Birthdays, injustices, parents all vanished. She sat on the floor reading till the noise of cups and saucers in the kitchen warned her that the grown-ups would be coming in for afternoon tea, then she went to the little room where she and Margaret slept, next to their parents' bedroom. It was too hot there, but if she went outside to the cool shade of the fig tree, Caroline and Joanne Mansell would come asking her to play with them, or Margaret would want her to go for a swim. Besides, it wasn't hot in Baker Street.
Here, Witting establishes the sense of escape and fulfillment that Isobel finds in reading. The world of books and imagination is such a pleasure for Isobel that even the enjoyment to be gained from other forms of leisure (such as playing with other children) is clearly inferior. Even at this extremely early stage in the novel, Isobel's overall approach to reading and society is apparent. Her alliances become unmistakable as the friends, lodgers, and lovers whom she meets as she matures prove to be as disposable as Caroline and John Mansell, while her attachment to the world of literature endures.
There was not much to cry about, for her mother's intention were far more violent than her blows. Her hands flapped weakly as if she was fighting against a cage of air. She straightened up and drew breath. "Mr Mansell rowed right across the lake to get you that brooch and you couldn't take the trouble to say thank you. It's no use going anywhere with you; you bring disgrace on us wherever we go. Ah, it's no use. Words are wasted on you, gawping there like an idiot." She put her hands to her head and walked out in despair.
This description captures the violence of the relationship between Isobel and her mother. In some respects, this outburst may not seem especially surprising: May's animosity towards her daughter has simmered throughout the first section of the novel, and here her contempt for Isobel finally boils over. In other respects, though, this is a remarkable scene: both the cause of May's anger and her violence towards her daughter make her seem not like a responsible adult, but like a vicious child. Regardless of the reader's reaction to drama of this sort, this will not be the last manifestation of May's rancorous behavior (which re-emerges, though perhaps never with comparable violence) in I for Isobel. If anything, this scene underscores a crucial side of her character.
False idols. Now she was in real trouble; what had been an interesting mysterious phrase in the catechism had come close, and worse, was somehow inside the inner room, having crept in in disguise. Now she came think of it, she never did talk to the Virgin Mary any more. Robert and Angelo had taken her place, which proved it: they were false idols all right. That was mortal sin and her worst yet—a real hellfire affair, if she didn't give it up.
Here, Witting examines the central conflict—the struggle between what Isobel wants to do and what Isobel's religious upbringing demands—that is explored in the girlhood segments of I for Isobel. As construed here, storytelling is worse than a guilty pleasure for Isobel; it propagates "false idols" such as the characters "Robert and Angelo." The "wrongly" idolized characters bring Isobel greater enjoyment than Catholic devotions, and greater immediate fulfillment, which are among the reasons that they are so hard to resist. Isobel has not reached her adult realization that literature can be its own form of devotion and self-fulfillment—its own religion, almost—and this limited, girlhood perspective is responsible for much of her anxiety. In truth, Robert and Angelo are not false idols, just idols of a different sort.
These words had an effect on her more magical than moral. Her soul was bathed in a calm, delightful sunlight which remained through the rest of the Mass and when Mass was over she was sorry, for now she had to take her new treasure out into the uncertain world. She walked home behind her mother and Margaret, considering how to preserve it.
This quotation describes the after-effects of Isobel's experience of grace, an experience that Isobel sees as transformative. But even as Witting uses language that indicates just how unique and important this heavenly grace or "new treasure" is to Isobel, Witting also indicates how fragile this grace may be, anticipating the conflicts that Isobel will face in an "uncertain world." Notice how quickly the prose pivots to the topic of Isobel's mother; readers (and perhaps Isobel herself) would be right to anticipate that Isobel's antagonistic parent will test and perhaps undo Isobel's state of grace.
As they lowered the coffin into the ground, she told herself urgently, "Feel something, feel something!" for this was her last chance, but she could only see her joy flaring like a great red flower among the pallid chrysanthemums.
Here, Witting records Isobel's sentiments as she watches her mother's burial. Isobel wants to feel for her mother's death: social convention demands sorrow for the passing of a parent, and it would be remarkable if there were nothing about her mother that Isobel could mourn. Yet I for Isobel establishes Isobel's mother as a character primarily driven by rage and immaturity, as a character who was both a poor role model to her daughters and a decided enemy for Isobel. In fact, Isobel's "joy" at being relieved of her mother's poor example is understandable; it is just as understandable that Isobel would feel discomfort that such "joy" is made possible by a relative's death.
Isobel said on a bubble of laughter, "My landlady's a preposition. Against."
That brought a laugh from them all, even a smile from Vinnie. Isobel felt a little guilty, knowing she would be accepting tea, cake and kindness from Mrs Bowers later in the afternoon. She hadn't intended malice, either, but she knew she would do as much again, offer up anything that made them laugh. Making them laugh might make her acceptable.
At this point in the narrative, Isobel has made the acquaintance of the "special group" of young poets and literature students, and has begun to shift her alliances. So far, Mrs Bowers has not been noticeably "against" Isobel. The use of the word "against," though, is a clear instance of foreshadowing, since the relationship between Isobel and her landlady will continue to worsen until Isobel finally departs. Yet here, Isobel feels "guilty" about speaking ill of Mrs Bowers even from a distance, and perhaps her intuition that turning on Mrs Bowers is not worth the cost is correct. She earns a place in the literary group, yet this contact—just like the relationship with Mrs Bowers—ultimately becomes a source of tension and disappointment.
She was really alive now. She went of on Sundays to the Public Library looking for the writers they talked about, read Eliot and Auden, Spender and MacNeice, stayed away from the kitchen, lied without conscience to Mrs Bowers, lived for Saturdays, but lived through them and looked back on them with a strange mixture of feelings. She was really alive and morally as bad as ever.
Here, Witting depicts Isobel in the full exhilaration of her intellectual pursuits: the young woman is "alive" both because new regions of the world of literature have been opened to her, and because she has companions who understand and sympathize with her. The paradox, of course, is that such growth and fulfillment are accompanied by such a strong sense of guilt. Isobel has left behind her mother, her old neighborhood, and participation in a Catholic community by this point. However, she has apparently not left behind the qualms about doing what she genuinely enjoys (as opposed to what is socially or religiously mandated) that are among the major inheritances of her life under Catholicism. Thus, Isobel is energized by reading, learning, and lying—as indicated by the choppy, almost breathless quality of Witting's prose here—but still has enough of a nagging self-consciousness to see herself as "morally as bad as ever."
Later, she thought wistfully of the vanished prospect of being Trevor's girlfriend, of belonging . . . Couldn't she have pretended? Would it have been enough, if she had done everything he wanted? That would have been no trouble; she would have been quite ready always to do what Trevor wanted. But she would have had to know what he did want. It would be like being a spy in a foreign country, having to pass for a native. She would be found out. The penalty of being found out appeared as Diana, walking and watching, obsessed with suffering. That moment when you found out they hated you and did not know why—any deprivation was better than that.
Although Isobel has found a measure of acceptance within the literary group, this quotation demonstrates how fragile that acceptance may be, at least in Isobel's own mind. Isobel has rejected the possibility of being Trevor's girlfriend, and thus of fitting in with Trevor's comrades more completely. However, Isobel is so overwhelmed with emotion, with apprehension, that she does not seem to realize how contradictory and illogical some of her observations are. If anything, she is the polar opposite of Diana: reserved, cooperative, and capable of eliminating a relationship with maturity. Isobel is actually equipped to fit in the group in ways that the self-destructively intense Diana isn't. In the intensity of moments such as these, however, Isobel overlooks such facts and becomes almost paranoid, seeing herself as a "spy in a foreign country" rather than as the well-adjusted young person that she is.
Feeling buoyant enough to go back and face her room, instead of drifting about the town, she took a bus to Glebe and walked to the rooming house. Buoyancy was needed when she opened the door on the squalor of the room, the unwashed china and the greasy frying pan on the table, the heap of dirty clothes on the floor in the corner—a person couldn't make such a mess by accident, she must have been trying to tell herself something.
This series of observations arises after Isobel has left Mrs Bowers for a new rooming house; indeed, in light of Mrs Bowers' overbearing personality and preoccupation with order and cleanliness, the state of messiness that Isobel reflects on here could never have arisen under Mrs Bowers' watch. Isobel is not entirely comfortable with her own mess, just as she is uncomfortable with many other youthful and adult lapses. Yet even if neither Isobel's new room nor the condition she keeps it in is entirely desirable, Isobel's new lifestyle does "tell" both the reader and Isobel herself something. Isobel is becoming more independent, and is free to make her own messes and (should she choose) face her faults alone.
The tears were coming slowly. How could tears come from so deep, as if she was a tree with tears welling up from its roots? Then they came in a roaring flood that drowned thought; she put her cheek against the rock, which was as rough as a cat's tongue and unyielding, but she was too far gone to feel any perverse pleasure in that. Her sobs were so loud that even in this wasteland she had to put her ands over her mouth to muffle them; when her mind sobered up her body went on snuffling and heaving along ten years of roadway.
I am a writer. I am a writer.
This excerpt is in many ways the climax of I for Isobel. After having explored other forms of attachment and dedication (i.e., Catholicism, office work, fleeting romances, the company of literary peers), Isobel understands writing as her true calling. Of course, this revelation is unusual because Isobel has not written much beyond the poem for Mrs Adams, and because Isobel is still tied to life at the import office. Yet there are signs that Isobel's self-identification as a "writer" is more than a passing whim or a grandiose burst of emotion. Consider, for instance, the similes, metaphors, and paradoxes ("perverse pleasure") that characterize Isobel's thoughts even in this short passage. A young woman who can see the world in such vivid, unexpected terms may have a future as a writer after all.
