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An Introduction to Cognitive
Behaviour Therapy
Praise for the Book
Praise for the Third Edition

‘Want to learn to practice CBT with an expert CBT therapist at your

side? Then immerse yourself in the third edition of Kennerley et
al.’s An Introduction to Cognitive Behaviour Therapy, the most
complete and up-to-date introductory CBT text available. Each
chapter offers clear guidance for management of common clinical
dilemmas. Video links demonstrate skills and help therapists really
understand CBT as a living, breathing therapy. Even experienced
therapists can benefit. This book offers a comprehensive and
sophisticated view of CBT in practice.’

Dr Christine A. Padesky, co-founder of the Center for Cognitive

Therapy and co-author of Mind over Mood

‘There are many books that give us the basics of CBT. This one
gives us the basics and beyond – what to do, when to do it, how to
do it, and why we need to do it. Its mix of case material, techniques
and illustrations (including truly enlightening videos of therapy in
practice) make the book hard to put down. Whatever the disorder,
whatever the age group, whatever the complexity – this book will
help you to improve your practise. Consider it mandatory reading
for any trainee, supervisor or clinician who takes patient care
seriously.’

Professor Glenn Waller, University of Sheffield

‘An Introduction to Cognitive Behaviour Therapy has been a core

text for learners, novice and experienced practitioners, and CBT
educators alike since its first edition in 2007. All reputable CBT
training programmes have this text on their essential reading lists.
The third edition with its comprehensive new features such as the
inclusion of videos, new case studies, additional exercises, and a
focus on the cultural context of CBT will make what is already a
great book indispensable.’
Pamela Myles, University of Reading

‘This book is not just an introduction to CBT; it is the introduction

to CBT. The depth of the authors’ expertise as therapists,
supervisors and trainers shines through and their knowledge is
shared in an accessible way. The new edition includes several
contemporary themes and also provides a companion website with
video links. Quite simply, new students of CBT should start here.’

Dr Stephen Barton, Newcastle University

‘This third edition contains all of the conciseness and clarity of the
earlier editions, but with greater depth and scope. Any questions
about how to use it in practice can be answered by using the
demonstration videos and companion website. Comprehensive,
authoritative, practical and friendly, this remains the essential guide
to CBT.’

Dave Roberts, Oxford Brookes University

Praise for the Second Edition

‘This text seeks to genuinely enable therapists’ understanding,

providing how-to guides, case examples and route maps to learning.
The authors’ proficient understanding of the breadth and complexity
of CBT shines through.’

Professor Willem Kuyken, Mood Disorders Centre

‘It is great to see an already outstanding book brought right up to

date. As ever, for these authors, excellence begets excellence.’

David Richards, Professor of Mental Health Services Research,

University of Exeter
An Introduction to Cognitive
Behaviour Therapy

Skills & Applications

Edition 3

Helen Kennerley
Joan Kirk
& David Westbrook
SAGE Publications Ltd

1 Oliver’s Yard

55 City Road

London EC1Y 1SP

SAGE Publications Inc.

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Thousand Oaks, California 91320

SAGE Publications India Pvt Ltd

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Singapore 049483

© Helen Kennerley, Joan Kirk and David Westbrook 2007, 2011, 2017
First edition published 2007. Reprinted 2007 (twice), 2008 (twice), 2009
Second edition published 2011. Reprinted 2012, 2013, 2014 (twice), 2015
(twice), 2016
This third edition first published 2017

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,
or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act, 1988, this publication may be reproduced, stored or
transmitted in any form, or by any means, only with the prior permission
in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction, in
accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing
Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be
sent to the publishers.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016938705

British Library Cataloguing in Publication data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978-1-4739-6256-9

ISBN 978-1-4739-6258-3 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-4739-6257-6 (pbk & IEB)

Editor: Susannah Trefgarne

Editorial assistant: Edward Coats

Production editor: Rachel Burrows

Copyeditor: Solveig Gardner Servian

Proofreader: Andy Baxter

Indexer: Adam Pozner

Marketing manager: Camille Richmond

Cover design: Wendy Scott

Typeset by: C&M Digitals (P) Ltd, Chennai, India

Printed in the UK
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Dedicated to Joan Kirk (1945–2016) and David Westbrook (1950–2013)
Contents
List of Figures and Tables
About the Authors
Acknowledgements
Preface
How to Use Your Book and Its Companion Website
List of Videos
1 Basic Theory, Development and Current Status of CBT
Introduction
A brief history of CBT
Some basic principles
‘Levels’ of cognition
Automatic thoughts (ATs)/Negative automatic thoughts (NATs)
Core beliefs
Underlying assumptions
Characteristic cognitions in different problems
Generic CBT model of problem development
The current status of CBT
CBT competences
The empirical evidence about CBT
Summary
Learning exercises
Further reading
2 Distinctive Characteristics of CBT
Introduction
Collaboration
Structure and active engagement
Time-limited and brief
Empirical in approach
Problem-oriented in approach
Guided discovery
Behavioural methods
In vivo work
Summaries and feedback
Myths about CBT
Summary
 Learning exercises
Further reading
Video links
2.1 Sharing capsule summaries (i)
2.2 Sharing capsule summaries (ii)
2.3 Eliciting feedback from your client during a session
(i)
2.4 Eliciting feedback from your client at the end of a
session (ii)
3 The Therapeutic Relationship
Introduction
The therapeutic relationship as an essential foundation of
therapy
The role of the therapist
Ways of building a positive and collaborative client–therapist
relationship
Ruptures in the therapeutic alliance
Working with diversity and difference
Boundary issues
Maintaining treatment boundaries
Summary
Learning exercises
Further reading
Video links
3.1 Setting the scene and engaging your client
3.2 Dealing with signs of problems in the therapeutic
relationship
3.3 Presenting the therapist dilemma: a simple issue (i)
3.4 Presenting the therapist dilemma: a more complex
issue (ii)
4 Assessment and Formulation
Introduction
Formulation in CBT
Formulation: art or science?
Focus on maintenance processes
The process of assessment
Assessing current problems
Maintaining processes
Assessing past history and problem development
The order of assessment components
 ‘Non-specific’ factors and the therapeutic relationship
Making formulations
Sample formulation
Suitability for CBT
Setting the scene for the assessment
Possible problems during assessment
Possible problems in making formulations
Summary
Learning exercises
Further reading
Video links
4.1 Exploring the client’s fear: unpacking what’s behind
the problem
4.2 Refining hypotheses about ‘modifiers’: learning more
about strengths and needs
4.3 Using a recent episode to get more detailed
information
4.4 Collaborative construction of the formulation:
teamwork in conceptualisation
4.5 Constructing a simple formulation with your client:
the ‘blobby’ formulation
4.6 Constructing a simple formulation with your client:
the vicious flower
5 Measurement in CBT
Introduction
The empirical nature of CBT
During and at the end of treatment
Why bother with measurement?
Psychometric aspects of monitoring
Obtaining useful and accurate measures
What sorts of information to collect
Other sources of information
Making the most of the data
Problems when using measurements
Summary
Learning exercises
Further reading
Video links
5.1 Questionnaires (i): introducing questionnaires, giving
the rationale and checking the client’s understanding
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
 Then she asked him quite humbly: ‘What must I do to save my
work?’ for she realized that he had been speaking the stark, bitter
truth; that indeed she had needed no one to tell her that her last book
had been altogether unworthy—a poor, lifeless thing, having no health
in it.
He considered. ‘It’s a difficult question, Stephen. Your own
temperament is so much against you. You’re so strong in some ways
and yet so timid—such a mixture—and you’re terribly frightened of life.
Now why? You must try to stop being frightened, to stop hiding your
head. You need life, you need people. People are the food that we
writers live on; get out and devour them, squeeze them dry, Stephen!’
‘My father once told me something like that—not quite in those
words—but something very like it.’
‘Then your father must have been a sensible man,’ smiled
Brockett. ‘Now I had a perfect beast of a father. Well, Stephen, I’ll give
you my advice for what it’s worth—you want a real change. Why not
go abroad somewhere? Get right away for a bit from your England.
You’ll probably write it a damned sight better when you’re far enough
off to see the perspective. Start with Paris—it’s an excellent jumping-
off place. Then you might go across to Italy or Spain—go anywhere,
only do get a move on! No wonder you’re atrophied here in London. I
can put you wise about people in Paris. You ought to know Valérie
Seymour, for instance. She’s very good fun and a perfect darling; I’m
sure you’d like her, every one does. Her parties are a kind of human
bran-pie—you just plunge in your fist and see what happens. You may
draw a prize or you may draw blank, but it’s always worth while to go
to her parties. Oh, but good Lord, there are so many things that
stimulate one in Paris.’
He talked on about Paris for a little while longer, then he got up to
go. ‘Well, good-bye, my dears, I’m off. I’ve given myself indigestion.
And do look at Puddle, she’s blind with fury; I believe she’s going to
refuse to shake hands! Don’t be angry, Puddle—I’m very well-
meaning.’
‘Yes, of course,’ answered Puddle, but her voice sounded cold.
 4

After he had gone they stared at each other, then Stephen said:
‘What a queer revelation. Who would have thought that Brockett could
get so worked up? His moods are kaleidoscopic.’ She was purposely
forcing herself to speak lightly.
But Puddle was angry, bitterly angry. Her pride was wounded to the
quick for Stephen. ‘The man’s a perfect fool!’ she said gruffly. ‘And I
didn’t agree with one word he said. I expect he’s jealous of your work,
they all are. They’re a mean-minded lot, these writing people.’
And looking at her Stephen thought sadly, ‘She’s tired—I’m
wearing her out in my service. A few years ago she’d never have tried
to deceive me like this—she’s losing courage.’ Aloud she said: ‘Don’t
be cross with Brockett, he meant to be friendly, I’m quite sure of that.
My work will buck up—I’ve been feeling slack lately, and it’s told on my
writing—I suppose it was bound to.’ Then the merciful lie, ‘But I’m not
a bit frightened!’

Stephen rested her head on her hand as she sat at her desk—it was
well past midnight. She was heartsick as only a writer can be whose
day has been spent in useless labour. All that she had written that day
she would destroy, and now it was well past midnight. She turned,
looking wearily round the study, and it came upon her with a slight
sense of shock that she was seeing this room for the very first time,
and that everything in it was abnormally ugly. The flat had been
furnished when her mind had been too much afflicted to care in the
least what she bought, and now all her possessions seemed clumsy or
puerile, from the small, foolish chairs to the large, roll-top desk; there
was nothing personal about any of them. How had she endured this
room for so long? Had she really written a fine book in it? Had she sat
in it evening after evening and come back to it morning after morning?
Then she must have been blind indeed—what a place for any author
to work in! She had taken nothing with her from Morton but the hidden
books found in her father’s study; these she had taken, as though in a
way they were hers by some intolerable birthright; for the rest she had
shrunk from depriving the house of its ancient and honoured
possessions.
Morton—so quietly perfect a thing, yet the thing of all others that
she must fly from, that she must forget; but she could not forget it in
these surroundings; they reminded by contrast. Curious what Brockett
had said that evening about putting the sea between herself and
England. . . . In view of her own half-formed plan to do so, his words
had come as a kind of echo of her thoughts; it was almost as though
he had peeped through a secret keyhole into her mind, had been
spying upon her trouble. By what right did this curious man spy upon
her—this man with the soft, white hands of a woman, with the
movements befitting those soft, white hands, yet so ill-befitting the rest
of his body? By no right; and how much had the creature found out
when his eye had been pressed to that secret keyhole? Clever—
Brockett was fiendishly clever—all his whims and his foibles could not
disguise it. His face gave him away, a hard, clever face with sharp
eyes that were glued to other people’s keyholes. That was why
Brockett wrote such fine plays, such cruel plays; he fed his genius on
live flesh and blood. Carnivorous genius. Moloch, fed upon live flesh
and blood! But she, Stephen, had tried to feed her inspiration upon
herbage, the kind, green herbage of Morton. For a little while such
food had sufficed, but now her talent had sickened, was dying perhaps
—or had she too fed it on blood, her heart’s blood when she had
written The Furrow? If so, her heart would not bleed any more—
perhaps it could not—perhaps it was dry. A dry, withered thing; for she
did not feel love these days when she thought of Angela Crossby—
that must mean that her heart had died within her. A gruesome
companion to have, a dead heart.
Angela Crossby—and yet there were times when she longed
intensely to see this woman, to hear her speak, to stretch out her arms
and clasp them around the woman’s body—not gently, not patiently as
in the past, but roughly, brutally even. Beastly—it was beastly! She felt
degraded. She had no love to offer Angela Crossby, not now, only
something that lay like a stain on the beauty of what had once been
love. Even this memory was marred and defiled, by herself even more
than by Angela Crossby.
 Came the thought of that unforgettable scene with her mother. ‘I
would rather see you dead at my feet.’ Oh, yes—very easy to talk
about death, but not so easy to manage the dying. ‘We two cannot live
together at Morton. . . . One of us must go, which of us shall it be?’
The subtlety, the craftiness of that question which in common decency
could have but one answer! Oh, well, she had gone and would go
even farther. Raftery was dead, there was nothing to hold her, she was
free—what a terrible thing could be freedom. Trees were free when
they were uprooted by the wind; ships were free when they were torn
from their moorings; men were free when they were cast out of their
homes—free to starve, free to perish of cold and hunger.
At Morton there lived an ageing woman with sorrowful eyes now a
little dim from gazing for so long into the distance. Only once, since
her gaze had been fixed on the dead, had this woman turned it full on
her daughter; and then her eyes had been changed into something
accusing, ruthless, abominably cruel. Through looking upon what had
seemed abominable to them, they themselves had become an
abomination. Horrible! And yet how dared they accuse? What right
had a mother to abominate the child that had sprung from her own
secret moments of passion? She the honoured, the fulfilled, the
fruitful, the loving and loved, had despised the fruit of her love. Its
fruit? No, rather its victim.
She thought of her mother’s protected life that had never had to
face this terrible freedom. Like a vine that clings to a warm southern
wall it had clung to her father—it still clung to Morton. In the spring had
come gentle and nurturing rains, in the summer the strong and health-
giving sunshine, in the winter a deep, soft covering of snow—cold yet
protecting the delicate tendrils. All, all she had had. She had never
gone empty of love in the days of her youthful ardour; had never
known longing, shame, degradation, but rather great joy and great
pride in her loving. Her love had been pure in the eyes of the world, for
she had been able to indulge it with honour. Still with honour, she had
borne a child to her mate—but a child who, unlike her, must go
unfulfilled all her days, or else live in abject dishonour. Oh, but a hard
and pitiless woman this mother must be for all her soft beauty;
shamelessly finding shame in her offspring. ‘I would rather see you
dead at my feet. . . .’ ‘Too late, too late, your love gave me life. Here
am I the creature you made through your loving; by your passion you
created the thing that I am. Who are you to deny me the right to love?
But for you I need never have known existence.’
And now there crept into Stephen’s brain the worst torment of all, a
doubt of her father. He had known and knowing he had not told her; he
had pitied and pitying had not protected; he had feared and fearing
had saved only himself. Had she had a coward for a father? She
sprang up and began to pace the room. Not this—she could not face
this new torment. She had stained her love, the love of the lover—she
dared not stain this one thing that remained, the love of the child for
the father. If this light went out the engulfing darkness would consume
her, destroying her entirely. Man could not live by darkness alone, one
point of light he must have for salvation—one point of light. The most
perfect Being of all had cried out for light in His darkness—even He,
the most perfect Being of all. And then as though in answer to prayer,
to some prayer that her trembling lips had not uttered, came the
memory of a patient, protective back, bowed as though bearing
another’s burden. Came the memory of horrible, soul-sickening pain:
‘No—not that—something urgent—I want—to say. No drugs—I know
I’m—dying—Evans.’ And again an heroic and tortured effort: ‘Anna—
it’s Stephen—listen.’ Stephen suddenly held out her arms to this man
who, though dead, was still her father.
But even in this blessèd moment of easement, her heart hardened
again at the thought of her mother. A fresh wave of bitterness flooded
her soul so that the light seemed all but extinguished; very faintly it
gleamed like the little lantern on a buoy that is tossed by tempest.
Sitting down at her desk she found pen and paper.
She wrote: ‘Mother, I am going abroad quite soon, but I shall not
see you to say good-bye, because I don’t want to come back to
Morton. These visits of mine have always been painful, and now my
work is beginning to suffer—that I can not allow; I live only for my work
and so I intend to guard it in future. There can now be no question of
gossip or scandal, for every one knows that I am a writer and as such
may have occasion to travel. But in any case I care very little these
days for the gossip of neighbours. For nearly three years I have borne
your yoke—I have tried to be patient and understanding. I have tried to
think that your yoke was a just one, a just punishment, perhaps, for my
being what I am, the creature whom you and my father created; but
now I am going to bear it no longer. If my father had lived he would
have shown pity, whereas you showed me none, and yet you were my
mother. In my hour of great need you utterly failed me; you turned me
away like some unclean thing that was unfit to live any longer at
Morton. You insulted what to me seemed both natural and sacred. I
went, but now I shall not come back any more to you or to Morton.
Puddle will be with me because she loves me; if I’m saved at all it is
she who has saved me, and so for as long as she wishes to throw in
her lot with mine I shall let her. Only one thing more; she will send you
our address from time to time, but don’t write to me, Mother, I am
going away in order to forget, and your letters would only remind me of
Morton.’
She read over what she had written, three times, finding nothing at
all that she wished to add, no word of tenderness, or of regret. She felt
numb and then unbelievably lonely, but she wrote the address in her
firm handwriting: ‘The Lady Anna Gordon,’ she wrote, ‘Morton Hall.
Near Upton-on-Severn.’ And when she wept, as she presently must
do, covering her face with her large, brown hands, her spirit felt
unrefreshed by this weeping, for the hot, angry tears seemed to
scorch her spirit. Thus was Anna Gordon baptized through her child as
by fire, unto the loss of their mutual salvation.

CHAPTER 31

I t was Jonathan Brockett who had recommended the little hotel in

the Rue St. Roch, and when Stephen and Puddle arrived one
evening that June, feeling rather tired and dejected, they found their
sitting-room bright with roses—roses for Puddle—and on the table two
boxes of Turkish cigarettes for Stephen. Brockett, they learnt, had
ordered these things by writing specially from London.
Barely had they been in Paris a week, when Jonathan Brockett
turned up in person: ‘Hallo, my dears, I’ve come over to see you.
Everything all right? Are you being looked after?’ He sat down in the
only comfortable chair and proceeded to make himself charming to
Puddle. It seemed that his flat in Paris being let, he had tried to get
rooms at their hotel but had failed, so had gone instead to the
Meurice. ‘But I’m not going to take you to lunch there,’ he told them,
‘the weather’s too fine, we’ll go to Versailles. Stephen, ring up and
order your car, there’s a darling! By the way, how is Burton getting on?
Does he remember to keep to the right and to pass on the left?’ His
voice sounded anxious. Stephen reassured him good-humouredly, she
knew that he was apt to be nervous in motors.
They lunched at the Hotel des Reservoirs, Brockett taking great
pains to order special dishes. The waiters were zealous, they evidently
knew him: ‘Oui, monsieur, tout de suite—à l’instant, monsieur!’ Other
clients were kept waiting while Brockett was served, and Stephen
could see that this pleased him. All through the meal he talked about
Paris with ardour, as a lover might talk of a mistress.
‘Stephen, I’m not going back for ages. I’m going to make you
simply adore her. You’ll see, I’ll make you adore her so much that
you’ll find yourself writing like a heaven-born genius. There’s nothing
so stimulating as love—you’ve got to have an affair with Paris!’ Then
looking at Stephen rather intently, ‘I suppose you’re capable of falling
in love?’
She shrugged her shoulders, ignoring his question, but she
thought: ‘He’s putting his eye to the keyhole. His curiosity’s positively
childish at times,’ for she saw that his face had fallen.
‘Oh, well, if you don’t want to tell me—’ he grumbled.
‘Don’t be silly! There’s nothing to tell,’ smiled Stephen. But she
made a mental note to be careful. Brockett’s curiosity was always
most dangerous when apparently merely childish.
With quick tact he dropped the personal note. No good trying to
force her to confide, he decided, she was too damn clever to give
herself away, especially before the watchful old Puddle. He sent for
the bill and when it arrived, went over it item by item, frowning.
‘Maître d’hotel!’
‘Oui monsieur?’
 ‘You’ve made a mistake; only one liqueur brandy—and here’s
another mistake, I ordered two portions of potatoes, not three; I do
wish to God you’d be careful!’ When Brockett felt cross he always felt
mean. ‘Correct this at once, it’s disgusting!’ he said rudely. Stephen
sighed, and hearing her Brockett looked up unabashed: ‘Well, why pay
for what we’ve not ordered?’ Then he suddenly found his temper again
and left a very large tip for the waiter.

There is nothing more difficult to attain to than the art of being a

perfect guide. Such an art, indeed, requires a real artist, one who has
a keen perception for contrasts, and an eye for the large effects rather
than for details, above all one possessed of imagination; and Brockett,
when he chose, could be such a guide.
Having waved the professional guides to one side, he himself took
them through a part of the palace, and his mind re-peopled the place
for Stephen so that she seemed to see the glory of the dancers led by
the youthful Roi Soleil; seemed to hear the rhythm of the throbbing
violins, and the throb of the rhythmic dancing feet as they beat down
the length of the Galerie des Glaces; seemed to see those other
mysterious dancers who followed step by step, in the long line of
mirrors. But most skilfully of all did he recreate for her the image of the
luckless queen who came after; as though for some reason this
unhappy woman must appeal in a personal way to Stephen. And true
it was that the small, humble rooms which the queen had chosen out
of all that vast palace, moved Stephen profoundly—so desolate they
seemed, so full of unhappy thoughts and emotions that were even
now only half forgotten.
Brockett pointed to the simple garniture on the mantelpiece of the
little salon, then he looked at Stephen: ‘Madame de Lamballe gave
those to the queen,’ he murmured softly.
She nodded, only vaguely apprehending his meaning.
Presently they followed him out into the gardens and stood looking
across the Tapis Vert that stretches its quarter mile of greenness
towards a straight, lovely line of water.
 Brockett said, very low, so that Puddle should not hear him: ‘Those
two would often come here at sunset. Sometimes they were rowed
along the canal in the sunset—can’t you imagine it, Stephen? They
must often have felt pretty miserable, poor souls; sick to death of the
subterfuge and pretences. Don’t you ever get tired of that sort of
thing? My God, I do!’ But she did not answer, for now there was no
mistaking his meaning.
Last of all he took them to the Temple d’Amour, where it rests amid
the great silence of the years that have long lain upon the dead hearts
of its lovers; and from there to the Hameau, built by the queen for a
whim—the tactless and foolish whim of a tactless and foolish but
loving woman—by the queen who must play at being a peasant, at a
time when her downtrodden peasants were starving. The cottages
were badly in need of repair; a melancholy spot it looked, this
Hameau, in spite of the birds that sang in its trees and the golden glint
of the afternoon sunshine.
On the drive back to Paris they were all very silent. Puddle was
feeling too tired to talk, and Stephen was oppressed by a sense of
sadness—the vast and rather beautiful sadness that may come to us
when we have looked upon beauty, the sadness that aches in the
heart of Versailles. Brockett was content to sit opposite Stephen on
the hard little let-down seat of her motor. He might have been
comfortable next to the driver, but instead he preferred to sit opposite
Stephen, and he too was silent, surreptitiously watching the
expression of her face in the gathering twilight.
When he left them he said with his cold little smile: ‘To-morrow,
before you’ve forgotten Versailles, I want you to come to the
Conciergerie. It’s very enlightening—cause and effect.’
At that moment Stephen disliked him intensely. All the same he
had stirred her imagination.

In the weeks that followed, Brockett showed Stephen just as much of

Paris as he wished her to see, and this principally consisted of the
tourist’s Paris. Into less simple pastures he would guide her later on,
always provided that his interest lasted. For the present, however, he
considered it wiser to tread delicately like Agag. The thought of this girl
had begun to obsess him to a very unusual extent. He who had prided
himself on his skill in ferreting out other people’s secrets, was
completely baffled by this youthful abnormal. That she was abnormal
he had no doubt whatever, but what he was keenly anxious to find out
was just how her own abnormality struck her—he felt pretty sure that
she worried about it. And he genuinely liked her. Unscrupulous he
might be in his vivisection of men and women; cynical too when it
came to his pleasures, himself an invert, secretly hating the world
which he knew hated him in secret; and yet in his way he felt sorry for
Stephen, and this amazed him, for Jonathan Brockett had long ago, as
he thought, done with pity. But his pity was a very poor thing at best, it
would never defend and never protect her; it would always go down
before any new whim, and his whim at the moment was to keep her in
Paris.
All unwittingly Stephen played into his hands, while having no
illusions about him. He represented a welcome distraction that helped
her to keep her thoughts off England. And because under Brockett’s
skilful guidance she developed a fondness for the beautiful city, she
felt very tolerant of him at moments, almost grateful she felt, grateful
too towards Paris. And Puddle also felt grateful.
The strain of the sudden complete rupture with Morton had told on
the faithful little grey woman. She would scarcely have known how to
counsel Stephen had the girl come to her and asked for her counsel.
Sometimes she would lie awake now at nights thinking of that ageing
and unhappy mother in the great silent house, and then would come
pity, the old pity that had come in the past for Anna—she would pity
until she remembered Stephen. Then Puddle would try to think very
calmly, to keep the brave heart that had never failed her, to keep her
strong faith in Stephen’s future—only now there were days when she
felt almost old, when she realized that indeed she was ageing. When
Anna would write her a calm, friendly letter, but with never so much as
a mention of Stephen, she would feel afraid, yes, afraid of this woman,
and at moments almost afraid of Stephen. For none might know from
those guarded letters what emotions lay in the heart of their writer; and
none might know from Stephen’s set face when she recognized the
writing, what lay in her heart. She would turn away, asking no
questions about Morton.
Oh, yes, Puddle felt old and actually frightened, both of which
sensations she deeply resented; so being what she was, an
indomitable fighter, she thrust out her chin and ordered a tonic. She
struggled along through the labyrinths of Paris beside the untiring
Stephen and Brockett; through the galleries of the Luxembourg and
the Louvre; up the Eiffel Tower—in a lift, thank heaven; down the Rue
de la Paix, up the hill to Montmartre—sometimes in the car but quite
often on foot, for Brockett wished Stephen to learn her Paris—and as
likely as not, ending up with rich food that disagreed badly with the
tired Puddle. In the restaurants people would stare at Stephen, and
although the girl would pretend not to notice, Puddle would know that
in spite of her calm, Stephen was inwardly feeling resentful, was
inwardly feeling embarrassed and awkward. And then because she
was tired, Puddle too would feel awkward when she noticed those
people staring.
Sometimes Puddle must really give up and rest, in spite of the
aggressive chin and the tonic. Then all alone in the Paris hotel, she
would suddenly grow very homesick for England—absurd of course
and yet there it was, she would feel the sharp tug of England. At such
moments she would long for ridiculous things; a penny bun in the train
at Dover; the good red faces of English porters—the old ones with little
stubby side-whiskers; Harrods Stores; a properly upholstered arm-
chair; bacon and eggs; the sea front at Brighton. All alone and via
these ridiculous things, Puddle would feel the sharp tug of England.
And one evening her weary mind must switch back to the earliest
days of her friendship with Stephen. What a lifetime ago it seemed
since the days when a lanky colt of a girl of fourteen had been licked
into shape in the schoolroom at Morton. She could hear her own
words: ‘You’ve forgotten something, Stephen; the books can’t walk to
the bookcase, but you can, so suppose that you take them with you,’
and then: ‘Even my brain won’t stand your complete lack of method.’
Stephen fourteen—that was twelve years ago. In those years she,
Puddle, had grown very tired, tired with trying to see some way out,
some way of escape, of fulfilment for Stephen. And always they
seemed to be toiling, they two, down an endless road that had no
turning; she an ageing woman herself unfulfilled; Stephen still young
and as yet still courageous—but the day would come when her youth
would fail, and her courage, because of that endless toiling.
She thought of Brockett, Jonathan Brockett, surely an unworthy
companion for Stephen; a thoroughly vicious and cynical man, a
dangerous one too because he was brilliant. Yet she, Puddle, was
actually grateful to this man; so dire were their straits that she was
grateful to Brockett. Then came the remembrance of that other man,
of Martin Hallam—she had had such high hopes. He had been very
simple and honest and good—Puddle felt that there was much to be
said for goodness. But for such as Stephen men like Martin Hallam
could seldom exist; as friends they would fail her, while she in her turn
would fail them as lover. Then what remained? Jonathan Brockett?
Like to like. No, no, an intolerable thought! Such a thought as that was
an outrage on Stephen. Stephen was honourable and courageous;
she was steadfast in friendship and selfless in loving; intolerable to
think that her only companions must be men and women like Jonathan
Brockett—and yet—after all what else? What remained? Loneliness,
or worse still, far worse because it so deeply degraded the spirit, a life
of perpetual subterfuge, of guarded opinions and guarded actions, of
lies of omission if not of speech, of becoming an accomplice in the
world’s injustice by maintaining at all times a judicious silence, making
and keeping the friends one respected, on false pretences, because if
they knew they would turn aside, even the friends one respected.
Puddle abruptly controlled her thoughts; this was no way to be
helpful to Stephen. Sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof. Getting
up she went into her bedroom where she bathed her face and tidied
her hair.
‘I look scarcely human,’ she thought ruefully, as she stared at her
own reflection in the glass; and indeed at that moment she looked
more than her age.

It was not until nearly the middle of July that Brockett took Stephen to
Valérie Seymour’s. Valérie had been away for some time, and was
even now only passing through Paris en route for her villa at St.
Tropez.
As they drove to her apartment on the Quai Voltaire, Brockett
began to extol their hostess, praising her wit, her literary talent. She
wrote delicate satires and charming sketches of Greek mœurs—the
latter were very outspoken, but then Valérie’s life was very outspoken
—she was, said Brockett, a kind of pioneer who would probably go
down to history. Most of her sketches were written in French, for
among other things Valérie was bilingual; she was also quite rich, an
American uncle had had the foresight to leave her his fortune; she was
also quite young, being just over thirty, and according to Brockett,
good-looking. She lived her life in great calmness of spirit, for nothing
worried and few things distressed her. She was firmly convinced that
in this ugly age one should strive to the top of one’s bent after beauty.
But Stephen might find her a bit of a free lance, she was libre
penseuse when it came to the heart; her love affairs would fill quite
three volumes, even after they had been expurgated. Great men had
loved her, great writers had written about her, one had died, it was
said, because she refused him, but Valérie was not attracted to men—
yet as Stephen would see if she went to her parties, she had many
devoted friends among men. In this respect she was almost unique,
being what she was, for men did not resent her. But then of course all
intelligent people realized that she was a creature apart, as would
Stephen the moment she met her.
Brockett babbled away, and as he did so his voice took on the
effeminate timbre that Stephen always hated and dreaded: ‘Oh, my
dear!’ he exclaimed with a high little laugh, ‘I’m so excited about this
meeting of yours, I’ve a feeling it may be momentous. What fun!’ And
his soft, white hands grew restless, making their foolish gestures.
She looked at him coldly, wondering the while how she could
tolerate this young man—why indeed, she chose to endure him.

The first thing that struck Stephen about Valérie’s flat was its large
and rather splendid disorder. There was something blissfully unkempt
about it, as though its mistress were too much engrossed in other
affairs to control its behaviour. Nothing was quite where it ought to
have been, and much was where it ought not to have been, while over
the whole lay a faint layer of dust—even over the spacious salon. The
odour of somebody’s Oriental scent was mingling with the odour of
tuberoses in a sixteenth century chalice. On a divan, whose truly regal
proportions occupied the best part of a shadowy alcove, lay a box of
Fuller’s peppermint creams and a lute, but the strings of the lute were
broken.
Valérie came forward with a smile of welcome. She was not
beautiful nor was she imposing, but her limbs were very perfectly
proportioned, which gave her a fictitious look of tallness. She moved
well, with the quiet and unconscious grace that sprang from those
perfect proportions. Her face was humorous, placid and worldly; her
eyes very kind, very blue, very lustrous. She was dressed all in white,
and a large white fox skin was clasped round her slender and shapely
shoulders. For the rest she had masses of thick fair hair, which was
busily ridding itself of its hairpins; one could see at a glance that it
hated restraint, like the flat it was in rather splendid disorder.
She said: ‘I’m so delighted to meet you at last, Miss Gordon, do
come and sit down. And please smoke if you want to,’ she added
quickly, glancing at Stephen’s tell-tale fingers.
Brockett said: ‘Positively, this is too splendid! I feel that you’re
going to be wonderful friends.’
Stephen thought: ‘So this is Valérie Seymour.’
No sooner were they seated than Brockett began to ply their
hostess with personal questions. The mood that had incubated in the
motor was now becoming extremely aggressive, so that he fidgeted
about on his chair, making his little inadequate gestures. ‘Darling,
you’re looking perfectly lovely! But do tell me, what have you done
with Polinska? Have you drowned her in the blue grotto at Capri? I
hope so, my dear, she was such a bore and so dirty! Do tell me about
Polinska. How did she behave when you got her to Capri? Did she bite
anybody before you drowned her? I always felt frightened; I loathe
being bitten!’
Valérie frowned: ‘I believe she’s quite well.’
 ‘Then you have drowned her, darling!’ shrilled Brockett.
And now he was launched on a torrent of gossip about people of
whom Stephen had never even heard: ‘Pat’s been deserted—have
you heard that, darling? Do you think she’ll take the veil or cocaine or
something? One never quite knows what may happen next with such
an emotional temperament, does one? Arabella’s skipped off to the
Lido with Jane Grigg. The Grigg’s just come into pots and pots of
money, so I hope they’ll be deliriously happy and silly while it lasts—I
mean the money. . . . Oh, and have you heard about Rachel Morris?
They say. . . .’ He flowed on and on like a brook in spring flood, while
Valérie yawned and looked bored, making monosyllabic answers.
And Stephen as she sat there and smoked in silence, thought
grimly: ‘This is all being said because of me. Brockett wants to let me
see that he knows what I am, and he wants to let Valérie Seymour
know too—I suppose this is making me welcome.’ She hardly knew
whether to feel outraged or relieved that here, at least, was no need
for pretences.
But after a while she began to fancy that Valérie’s eyes had
become appraising. They were weighing her up and secretly
approving the result, she fancied. A slow anger possessed her. Valérie
Seymour was secretly approving, not because her guest was a decent
human being with a will to work, with a well-trained brain, with what
might some day become a fine talent, but rather because she was
seeing before her all the outward stigmata of the abnormal—verily the
wounds of One nailed to a cross—that was why Valérie sat there
approving.
And then, as though these bitter thoughts had reached her, Valérie
suddenly smiled at Stephen. Turning her back on the chattering
Brockett, she started to talk to her guest quite gravely about her work,
about books in general, about life in general; and as she did so
Stephen began to understand better the charm that many had found in
this woman; a charm that lay less in physical attraction than in a great
courtesy and understanding, a great will to please, a great impulse
towards beauty in all its forms—yes, therein lay her charm. And as
they talked on it dawned upon Stephen that here was no mere
libertine in love’s garden, but rather a creature born out of her epoch, a
pagan chained to an age that was Christian, one who would surely say
with Pierre Louÿs: ‘Le monde moderne succombe sous un
envahissement de laideur.’ And she thought that she discerned in
those luminous eyes, the pale yet ardent light of the fanatic.
Presently Valérie Seymour asked her how long she would be
remaining in Paris.
And Stephen answered: ‘I’m going to live here,’ feeling surprised at
the words as she said them, for not until now had she made this
decision.
Valérie seemed pleased: ‘If you want a house, I know of one in the
Rue Jacob; it’s a tumbledown place, but it’s got a fine garden. Why not
go and see it? You might go to-morrow. Of course you’ll have to live on
this side, the Rive Gauche is the only possible Paris.’
‘I should like to see the old house,’ said Stephen.
So Valérie went to the telephone there and then and proceeded to
call up the landlord. The appointment was made for eleven the next
morning. ‘It’s rather a sad old house,’ she warned, ‘no one has
troubled to make it a home for some time, but you’ll alter all that if you
take it, because I suppose you’ll make it your home.’
Stephen flushed: ‘My home’s in England,’ she said quickly, for her
thoughts had instantly flown back to Morton.
But Valérie answered: ‘One may have two homes—many homes.
Be courteous to our lovely Paris and give it the privilege of being your
second home—it will feel very honoured, Miss Gordon.’ She
sometimes made little ceremonious speeches like this, and coming
from her, they sounded strangely old-fashioned.
Brockett, rather subdued and distinctly pensive as sometimes
happened if Valérie had snubbed him, complained of a pain above his
right eye: ‘I must take some phenacetin,’ he said sadly, ‘I’m always
getting this curious pain above my right eye—do you think it’s the
sinus?’ He was very intolerant of all pain.
His hostess sent for the phenacetin, and Brockett gulped down a
couple of tablets: ‘Valérie doesn’t love me any more,’ he sighed, with a
woebegone look at Stephen. ‘I do call it hard, but it’s always what
happens when I introduce my best friends to each other—they
foregather at once and leave me in the cold; but then, thank heaven,
I’m very forgiving.’
They laughed and Valérie made him get on to the divan where he
promptly lay down on the lute.
‘Oh God!’ he moaned, ‘now I’ve injured my spine—I’m so badly
upholstered.’ Then he started to strum on the one sound string of the
lute.
Valérie went over to her untidy desk and began to write out a list of
addresses: ‘These may be useful to you, Miss Gordon.’
‘Stephen!’ exclaimed Brockett, ‘Call the poor woman Stephen!’
‘May I?’
Stephen acquiesced: ‘Yes, please do.’
‘Very well then, I’m Valérie. Is that a bargain?’
‘The bargain is sealed,’ announced Brockett. With extraordinary
skill he was managing to strum ‘O Sole Mio’ on the single string, when
he suddenly stopped: ‘I knew there was something—your fencing,
Stephen, you’ve forgotten your fencing. We meant to ask Valérie for
Buisson’s address; they say he’s the finest master in Europe.’
Valérie looked up: ‘Does Stephen fence, then?’
‘Does she fence! She’s a marvellous, champion fencer.’
‘He’s never seen me fence,’ explained Stephen, ‘and I’m never
likely to be a champion.’
‘Don’t you believe her, she’s trying to be modest. I’ve heard that
she fences quite as finely as she writes,’ he insisted. And somehow
Stephen felt touched, Brockett was trying to show off her talents.
Presently she offered him a lift in the car, but he shook his head:
‘No, thank you, dear one, I’m staying.’ So she wished them good-bye;
but as she left them she heard Brockett murmuring to Valérie
Seymour, and she felt pretty sure that she caught her own name.

6
‘Well, what did you think of Miss Seymour?’ inquired Puddle, when
Stephen got back about twenty minutes later.
Stephen hesitated: ‘I’m not perfectly certain. She was very friendly,
but I couldn’t help feeling that she liked me because she thought me—
oh, well, because she thought me what I am, Puddle. But I may have
been wrong—she was awfully friendly. Brockett was at his very worst
though, poor devil! His environment seemed to go to his head.’ She
sank down wearily on to a chair: ‘Oh, Puddle, Puddle, it’s a hell of a
business.’
Puddle nodded.
Then Stephen said rather abruptly: ‘All the same, we’re going to
live here in Paris. We’re going to look at a house to-morrow, an old
house with a garden in the Rue Jacob.’
For a moment Puddle hesitated, then she said: ‘There’s only one
thing against it. Do you think you’ll ever be happy in a city? You’re so
fond of the life that belongs to the country.’
Stephen shook her head: ‘That’s all past now, my dear; there’s no
country for me away from Morton. But in Paris I might make some sort
of a home, I could work here—and then of course there are
people. . . .’
Something started to hammer in Puddle’s brain: ‘Like to like! Like
to like! Like to like!’ it hammered.

CHAPTER 32

S tephen bought the house in the Rue Jacob, because as she

walked through the dim, grey archway that led from the street to
the cobbled courtyard, and saw the deserted house standing before
her, she knew at once that there she would live. This will happen
sometimes, we instinctively feel in sympathy with certain dwellings.
The courtyard was sunny and surrounded by walls. On the right of
this courtyard some iron gates led into the spacious, untidy garden,
and woefully neglected though this garden had been, the trees that it
still possessed were fine ones. A marble fountain long since choked
with weeds, stood in the centre of what had been a lawn. In the
farthest corner of the garden some hand had erected a semi-circular
temple, but that had been a long time ago, and now the temple was all
but ruined.
The house itself would need endless repairs, but its rooms were of
careful and restful proportions. A fine room with a window that opened
on the garden, would be Stephen’s study; she could write there in
quiet; on the other side of the stone-paved hall was a smaller but
comfortable salle à manger; while past the stone staircase a little
round room in a turret would be Puddle’s particular sanctum. Above
there were bedrooms enough and to spare; there was also the space
for a couple of bathrooms. The day after Stephen had seen this
house, she had written agreeing to purchase.
Valérie rang up before leaving Paris to inquire how Stephen had
liked the old house, and when she heard that she had actually bought
it, she expressed herself as being delighted.
‘We’ll be quite close neighbours now,’ she remarked, ‘but I’m not
going to bother you until you evince, not even when I get back in the
autumn. I know you’ll be literally snowed under with workmen for
months, you poor dear, I feel sorry for you. But when you can, do let
me come and see you—meanwhile if I can help you at all. . . .’ And
she gave her address at St. Tropez.
And now for the first time since leaving Morton, Stephen turned her
mind to the making of a home. Through Brockett she found a young
architect who seemed anxious to carry out all her instructions. He was
one of those very rare architects who refrain from thrusting their views
on their clients. So into the ancient, deserted house in the Rue Jacob
streamed an army of workmen, and they hammered and scraped and
raised clouds of dust from early morning, all day until evening—
smoking harsh caporal as they joked or quarrelled or idled or spat or
hummed snatches of song. And amazingly soon, wherever one trod
one seemed to be treading on wet cement or on dry, gritty heaps of
brick dust and rubble, so that Puddle would complain that she spoilt all
her shoes, while Stephen would emerge with her neat blue serge
shoulders quite grey, and with even her hair thickly powdered.
Sometimes the architect would come to the hotel in the evening
and then would ensue long discussions. Bending over the little
mahogany table, he and Stephen would study the plans intently, for
she wished to preserve the spirit of the place intact, despite
alterations. She decided to have an Empire study with grey walls and
curtains of Empire green, for she loved the great roomy writing tables
that had come into being with the first Napoleon. The walls of the salle
à manger should be white and the curtains brown, while Puddle’s
round sanctum in its turret should have walls and paintwork of yellow,
to give the illusion of sunshine. And so absorbed did Stephen become
in these things, that she scarcely had time to notice Jonathan
Brockett’s abrupt departure for a mountain top in the Austrian Tyrol.
Having suddenly come to the end of his finances, he must hasten to
write a couple of plays that could be produced in London that winter.
He sent her three or four picture postcards of glaciers, after which she
heard nothing more from him.
At the end of August, when the work was well under way, she and
Puddle fared forth in the motor to visit divers villages and towns, in
quest of old furniture, and Stephen was surprised to find how much
she enjoyed it. She would catch herself whistling as she drove her car,
and when they got back to some humble auberge in the evening, she
would want to eat a large supper. Every morning she diligently swung
her dumb-bells; she was getting into condition for fencing. She had not
fenced at all since leaving Morton, having been too much engrossed in
her work while in London; but now she was going to fence before
Buisson, so she diligently swung her dumb-bells. During these two
months of holiday-making she grew fond of the wide-eyed, fruitful
French country, even as she had grown fond of Paris. She would
never love it as she loved the hills and the stretching valleys
surrounding Morton, for that love was somehow a part of her being,
but she gave to this France, that would give her a home, a quiet and
very sincere affection. Her heart grew more grateful with every mile,
for hers was above all a grateful nature.
They returned to Paris at the end of October. And now came the
selecting of carpets and curtains; of fascinating blankets from the