]. 'Kathleen behaved well when, some months later, her fiance was reported missing, presumed killed. Her family not only supported her but were able to praise her courage without stint[715] because they could not regret, as a husband for her, the man they knew almost nothing about. They hoped she would, in a year or two, console[716] herself – and had it been only a question of consolation things might have gone much straighter ahead. But her trouble, behind just a little grief, was a complete dislocation[717] from everything. She did not reject other lovers, for these failed to appear: for years she failed to attract men – and with the approach of her thirties she became natural enough to share her family's anxiousness on this score[718]. She began to put herself out, to wonder and at thirty-two she was very greatly relieved to find herself being courted[719] by William Drover. She married him, and the two of them settled down in this quiet, arboreal[720] part of Kensington: in this house the years piled up, her children were born and they all lived till they were driven out by the bombs of the next war. Her movements as Mrs Drover were circumscribed[721], and she dismissed any idea that they were still watched. As things were – dead or living the letter-writer sent her only a threat. Unable for some minutes, to go on kneeling with her back exposed to the empty room, Mrs Drover rose from the chest to sit on an upright chair whose back was firmly against the wall. The desuetude[722] of her former bedroom, her married London home's whole air of being a cracked cup from which memory, with its reassuring power, had either evaporated or leaked away, made a crisis – and at just this crisis the letter-writer had, knowledgeably, struck. The hollowness of the house this evening cancelled years on years of voices, habits and steps. Through the shut windows she only heard rain fall on the roofs around. To rally[723] herself, she said she was in a mood – and, for two or three seconds shutting her eyes, told herself that she had imagined the letter. But she opened them – there it lay on the bed. On the supernatural side of the letter's entrance she was not permitting her mind to dwell[724]. Who, in London, knew she meant to call at the house today? Evidently, however, this had been known. The caretaker, had he come back had had no cause to expect her: he would have taken the letter in his pocket, to forward it, at his own time, through the post. There was no other sign that she caretaker had been in – but, if not? Letters dropped in at doors of deserted houses do not fly or walk to tables in halls. They do not sit on the dust of empty tables with the air of certainty that they will be found. There is needed some human hand - but nobody but the caretaker had a key. Under circumstances she did not care to consider, a house can be entered without a key. It was possible that she was not alone now. She might be being waited for downstairs. Waited for – until when? Until " the hour arranged". At least that was not six o'clock: six had struck. She rose from the chair and went over and locked the door. The thing was, to get out. To fly[725]? No, not that: she had to catch her train. As a woman whose utter dependability was the keystone[726] of her family life she was not willing to return to the country, to her husband, her little boys and her sister, without the objects she had come up to fetch. Resuming work at the chest she set about making up a number of parcels in a rapid, fumbling-decisive way. These, with her shopping parcels, would be too much to carry; these meant a taxi – at the thought of the taxi her heart went up and her normal breathing resumed. I will ring up the taxi now; the taxi cannot come too soon: I shall hear the taxi out there running its engine, till I walk calmly down to it through the hall. I'll ring-up – But no: the telephone is cut off[727].... She tugged[728] at a knot she had tied wrong. The idea of flight[729].... He was never kind to me, not really. 1 don't remember him kind at all. Mother said he never considered me. He was set on me[730], that was what it was - not love. Not love, not meaning a person well. What did he do to make me promise like that? 1 can't remember – But she found that she could. She remembered with such dreadful acuteness[731] that the twenty-five years since then dissolved like smoke and she instinctively looked for the weal[732] left by the button on the palm of her hand. She remembered not only all that he said and did but the complete suspension of her existence during that August week. I was not myself – they all told me so at the time. She remembered – but with one white burning blank as where acid has dropped on a photograph: under no conditions could she remember his face. So, wherever he may be waiting, I shall not know him. You have no time to run from a face you do not expect. The thing was to get to the taxi before any clock struck what could be the hour. She would slip[733] down the street and round the side of the square to where the square gave on the main road. She would return in the taxi, safe, to her own door, and bring the solid driver into the house with her to pick up the parcels from room to room. The idea of the taxi driver made her decisive, bold: she unlocked her door, went to the top of the staircase and listened down. She heard nothing – but while she was hearing nothing the passe air[734] of the Staircase was disturbed by a draught that travelled up to her face. It emanated[735] from the basement: down there a door or window was being opened by someone who chose this moment to leave the house. The rain had stopped; the pavements steamily shone as Mrs Drover let out by inches from her own front door into the empty street. The unoccupied houses opposite continued to meet her look with their damaged stare. Making towards the thoroughfare[736] and the taxi, she tried not to keep looking behind. Indeed, the silence was so intense – one of those creeks[737] of London silence exaggerated this summer by the damage of war – that no tread[738] could have gained on hers unheard. Where her street debouched[739] on the square where people went on living, she grew conscious of, and checked, her unnatural pace Across the open end of the square two buses impassively passed each other women, a perambulator[740], cyclists, a man wheeling a barrow[741] signalized, once again, the ordinary flow of life. At the square's most populous corner should be – and was – the short taxi rank[742]. This evening, only one taxi – but this although it presented its black rump, appeared already to be alertly waiting for her. Indeed, without looking round the driver started his engine as she panted[743] up from behind and put her hand on the door. As she did so, the clock struck seven. The taxi faced the main road: to make the trip back to her house would have to turn – she had settled back on the seat and the taxi had turned before she, surprised by its knowing movement, recollected[744] that she had not " said where" She leaned forward to scratch at the glass panel that divided the driver's head from her own. The driver braked to what was almost a stop, turned round and slid the panel back: the jolt[745] of this flung[746] Mrs Drover forward till her face was into the glass. Through the aperture[747] driver and passenger, not six inches between them, remained for an eternity eye to eye. Mrs Drover's mouth hung open for some seconds before she could issue[748] her first scream. After that she continued to scream freely and to beat with her gloved hands on the glass all round as the taxi, accelerating without mercy, made off with[749] her into the hinterland of deserted streets. Understanding the story
1. Where and when does this story take place? 2. What strikes you about the description of the street at the beginning? 3. Does Mrs Drover feel at home in her own house? 4. What sort of a man is the caretaker? 5. What catches Mrs Drover's attention as she is about to go upstairs? 6. What change in atmosphere has taken place when Mrs Drover looks out of her bedroom window? How does this affect the atmosphere of the story? 7. Why does the letter frighten Mrs Drover? 8. How is this fear reflected in the description of her? 9. How is she affected by the striking of the clock? 10. Describe her relationship towards her fiance. 11. What does the man say that has relevance to Mrs Drover's present situation? 12. Was she really in love with him? Give evidence from the text. 13. How did she behave after the news of her fiance's presumed death? 14. Did she remember her promise? 15. " In this house the years piled up". What does this phrase mean and how does it describe her relations to the past? 16. In what way does the empty house affect her mood and her sense of reality? 17. Can she find a rational explanation for the letter's presence? Can you? 18. Why doesn't Mrs Drover leave the house immediately? 19. What aspect is missing from her memories of August 1916, and why is it important? 20. how does the description of the street increase the sinister atmosphere of the story? 2l. What happens before she gets into the taxi that might have warned her? 22. Who is the taxi-driver?
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