I didn’t know what she was expecting me to say. She prompted: ‘Your little girl asked you to come and play?’ I didn’t understand. She said: ‘To play. To come and play. You couldn’t play.’ Then I was angry, understanding. For the last few days I’ve been brought again and again, and so skilfully, to the same point; and every time I’ve been angry; and always my anger is made to seem a defence against the truth. I said: ‘No, that dream was not about art. It was not.’ And trying to joke: ‘Who dreamed that dream, you or I?’ But she wouldn’t laugh at the joke: ‘My dear, you wrote that book, you are an artist.’ She said the word artist with a gentle, understanding, reverent smile. ‘Mrs Marks, you must believe me, I don’t care if I never write another word.’ ‘You don’t care,’ she said, meaning me to hear behind the don’t care my words: Lack of feeling. ‘Yes,’ I insisted, ‘I don’t care.’ ‘My dear, I became a psychotherapist because I once believed myself to be an artist. I treat a great many artists. How many people have sat where you are sitting, because they are blocked, deep in themselves, unable to create any longer.’ ‘But I am not one of them.’ ‘Describe yourself.’ ‘How?’ ‘Describe yourself as if you were describing someone else.’ ‘Anna Wulf is a small dark thin spiky woman, over-critical and on the defensive. She is thirty-three years old. She was married for a year to a man she didn’t care for and has a small daughter. She is a communist.’ She smiled. I said: ‘No good?’ ‘Try again: for one thing, Anna Wulf wrote a novel which was praised by the critics and did so well she is still in fact living on the money it earned.’ I was full of hostility. ‘Very well: Anna Wulf is sitting in a chair in front of a soul-doctor. She is there because she cannot deeply feel about anything. She is frozen. She has a great many friends and acquaintances. People are pleased to see her. But she only cares about one person in the world, her daughter, Janet.’ ‘Why is she frozen?’ ‘She is afraid.’ ‘What of?’ ‘Of death.’ She nodded, and I broke in across the game and said: ‘No, not of my death. It seems to me that ever since I can remember anything the real thing that has been happening in the world was death and destruction. It seems to me it is stronger than life.’ ‘Why are you a communist?’ ‘At least they believe in something.’ ‘Why do you say they, when you are a member of the Communist Party?’ ‘If I could say we, really meaning it, I wouldn’t be here, would I?’ ‘So you don’t care, really, about your comrades?’ ‘I get on easily with everyone, if that’s what you mean?’ ‘No, that’s not what I mean.’ ‘I told you, the only person I really care about, really, is my daughter. And that’s egotism.’ ‘You don’t care about your friend, Molly?’ ‘I’m fond of her.’ ‘And you don’t care about your man, Michael?’ ‘Supposing he dropped me tomorrow, how long would I remember that — I like sleeping with him?’ ‘You’ve known him how long — three weeks? Why should he drop you?’ I couldn’t think of a reply, in fact I was surprised I had said it at all. Our time was up. I said good-bye and as I went out she said: ‘My dear, you must remember the artist has a sacred trust.’ I could not help laughing. ‘Why do you laugh?’ ‘Doesn’t it strike you as funny — art is sacred, majestic chord in C Major?’ ‘I will see you the day after tomorrow as usual, my dear.’