diff options
Diffstat (limited to '4520-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 4520-0.txt | 14861 |
1 files changed, 14861 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/4520-0.txt b/4520-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b74e36a --- /dev/null +++ b/4520-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14861 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Aaron's Rod, by D. H. Lawrence + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Aaron's Rod + +Author: D. H. Lawrence + +Release Date: October, 2003 [Etext# 4520] +Posting Date: December 3, 2009 +Last Updated: March 6, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AARON'S ROD *** + + + + +Produced by Doug Levy + + + + + +AARON'S ROD + +by D. H. Lawrence + + +CONTENTS + + I. THE BLUE BALL + II. ROYAL OAK + III. “THE LIGHTED TREE” + IV. “THE PILLAR OF SALT” + V. AT THE OPERA + VI. TALK + VII. THE DARK SQUARE GARDEN + VIII. A PUNCH IN THE WIND + IX. LOW-WATER MARK + X. THE WAR AGAIN + XI. MORE PILLAR OF SALT + XII. NOVARA + XIII. WIE ES IHNEN GEFAELLT + XIV. XX SETTEMBRE + XV. A RAILWAY JOURNEY + XVI. FLORENCE + XVII. HIGH UP OVER THE CATHEDRAL SQUARE + XVIII. THE MARCHESA + XIX. CLEOPATRA, BUT NOT ANTHONY + XX. THE BROKEN ROD + XXI. WORDS + + + + +CHAPTER I. THE BLUE BALL + + +There was a large, brilliant evening star in the early twilight, and +underfoot the earth was half frozen. It was Christmas Eve. Also the War +was over, and there was a sense of relief that was almost a new menace. +A man felt the violence of the nightmare released now into the general +air. Also there had been another wrangle among the men on the pit-bank +that evening. + +Aaron Sisson was the last man on the little black railway-line climbing +the hill home from work. He was late because he had attended a meeting +of the men on the bank. He was secretary to the Miners Union for his +colliery, and had heard a good deal of silly wrangling that left him +nettled. + +He strode over a stile, crossed two fields, strode another stile, and +was in the long road of colliers' dwellings. Just across was his own +house: he had built it himself. He went through the little gate, up past +the side of the house to the back. There he hung a moment, glancing down +the dark, wintry garden. + +“My father--my father's come!” cried a child's excited voice, and two +little girls in white pinafores ran out in front of his legs. + +“Father, shall you set the Christmas Tree?” they cried. “We've got one!” + +“Afore I have my dinner?” he answered amiably. + +“Set it now. Set it now.--We got it through Fred Alton.” + +“Where is it?” + +The little girls were dragging a rough, dark object out of a corner of +the passage into the light of the kitchen door. + +“It's a beauty!” exclaimed Millicent. + +“Yes, it is,” said Marjory. + +“I should think so,” he replied, striding over the dark bough. He went +to the back kitchen to take off his coat. + +“Set it now, Father. Set it now,” clamoured the girls. + +“You might as well. You've left your dinner so long, you might as well +do it now before you have it,” came a woman's plangent voice, out of the +brilliant light of the middle room. + +Aaron Sisson had taken off his coat and waistcoat and his cap. He stood +bare-headed in his shirt and braces, contemplating the tree. + +“What am I to put it in?” he queried. He picked up the tree, and held +it erect by the topmost twig. He felt the cold as he stood in the yard +coatless, and he twitched his shoulders. + +“Isn't it a beauty!” repeated Millicent. + +“Ay!--lop-sided though.” + +“Put something on, you two!” came the woman's high imperative voice, +from the kitchen. + +“We aren't cold,” protested the girls from the yard. + +“Come and put something on,” insisted the voice. The man started off +down the path, the little girls ran grumbling indoors. The sky was +clear, there was still a crystalline, non-luminous light in the under +air. + +Aaron rummaged in his shed at the bottom of the garden, and found a +spade and a box that was suitable. Then he came out to his neat, bare, +wintry garden. The girls flew towards him, putting the elastic of their +hats under their chins as they ran. The tree and the box lay on the +frozen earth. The air breathed dark, frosty, electric. + +“Hold it up straight,” he said to Millicent, as he arranged the tree in +the box. She stood silent and held the top bough, he filled in round the +roots. + +When it was done, and pressed in, he went for the wheelbarrow. The girls +were hovering excited round the tree. He dropped the barrow and stooped +to the box. The girls watched him hold back his face--the boughs pricked +him. + +“Is it very heavy?” asked Millicent. + +“Ay!” he replied, with a little grunt. Then the procession set off--the +trundling wheel-barrow, the swinging hissing tree, the two excited +little girls. They arrived at the door. Down went the legs of the +wheel-barrow on the yard. The man looked at the box. + +“Where are you going to have it?” he called. + +“Put it in the back kitchen,” cried his wife. + +“You'd better have it where it's going to stop. I don't want to hawk it +about.” + +“Put it on the floor against the dresser, Father. Put it there,” urged +Millicent. + +“You come and put some paper down, then,” called the mother hastily. + +The two children ran indoors, the man stood contemplative in the cold, +shrugging his uncovered shoulders slightly. The open inner door showed a +bright linoleum on the floor, and the end of a brown side-board on which +stood an aspidistra. + +Again with a wrench Aaron Sisson lifted the box. The tree pricked and +stung. His wife watched him as he entered staggering, with his face +averted. + +“Mind where you make a lot of dirt,” she said. + +He lowered the box with a little jerk on to the spread-out newspaper on +the floor. Soil scattered. + +“Sweep it up,” he said to Millicent. + +His ear was lingering over the sudden, clutching hiss of the +tree-boughs. + +A stark white incandescent light filled the room and made everything +sharp and hard. In the open fire-place a hot fire burned red. All was +scrupulously clean and perfect. A baby was cooing in a rocker-less +wicker cradle by the hearth. The mother, a slim, neat woman with dark +hair, was sewing a child's frock. She put this aside, rose, and began to +take her husband's dinner from the oven. + +“You stopped confabbing long enough tonight,” she said. + +“Yes,” he answered, going to the back kitchen to wash his hands. + +In a few minutes he came and sat down to his dinner. The doors were shut +close, but there was a draught, because the settling of the mines under +the house made the doors not fit. Aaron moved his chair, to get out of +the draught. But he still sat in his shirt and trousers. + +He was a good-looking man, fair, and pleasant, about thirty-two years +old. He did not talk much, but seemed to think about something. His wife +resumed her sewing. She was acutely aware of her husband, but he seemed +not very much aware of her. + +“What were they on about today, then?” she said. + +“About the throw-in.” + +“And did they settle anything?” + +“They're going to try it--and they'll come out if it isn't +satisfactory.” + +“The butties won't have it, I know,” she said. He gave a short laugh, +and went on with his meal. + +The two children were squatted on the floor by the tree. They had a +wooden box, from which they had taken many little newspaper packets, +which they were spreading out like wares. + +“Don't open any. We won't open any of them till we've taken them all +out--and then we'll undo one in our turns. Then we s'll both undo +equal,” Millicent was saying. + +“Yes, we'll take them ALL out first,” re-echoed Marjory. + +“And what are they going to do about Job Arthur Freer? Do they want +him?” A faint smile came on her husband's face. + +“Nay, I don't know what they want.--Some of 'em want him--whether +they're a majority, I don't know.” + +She watched him closely. + +“Majority! I'd give 'em majority. They want to get rid of you, and make +a fool of you, and you want to break your heart over it. Strikes me you +need something to break your heart over.” + +He laughed silently. + +“Nay,” he said. “I s'll never break my heart.” + +“You'll go nearer to it over that, than over anything else: just because +a lot of ignorant monkeys want a monkey of their own sort to do the +Union work, and jabber to them, they want to get rid of you, and you eat +your heart out about it. More fool you, that's all I say--more fool you. +If you cared for your wife and children half what you care about your +Union, you'd be a lot better pleased in the end. But you care about +nothing but a lot of ignorant colliers, who don't know what they want +except it's more money just for themselves. Self, self, self--that's all +it is with them--and ignorance.” + +“You'd rather have self without ignorance?” he said, smiling finely. + +“I would, if I've got to have it. But what I should like to see is a man +that has thought for others, and isn't all self and politics.” + +Her color had risen, her hand trembled with anger as she sewed. A blank +look had come over the man's face, as if he did not hear or heed any +more. He drank his tea in a long draught, wiped his moustache with two +fingers, and sat looking abstractedly at the children. + +They had laid all the little packets on the floor, and Millicent was +saying: + +“Now I'll undo the first, and you can have the second. I'll take this--” + +She unwrapped the bit of newspaper and disclosed a silvery ornament +for a Christmas tree: a frail thing like a silver plum, with deep rosy +indentations on each side. + +“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Isn't it LOVELY!” Her fingers cautiously held the +long bubble of silver and glowing rose, cleaving to it with a curious, +irritating possession. The man's eyes moved away from her. The lesser +child was fumbling with one of the little packets. + +“Oh!”--a wail went up from Millicent. “You've taken one!--You didn't +wait.” Then her voice changed to a motherly admonition, and she began to +interfere. “This is the way to do it, look! Let me help you.” + +But Marjory drew back with resentment. + +“Don't, Millicent!--Don't!” came the childish cry. But Millicent's +fingers itched. + +At length Marjory had got out her treasure--a little silvery bell with +a glass top hanging inside. The bell was made of frail glassy substance, +light as air. + +“Oh, the bell!” rang out Millicent's clanging voice. “The bell! It's my +bell. My bell! It's mine! Don't break it, Marjory. Don't break it, will +you?” + +Marjory was shaking the bell against her ear. But it was dumb, it made +no sound. + +“You'll break it, I know you will.--You'll break it. Give it ME--” + cried Millicent, and she began to take away the bell. Marjory set up an +expostulation. + +“LET HER ALONE,” said the father. + +Millicent let go as if she had been stung, but still her brassy, +impudent voice persisted: + +“She'll break it. She'll break it. It's mine--” + +“You undo another,” said the mother, politic. + +Millicent began with hasty, itching fingers to unclose another package. + +“Aw--aw Mother, my peacock--aw, my peacock, my green peacock!” Lavishly +she hovered over a sinuous greenish bird, with wings and tail of spun +glass, pearly, and body of deep electric green. + +“It's mine--my green peacock! It's mine, because Marjory's had one wing +off, and mine hadn't. My green peacock that I love! I love it!” She +swung it softly from the little ring on its back. Then she went to her +mother. + +“Look, Mother, isn't it a beauty?” + +“Mind the ring doesn't come out,” said her mother. “Yes, it's lovely!” + The girl passed on to her father. + +“Look, Father, don't you love it!” + +“Love it?” he re-echoed, ironical over the word love. + +She stood for some moments, trying to force his attention. Then she went +back to her place. + +Marjory had brought forth a golden apple, red on one cheek, rather +garish. + +“Oh!” exclaimed Millicent feverishly, instantly seized with desire for +what she had not got, indifferent to what she had. Her eye ran quickly +over the packages. She took one. + +“Now!” she exclaimed loudly, to attract attention. “Now! What's +this?--What's this? What will this beauty be?” + +With finicky fingers she removed the newspaper. Marjory watched her +wide-eyed. Millicent was self-important. + +“The blue ball!” she cried in a climax of rapture. “I've got THE BLUE +BALL.” + +She held it gloating in the cup of her hands. It was a little globe of +hardened glass, of a magnificent full dark blue color. She rose and went +to her father. + +“It was your blue ball, wasn't it, father?” + +“Yes.” + +“And you had it when you were a little boy, and now I have it when I'm a +little girl.” + +“Ay,” he replied drily. + +“And it's never been broken all those years.” + +“No, not yet.” + +“And perhaps it never will be broken.” To this she received no answer. + +“Won't it break?” she persisted. “Can't you break it?” + +“Yes, if you hit it with a hammer,” he said. + +“Aw!” she cried. “I don't mean that. I mean if you just drop it. It +won't break if you drop it, will it?” + +“I dare say it won't.” + +“But WILL it?” + +“I sh'd think not.” + +“Should I try?” + +She proceeded gingerly to let the blue ball drop, it bounced dully on +the floor-covering. + +“Oh-h-h!” she cried, catching it up. “I love it.” + +“Let ME drop it,” cried Marjory, and there was a performance of +admonition and demonstration from the elder sister. + +But Millicent must go further. She became excited. + +“It won't break,” she said, “even if you toss it up in the air.” + +She flung it up, it fell safely. But her father's brow knitted slightly. +She tossed it wildly: it fell with a little splashing explosion: it had +smashed. It had fallen on the sharp edge of the tiles that protruded +under the fender. + +“NOW what have you done!” cried the mother. + +The child stood with her lip between her teeth, a look, half, of pure +misery and dismay, half of satisfaction, on her pretty sharp face. + +“She wanted to break it,” said the father. + +“No, she didn't! What do you say that for!” said the mother. And +Millicent burst into a flood of tears. + +He rose to look at the fragments that lay splashed on the floor. + +“You must mind the bits,” he said, “and pick 'em all up.” + +He took one of the pieces to examine it. It was fine and thin and hard, +lined with pure silver, brilliant. He looked at it closely. So--this +was what it was. And this was the end of it. He felt the curious soft +explosion of its breaking still in his ears. He threw his piece in the +fire. + +“Pick all the bits up,” he said. “Give over! give over! Don't cry any +more.” The good-natured tone of his voice quieted the child, as he +intended it should. + +He went away into the back kitchen to wash himself. As he was bending +his head over the sink before the little mirror, lathering to shave, +there came from outside the dissonant voices of boys, pouring out the +dregs of carol-singing. + +“While Shep-ep-ep-ep-herds watched--” + +He held his soapy brush suspended for a minute. They called this +singing! His mind flitted back to early carol music. Then again he heard +the vocal violence outside. + +“Aren't you off there!” he called out, in masculine menace. The noise +stopped, there was a scuffle. But the feet returned and the voices +resumed. Almost immediately the door opened, boys were heard muttering +among themselves. Millicent had given them a penny. Feet scraped on the +yard, then went thudding along the side of the house, to the street. + +To Aaron Sisson, this was home, this was Christmas: the unspeakably +familiar. The war over, nothing was changed. Yet everything changed. The +scullery in which he stood was painted green, quite fresh, very clean, +the floor was red tiles. The wash-copper of red bricks was very red, the +mangle with its put-up board was white-scrubbed, the American oil-cloth +on the table had a gay pattern, there was a warm fire, the water in the +boiler hissed faintly. And in front of him, beneath him as he leaned +forward shaving, a drop of water fell with strange, incalculable rhythm +from the bright brass tap into the white enamelled bowl, which was now +half full of pure, quivering water. The war was over, and everything +just the same. The acute familiarity of this house, which he had built +for his marriage twelve years ago, the changeless pleasantness of it all +seemed unthinkable. It prevented his thinking. + +When he went into the middle room to comb his hair he found the +Christmas tree sparkling, his wife was making pastry at the table, the +baby was sitting up propped in cushions. + +“Father,” said Millicent, approaching him with a flat blue-and-white +angel of cotton-wool, and two ends of cotton--“tie the angel at the +top.” + +“Tie it at the top?” he said, looking down. + +“Yes. At the very top--because it's just come down from the sky.” + +“Ay my word!” he laughed. And he tied the angel. + +Coming downstairs after changing he went into the icy cold parlour, and +took his music and a small handbag. With this he retreated again to the +back kitchen. He was still in trousers and shirt and slippers: but now +it was a clean white shirt, and his best black trousers, and new pink +and white braces. He sat under the gas-jet of the back kitchen, looking +through his music. Then he opened the bag, in which were sections of a +flute and a piccolo. He took out the flute, and adjusted it. As he sat +he was physically aware of the sounds of the night: the bubbling of +water in the boiler, the faint sound of the gas, the sudden crying of +the baby in the next room, then noises outside, distant boys shouting, +distant rags of carols, fragments of voices of men. The whole country +was roused and excited. + +The little room was hot. Aaron rose and opened a square ventilator over +the copper, letting in a stream of cold air, which was grateful to him. +Then he cocked his eye over the sheet of music spread out on the table +before him. He tried his flute. And then at last, with the odd gesture +of a diver taking a plunge, he swung his head and began to play. A +stream of music, soft and rich and fluid, came out of the flute. He +played beautifully. He moved his head and his raised bare arms with +slight, intense movements, as the delicate music poured out. It was +sixteenth-century Christmas melody, very limpid and delicate. + +The pure, mindless, exquisite motion and fluidity of the music delighted +him with a strange exasperation. There was something tense, exasperated +to the point of intolerable anger, in his good-humored breast, as he +played the finely-spun peace-music. The more exquisite the music, the +more perfectly he produced it, in sheer bliss; and at the same time, the +more intense was the maddened exasperation within him. + +Millicent appeared in the room. She fidgetted at the sink. The music was +a bugbear to her, because it prevented her from saying what was on her +own mind. At length it ended, her father was turning over the various +books and sheets. She looked at him quickly, seizing her opportunity. + +“Are you going out, Father?” she said. + +“Eh?” + +“Are you going out?” She twisted nervously. + +“What do you want to know for?” + +He made no other answer, and turned again to the music. His eye went +down a sheet--then over it again--then more closely over it again. + +“Are you?” persisted the child, balancing on one foot. + +He looked at her, and his eyes were angry under knitted brows. + +“What are you bothering about?” he said. + +“I'm not bothering--I only wanted to know if you were going out,” she +pouted, quivering to cry. + +“I expect I am,” he said quietly. + +She recovered at once, but still with timidity asked: + +“We haven't got any candles for the Christmas tree--shall you buy some, +because mother isn't going out?” + +“Candles!” he repeated, settling his music and taking up the piccolo. + +“Yes--shall you buy us some, Father? Shall you?” + +“Candles!” he repeated, putting the piccolo to his mouth and blowing a +few piercing, preparatory notes. + +“Yes, little Christmas-tree candles--blue ones and red ones, in +boxes--Shall you, Father?” + +“We'll see--if I see any--” + +“But SHALL you?” she insisted desperately. She wisely mistrusted his +vagueness. + +But he was looking unheeding at the music. Then suddenly the piccolo +broke forth, wild, shrill, brilliant. He was playing Mozart. The child's +face went pale with anger at the sound. She turned, and went out, +closing both doors behind her to shut out the noise. + +The shrill, rapid movement of the piccolo music seemed to possess the +air, it was useless to try to shut it out. The man went on playing +to himself, measured and insistent. In the frosty evening the sound +carried. People passing down the street hesitated, listening. The +neighbours knew it was Aaron practising his piccolo. He was esteemed a +good player: was in request at concerts and dances, also at swell balls. +So the vivid piping sound tickled the darkness. + +He played on till about seven o'clock; he did not want to go out too +soon, in spite of the early closing of the public houses. He never went +with the stream, but made a side current of his own. His wife said he +was contrary. When he went into the middle room to put on his collar and +tie, the two little girls were having their hair brushed, the baby was +in bed, there was a hot smell of mince-pies baking in the oven. + +“You won't forget our candles, will you, Father?” asked Millicent, with +assurance now. + +“I'll see,” he answered. + +His wife watched him as he put on his overcoat and hat. He was +well-dressed, handsome-looking. She felt there was a curious glamour +about him. It made her feel bitter. He had an unfair advantage--he was +free to go off, while she must stay at home with the children. + +“There's no knowing what time you'll be home,” she said. + +“I shan't be late,” he answered. + +“It's easy to say so,” she retorted, with some contempt. He took his +stick, and turned towards the door. + +“Bring the children some candles for their tree, and don't be so +selfish,” she said. + +“All right,” he said, going out. + +“Don't say ALL RIGHT if you never mean to do it,” she cried, with sudden +anger, following him to the door. + +His figure stood large and shadowy in the darkness. + +“How many do you want?” he said. + +“A dozen,” she said. “And holders too, if you can get them,” she added, +with barren bitterness. + +“Yes--all right,” he turned and melted into the darkness. She went +indoors, worn with a strange and bitter flame. + +He crossed the fields towards the little town, which once more fumed its +lights under the night. The country ran away, rising on his right hand. +It was no longer a great bank of darkness. Lights twinkled freely here +and there, though forlornly, now that the war-time restrictions were +removed. It was no glitter of pre-war nights, pit-heads glittering +far-off with electricity. Neither was it the black gulf of the war +darkness: instead, this forlorn sporadic twinkling. + +Everybody seemed to be out of doors. The hollow dark countryside +re-echoed like a shell with shouts and calls and excited voices. +Restlessness and nervous excitement, nervous hilarity were in the +air. There was a sense of electric surcharge everywhere, frictional, a +neurasthenic haste for excitement. + +Every moment Aaron Sisson was greeted with Good-night--Good-night, +Aaron--Good-night, Mr. Sisson. People carrying parcels, children, +women, thronged home on the dark paths. They were all talking loudly, +declaiming loudly about what they could and could not get, and what this +or the other had lost. + +When he got into the main street, the only street of shops, it was +crowded. There seemed to have been some violent but quiet contest, a +subdued fight, going on all the afternoon and evening: people struggling +to buy things, to get things. Money was spent like water, there was +a frenzy of money-spending. Though the necessities of life were in +abundance, still the people struggled in frenzy for cheese, sweets, +raisins, pork-stuff, even for flowers and holly, all of which were +scarce, and for toys and knick-knacks, which were sold out. There was a +wild grumbling, but a deep satisfaction in the fight, the struggle. The +same fight and the same satisfaction in the fight was witnessed whenever +a tram-car stopped, or when it heaved its way into sight. Then the +struggle to mount on board became desperate and savage, but stimulating. +Souls surcharged with hostility found now some outlet for their +feelings. + +As he came near the little market-place he bethought himself of the +Christmas-tree candles. He did not intend to trouble himself. And yet, +when he glanced in passing into the sweet-shop window, and saw it bare +as a board, the very fact that he probably _could not_ buy the things +made him hesitate, and try. + +“Have you got any Christmas-tree candles?” he asked as he entered the +shop. + +“How many do you want?” + +“A dozen.” + +“Can't let you have a dozen. You can have two boxes--four in a +box--eight. Six-pence a box.” + +“Got any holders?” + +“Holders? Don't ask. Haven't seen one this year.” + +“Got any toffee--?” + +“Cough-drops--two-pence an ounce--nothing else left.” + +“Give me four ounces.” + +He watched her weighing them in the little brass scales. + +“You've not got much of a Christmas show,” he said. + +“Don't talk about Christmas, as far as sweets is concerned. They ought +to have allowed us six times the quantity--there's plenty of sugar, why +didn't they? We s'll have to enjoy ourselves with what we've got. We +mean to, anyhow.” + +“Ay,” he said. + +“Time we had a bit of enjoyment, THIS Christmas. They ought to have made +things more plentiful.” + +“Yes,” he said, stuffing his package in his pocket. + + + + +CHAPTER II. ROYAL OAK + + +The war had killed the little market of the town. As he passed the +market place on the brow, Aaron noticed that there were only two +miserable stalls. But people crowded just the same. There was a loud +sound of voices, men's voices. Men pressed round the doorways of the +public-houses. + +But he was going to a pub out of town. He descended the dark hill. A +street-lamp here and there shed parsimonious light. In the bottoms, +under the trees, it was very dark. But a lamp glimmered in front of +the “Royal Oak.” This was a low white house sunk three steps below the +highway. It was darkened, but sounded crowded. + +Opening the door, Sisson found himself in the stone passage. Old Bob, +carrying three cans, stopped to see who had entered--then went on +into the public bar on the left. The bar itself was a sort of +little window-sill on the right: the pub was a small one. In this +window-opening stood the landlady, drawing and serving to her husband. +Behind the bar was a tiny parlour or den, the landlady's preserve. + +“Oh, it's you,” she said, bobbing down to look at the newcomer. None +entered her bar-parlour unless invited. + +“Come in,” said the landlady. There was a peculiar intonation in her +complacent voice, which showed she had been expecting him, a little +irritably. + +He went across into her bar-parlour. It would not hold more than eight +or ten people, all told--just the benches along the walls, the fire +between--and two little round tables. + +“I began to think you weren't coming,” said the landlady, bringing him a +whiskey. + +She was a large, stout, high-coloured woman, with a fine profile, +probably Jewish. She had chestnut-coloured eyes, quick, intelligent. Her +movements were large and slow, her voice laconic. + +“I'm not so late, am I?” asked Aaron. + +“Yes, you are late, I should think.” She Looked up at the little clock. +“Close on nine.” + +“I did some shopping,” said Aaron, with a quick smile. + +“Did you indeed? That's news, I'm sure. May we ask what you bought?” + +This he did not like. But he had to answer. + +“Christmas-tree candles, and toffee.” + +“For the little children? Well you've done well for once! I must say I +recommend you. I didn't think you had so much in you.” + +She sat herself down in her seat at the end of the bench, and took up +her knitting. Aaron sat next to her. He poured water into his glass, and +drank. + +“It's warm in here,” he said, when he had swallowed the liquor. + +“Yes, it is. You won't want to keep that thick good overcoat on,” + replied the landlady. + +“No,” he said, “I think I'll take it off.” + +She watched him as he hung up his overcoat. He wore black clothes, as +usual. As he reached up to the pegs, she could see the muscles of his +shoulders, and the form of his legs. Her reddish-brown eyes seemed to +burn, and her nose, that had a subtle, beautiful Hebraic curve, seemed +to arch itself. She made a little place for him by herself, as +he returned. She carried her head thrown back, with dauntless +self-sufficiency. + +There were several colliers in the room, talking quietly. They were +the superior type all, favoured by the landlady, who loved intellectual +discussion. Opposite, by the fire, sat a little, greenish man--evidently +an oriental. + +“You're very quiet all at once, Doctor,” said the landlady in her slow, +laconic voice. + +“Yes.--May I have another whiskey, please?” She rose at once, powerfully +energetic. + +“Oh, I'm sorry,” she said. And she went to the bar. + +“Well,” said the little Hindu doctor, “and how are things going now, +with the men?” + +“The same as ever,” said Aaron. + +“Yes,” said the stately voice of the landlady. “And I'm afraid they will +always be the same as ever. When will they learn wisdom?” + +“But what do you call wisdom?” asked Sherardy, the Hindu. He spoke with +a little, childish lisp. + +“What do I call wisdom?” repeated the landlady. “Why all acting together +for the common good. That is wisdom in my idea.” + +“Yes, very well, that is so. But what do you call the common good?” + replied the little doctor, with childish pertinence. + +“Ay,” said Aaron, with a laugh, “that's it.” The miners were all +stirring now, to take part in the discussion. + +“What do I call the common good?” repeated the landlady. “That all +people should study the welfare of other people, and not only their +own.” + +“They are not to study their own welfare?” said the doctor. + +“Ah, that I did not say,” replied the landlady. “Let them study their +own welfare, and that of others also.” + +“Well then,” said the doctor, “what is the welfare of a collier?” + +“The welfare of a collier,” said the landlady, “is that he shall earn +sufficient wages to keep himself and his family comfortable, to educate +his children, and to educate himself; for that is what he wants, +education.” + +“Ay, happen so,” put in Brewitt, a big, fine, good-humoured collier. +“Happen so, Mrs. Houseley. But what if you haven't got much education, +to speak of?” + +“You can always get it,” she said patronizing. + +“Nay--I'm blest if you can. It's no use tryin' to educate a man over +forty--not by book-learning. That isn't saying he's a fool, neither.” + +“And what better is them that's got education?” put in another +man. “What better is the manager, or th' under-manager, than we +are?--Pender's yaller enough i' th' face.” + +“He is that,” assented the men in chorus. + +“But because he's yellow in the face, as you say, Mr. Kirk,” said the +landlady largely, “that doesn't mean he has no advantages higher than +what you have got.” + +“Ay,” said Kirk. “He can ma'e more money than I can--that's about a' as +it comes to.” + +“He can make more money,” said the landlady. “And when he's made it, he +knows better how to use it.” + +“'Appen so, an' a'!--What does he do, more than eat and drink and +work?--an' take it out of hisself a sight harder than I do, by th' looks +of him.--What's it matter, if he eats a bit more or drinks a bit more--” + +“No,” reiterated the landlady. “He not only eats and drinks. He can +read, and he can converse.” + +“Me an' a',” said Tom Kirk, and the men burst into a laugh. “I can +read--an' I've had many a talk an' conversation with you in this house, +Mrs. Houseley--am havin' one at this minute, seemingly.” + +“SEEMINGLY, you are,” said the landlady ironically. “But do you +think there would be no difference between your conversation, and Mr. +Pender's, if he were here so that I could enjoy his conversation?” + +“An' what difference would there be?” asked Tom Kirk. “He'd go home to +his bed just the same.” + +“There, you are mistaken. He would be the better, and so should I, a +great deal better, for a little genuine conversation.” + +“If it's conversation as ma'es his behind drop--” said Tom Kirk. “An' +puts th' bile in his face--” said Brewitt. There was a general laugh. + +“I can see it's no use talking about it any further,” said the landlady, +lifting her head dangerously. + +“But look here, Mrs. Houseley, do you really think it makes much +difference to a man, whether he can hold a serious conversation or not?” + asked the doctor. + +“I do indeed, all the difference in the world--To me, there is no +greater difference, than between an educated man and an uneducated man.” + +“And where does it come in?” asked Kirk. + +“But wait a bit, now,” said Aaron Sisson. “You take an educated +man--take Pender. What's his education for? What does he scheme +for?--What does he contrive for? What does he talk for?--” + +“For all the purposes of his life,” replied the landlady. + +“Ay, an' what's the purpose of his life?” insisted Aaron Sisson. + +“The purpose of his life,” repeated the landlady, at a loss. “I should +think he knows that best himself.” + +“No better than I know it--and you know it,” said Aaron. + +“Well,” said the landlady, “if you know, then speak out. What is it?” + +“To make more money for the firm--and so make his own chance of a rise +better.” + +The landlady was baffled for some moments. Then she said: + +“Yes, and suppose that he does. Is there any harm in it? Isn't it his +duty to do what he can for himself? Don't you try to earn all you can?” + +“Ay,” said Aaron. “But there's soon a limit to what I can earn.--It's +like this. When you work it out, everything comes to money. Reckon it as +you like, it's money on both sides. It's money we live for, and money is +what our lives is worth--nothing else. Money we live for, and money we +are when we're dead: that or nothing. An' it's money as is between the +masters and us. There's a few educated ones got hold of one end of the +rope, and all the lot of us hanging on to th' other end, an' we s'll go +on pulling our guts out, time in, time out--” + +“But they've got th' long end o' th' rope, th' masters has,” said +Brewitt. + +“For as long as one holds, the other will pull,” concluded Aaron Sisson +philosophically. + +“An' I'm almighty sure o' that,” said Kirk. There was a little pause. + +“Yes, that's all there is in the minds of you men,” said the landlady. +“But what can be done with the money, that you never think of--the +education of the children, the improvement of conditions--” + +“Educate the children, so that they can lay hold of the long end of the +rope, instead of the short end,” said the doctor, with a little giggle. + +“Ay, that's it,” said Brewitt. “I've pulled at th' short end, an' my +lads may do th' same.” + +“A selfish policy,” put in the landlady. + +“Selfish or not, they may do it.” + +“Till the crack o' doom,” said Aaron, with a glistening smile. + +“Or the crack o' th' rope,” said Brewitt. + +“Yes, and THEN WHAT?” cried the landlady. + +“Then we all drop on our backsides,” said Kirk. There was a general +laugh, and an uneasy silence. + +“All I can say of you men,” said the landlady, “is that you have a +narrow, selfish policy.--Instead of thinking of the children, instead of +thinking of improving the world you live in--” + +“We hang on, British bulldog breed,” said Brewitt. There was a general +laugh. + +“Yes, and little wiser than dogs, wrangling for a bone,” said the +landlady. + +“Are we to let t' other side run off wi' th' bone, then, while we sit on +our stunts an' yowl for it?” asked Brewitt. + +“No indeed. There can be wisdom in everything.--It's what you DO with +the money, when you've got it,” said the landlady, “that's where the +importance lies.” + +“It's Missis as gets it,” said Kirk. “It doesn't stop wi' us.” “Ay, it's +the wife as gets it, ninety per cent,” they all concurred. + +“And who SHOULD have the money, indeed, if not your wives? They have +everything to do with the money. What idea have you, but to waste it!” + +“Women waste nothing--they couldn't if they tried,” said Aaron Sisson. + +There was a lull for some minutes. The men were all stimulated by drink. +The landlady kept them going. She herself sipped a glass of brandy--but +slowly. She sat near to Sisson--and the great fierce warmth of her +presence enveloped him particularly. He loved so to luxuriate, like a +cat, in the presence of a violent woman. He knew that tonight she was +feeling very nice to him--a female glow that came out of her to him. +Sometimes when she put down her knitting, or took it up again from +the bench beside him, her fingers just touched his thigh, and the fine +electricity ran over his body, as if he were a cat tingling at a caress. + +And yet he was not happy--nor comfortable. There was a hard, opposing +core in him, that neither the whiskey nor the woman could dissolve or +soothe, tonight. It remained hard, nay, became harder and more deeply +antagonistic to his surroundings, every moment. He recognised it as a +secret malady he suffered from: this strained, unacknowledged opposition +to his surroundings, a hard core of irrational, exhausting withholding +of himself. Irritating, because he still WANTED to give himself. A woman +and whiskey, these were usually a remedy--and music. But lately these +had begun to fail him. No, there was something in him that would not +give in--neither to the whiskey, nor the woman, nor even the music. +Even in the midst of his best music, it sat in the middle of him, this +invisible black dog, and growled and waited, never to be cajoled. He +knew of its presence--and was a little uneasy. For of course he _wanted_ +to let himself go, to feel rosy and loving and all that. But at the very +thought, the black dog showed its teeth. + +Still he kept the beast at bay--with all his will he kept himself as it +were genial. He wanted to melt and be rosy, happy. + +He sipped his whiskey with gratification, he luxuriated in the presence +of the landlady, very confident of the strength of her liking for him. +He glanced at her profile--that fine throw-back of her hostile head, +wicked in the midst of her benevolence; that subtle, really very +beautiful delicate curve of her nose, that moved him exactly like a +piece of pure sound. But tonight it did not overcome him. There was a +devilish little cold eye in his brain that was not taken in by what he +saw. + +A terrible obstinacy located itself in him. He saw the fine, +rich-coloured, secretive face of the Hebrew woman, so loudly +self-righteous, and so dangerous, so destructive, so lustful--and he +waited for his blood to melt with passion for her. But not tonight. +Tonight his innermost heart was hard and cold as ice. The very danger +and lustfulness of her, which had so pricked his senses, now made him +colder. He disliked her at her tricks. He saw her once too often. Her +and all women. Bah, the love game! And the whiskey that was to help in +the game! He had drowned himself once too often in whiskey and in love. +Now he floated like a corpse in both, with a cold, hostile eye. + +And at least half of his inward fume was anger because he could no +longer drown. Nothing would have pleased him better than to feel his +senses melting and swimming into oneness with the dark. But impossible! +Cold, with a white fury inside him, he floated wide eyed and apart as +a corpse. He thought of the gentle love of his first married years, and +became only whiter and colder, set in more intense obstinacy. A wave of +revulsion lifted him. + +He became aware that he was deadly antagonistic to the landlady, that +he disliked his whole circumstances. A cold, diabolical consciousness +detached itself from his state of semi-intoxication. + +“Is it pretty much the same out there in India?” he asked of the doctor, +suddenly. + +The doctor started, and attended to him on his own level. + +“Probably,” he answered. “It is worse.” + +“Worse!” exclaimed Aaron Sisson. “How's that?” + +“Why, because, in a way the people of India have an easier time even +than the people of England. Because they have no responsibility. The +British Government takes the responsibility. And the people have nothing +to do, except their bit of work--and talk perhaps about national rule, +just for a pastime.” + +“They have to earn their living?” said Sisson. + +“Yes,” said the little doctor, who had lived for some years among the +colliers, and become quite familiar with them. “Yes, they have to earn +their living--and then no more. That's why the British Government is the +worst thing possible for them. It is the worst thing possible. And not +because it is a bad government. Really, it is not a bad government. It +is a good one--and they know it--much better than they would make for +themselves, probably. But for that reason it is so very bad.” + +The little oriental laughed a queer, sniggering laugh. His eyes +were very bright, dilated, completely black. He was looking into the +ice-blue, pointed eyes of Aaron Sisson. They were both intoxicated--but +grimly so. They looked at each other in elemental difference. + +The whole room was now attending to this new conversation: which they +all accepted as serious. For Aaron was considered a special man, a man +of peculiar understanding, even though as a rule he said little. + +“If it is a good government, doctor, how can it be so bad for the +people?” said the landlady. + +The doctor's eyes quivered for the fraction of a second, as he watched +the other man. He did not look at the landlady. + +“It would not matter what kind of mess they made--and they would make +a mess, if they governed themselves, the people of India. They would +probably make the greatest muddle possible--and start killing +one another. But it wouldn't matter if they exterminated half the +population, so long as they did it themselves, and were responsible for +it.” + +Again his eyes dilated, utterly black, to the eyes of the other man, and +an arch little smile flickered on his face. + +“I think it would matter very much indeed,” said the landlady. “They had +far better NOT govern themselves.” + +She was, for some reason, becoming angry. The little greenish doctor +emptied his glass, and smiled again. + +“But what difference does it make,” said Aaron Sisson, “whether they +govern themselves or not? They only live till they die, either way.” And +he smiled faintly. He had not really listened to the doctor. The terms +“British Government,” and “bad for the people--good for the people,” + made him malevolently angry. + +The doctor was nonplussed for a moment. Then he gathered himself +together. + +“It matters,” he said; “it matters.--People should always be responsible +for themselves. How can any people be responsible for another race +of people, and for a race much older than they are, and not at all +children.” + +Aaron Sisson watched the other's dark face, with its utterly exposed +eyes. He was in a state of semi-intoxicated anger and clairvoyance. He +saw in the black, void, glistening eyes of the oriental only the same +danger, the same menace that he saw in the landlady. Fair, wise, even +benevolent words: always the human good speaking, and always underneath, +something hateful, something detestable and murderous. Wise speech +and good intentions--they were invariably maggoty with these secret +inclinations to destroy the man in the man. Whenever he heard anyone +holding forth: the landlady, this doctor, the spokesman on the pit +bank: or when he read the all-righteous newspaper; his soul curdled with +revulsion as from something foul. Even the infernal love and good-will +of his wife. To hell with good-will! It was more hateful than ill-will. +Self-righteous bullying, like poison gas! + +The landlady looked at the clock. + +“Ten minutes to, gentlemen,” she said coldly. For she too knew that +Aaron was spoiled for her for that night. + +The men began to take their leave, shakily. The little doctor seemed +to evaporate. The landlady helped Aaron on with his coat. She saw the +curious whiteness round his nostrils and his eyes, the fixed hellish +look on his face. + +“You'll eat a mince-pie in the kitchen with us, for luck?” she said to +him, detaining him till last. + +But he turned laughing to her. + +“Nay,” he said, “I must be getting home.” + +He turned and went straight out of the house. Watching him, the +landlady's face became yellow with passion and rage. + +“That little poisonous Indian viper,” she said aloud, attributing +Aaron's mood to the doctor. Her husband was noisily bolting the door. + +Outside it was dark and frosty. A gang of men lingered in the road near +the closed door. Aaron found himself among them, his heart bitterer than +steel. + +The men were dispersing. He should take the road home. But the devil was +in it, if he could take a stride in the homeward direction. There seemed +a wall in front of him. He veered. But neither could he take a stride in +the opposite direction. So he was destined to veer round, like some sort +of weather-cock, there in the middle of the dark road outside the “Royal +Oak.” + +But as he turned, he caught sight of a third exit. Almost opposite was +the mouth of Shottle Lane, which led off under trees, at right angles +to the highroad, up to New Brunswick Colliery. He veered towards the +off-chance of this opening, in a delirium of icy fury, and plunged away +into the dark lane, walking slowly, on firm legs. + + + + +CHAPTER III. “THE LIGHTED TREE” + + +It is remarkable how many odd or extraordinary people there are in +England. We hear continual complaints of the stodgy dullness of the +English. It would be quite as just to complain of their freakish, +unusual characters. Only _en masse_ the metal is all Britannia. + +In an ugly little mining town we find the odd ones just as distinct as +anywhere else. Only it happens that dull people invariably meet dull +people, and odd individuals always come across odd individuals, no +matter where they may be. So that to each kind society seems all of a +piece. + +At one end of the dark tree-covered Shottle Lane stood the “Royal Oak” + public house; and Mrs. Houseley was certainly an odd woman. At the +other end of the lane was Shottle House, where the Bricknells lived; the +Bricknells were odd, also. Alfred Bricknell, the old man, was one of the +partners in the Colliery firm. His English was incorrect, his accent, +broad Derbyshire, and he was not a gentleman in the snobbish sense of +the word. Yet he was well-to-do, and very stuck-up. His wife was dead. + +Shottle House stood two hundred yards beyond New Brunswick Colliery. +The colliery was imbedded in a plantation, whence its burning pit-hill +glowed, fumed, and stank sulphur in the nostrils of the Bricknells. +Even war-time efforts had not put out this refuse fire. Apart from this, +Shottle House was a pleasant square house, rather old, with shrubberies +and lawns. It ended the lane in a dead end. Only a field-path trekked +away to the left. + +On this particular Christmas Eve Alfred Bricknell had only two of his +children at home. Of the others, one daughter was unhappily married, and +away in India weeping herself thinner; another was nursing her babies in +Streatham. Jim, the hope of the house, and Julia, now married to Robert +Cunningham, had come home for Christmas. + +The party was seated in the drawing-room, that the grown-up daughters +had made very fine during their periods of courtship. Its walls were +hung with fine grey canvas, it had a large, silvery grey, silky carpet, +and the furniture was covered with dark green silky material. Into this +reticence pieces of futurism, Omega cushions and Van-Gogh-like pictures +exploded their colours. Such _chic_ would certainly not have been looked +for up Shottle Lane. + +The old man sat in his high grey arm-chair very near an enormous coal +fire. In this house there was no coal-rationing. The finest coal was +arranged to obtain a gigantic glow such as a coal-owner may well enjoy, +a great, intense mass of pure red fire. At this fire Alfred Bricknell +toasted his tan, lambs-wool-lined slippers. + +He was a large man, wearing a loose grey suit, and sprawling in the +large grey arm-chair. The soft lamp-light fell on his clean, bald, +Michael-Angelo head, across which a few pure hairs glittered. His chin +was sunk on his breast, so that his sparse but strong-haired white +beard, in which every strand stood distinct, like spun glass lithe and +elastic, curved now upwards and inwards, in a curious curve returning +upon him. He seemed to be sunk in stern, prophet-like meditation. As a +matter of fact, he was asleep after a heavy meal. + +Across, seated on a pouffe on the other side of the fire, was a +cameo-like girl with neat black hair done tight and bright in the French +mode. She had strangely-drawn eyebrows, and her colour was brilliant. +She was hot, leaning back behind the shaft of old marble of the +mantel-piece, to escape the fire. She wore a simple dress of apple-green +satin, with full sleeves and ample skirt and a tiny bodice of green +cloth. This was Josephine Ford, the girl Jim was engaged to. + +Jim Bricknell himself was a tall big fellow of thirty-eight. He sat in +a chair in front of the fire, some distance back, and stretched his long +legs far in front of him. His chin too was sunk on his breast, his young +forehead was bald, and raised in odd wrinkles, he had a silent half-grin +on his face, a little tipsy, a little satyr-like. His small moustache +was reddish. + +Behind him a round table was covered with cigarettes, sweets, and +bottles. It was evident Jim Bricknell drank beer for choice. He wanted +to get fat--that was his idea. But he couldn't bring it off: he was +thin, though not too thin, except to his own thinking. + +His sister Julia was bunched up in a low chair between him and his +father. She too was a tall stag of a thing, but she sat bunched up like +a witch. She wore a wine-purple dress, her arms seemed to poke out of +the sleeves, and she had dragged her brown hair into straight, untidy +strands. Yet she had real beauty. She was talking to the young man who +was not her husband: a fair, pale, fattish young fellow in pince-nez and +dark clothes. This was Cyril Scott, a friend. + +The only other person stood at the round table pouring out red wine. He +was a fresh, stoutish young Englishman in khaki, Julia's husband, Robert +Cunningham, a lieutenant about to be demobilised, when he would become a +sculptor once more. He drank red wine in large throatfuls, and his eyes +grew a little moist. The room was hot and subdued, everyone was silent. + +“I say,” said Robert suddenly, from the rear--“anybody have a drink? +Don't you find it rather hot?” + +“Is there another bottle of beer there?” said Jim, without moving, too +settled even to stir an eye-lid. + +“Yes--I think there is,” said Robert. + +“Thanks--don't open it yet,” murmured Jim. + +“Have a drink, Josephine?” said Robert. + +“No thank you,” said Josephine, bowing slightly. + +Finding the drinks did not go, Robert went round with the cigarettes. +Josephine Ford looked at the white rolls. + +“Thank you,” she said, and taking one, suddenly licked her rather full, +dry red lips with the rapid tip of her tongue. It was an odd movement, +suggesting a snake's flicker. She put her cigarette between her lips, +and waited. Her movements were very quiet and well bred; but perhaps too +quiet, they had the dangerous impassivity of the Bohemian, Parisian or +American rather than English. + +“Cigarette, Julia?” said Robert to his wife. + +She seemed to start or twitch, as if dazed. Then she looked up at her +husband with a queer smile, puckering the corners of her eyes. He looked +at the cigarettes, not at her. His face had the blunt voluptuous gravity +of a young lion, a great cat. She kept him standing for some moments +impassively. Then suddenly she hung her long, delicate fingers over +the box, in doubt, and spasmodically jabbed at the cigarettes, clumsily +raking one out at last. + +“Thank you, dear--thank you,” she cried, rather high, looking up and +smiling once more. He turned calmly aside, offering the cigarettes to +Scott, who refused. + +“Oh!” said Julia, sucking the end of her cigarette. “Robert is so happy +with all the good things--aren't you dear?” she sang, breaking into a +hurried laugh. “We aren't used to such luxurious living, we aren't--ARE +WE DEAR--No, we're not such swells as this, we're not. Oh, ROBBIE, isn't +it all right, isn't it just all right?” She tailed off into her hurried, +wild, repeated laugh. “We're so happy in a land of plenty, AREN'T WE +DEAR?” + +“Do you mean I'm greedy, Julia?” said Robert. + +“Greedy!--Oh, greedy!--he asks if he's greedy?--no you're not greedy, +Robbie, you're not greedy. I want you to be happy.” + +“I'm quite happy,” he returned. + +“Oh, he's happy!--Really!--he's happy! Oh, what an accomplishment! Oh, +my word!” Julia puckered her eyes and laughed herself into a nervous +twitching silence. + +Robert went round with the matches. Julia sucked her cigarette. + +“Give us a light, Robbie, if you ARE happy!” she cried. + +“It's coming,” he answered. + +Josephine smoked with short, sharp puffs. Julia sucked wildly at her +light. Robert returned to his red wine. Jim Bricknell suddenly roused +up, looked round on the company, smiling a little vacuously and showing +his odd, pointed teeth. + +“Where's the beer?” he asked, in deep tones, smiling full into +Josephine's face, as if she were going to produce it by some sleight of +hand. Then he wheeled round to the table, and was soon pouring beer down +his throat as down a pipe. Then he dropped supine again. Cyril Scott was +silently absorbing gin and water. + +“I say,” said Jim, from the remote depths of his sprawling. “Isn't there +something we could do to while the time away?” + +Everybody suddenly laughed--it sounded so remote and absurd. + +“What, play bridge or poker or something conventional of that sort?” + said Josephine in her distinct voice, speaking to him as if he were a +child. + +“Oh, damn bridge,” said Jim in his sleep-voice. Then he began pulling +his powerful length together. He sat on the edge of his chair-seat, +leaning forward, peering into all the faces and grinning. + +“Don't look at me like that--so long--” said Josephine, in her +self-contained voice. “You make me uncomfortable.” She gave an odd +little grunt of a laugh, and the tip of her tongue went over her lips as +she glanced sharply, half furtively round the room. + +“I like looking at you,” said Jim, his smile becoming more malicious. + +“But you shouldn't, when I tell you not,” she returned. + +Jim twisted round to look at the state of the bottles. The father also +came awake. He sat up. + +“Isn't it time,” he said, “that you all put away your glasses and +cigarettes and thought of bed?” + +Jim rolled slowly round towards his father, sprawling in the long chair. + +“Ah, Dad,” he said, “tonight's the night! Tonight's some night, +Dad.--You can sleep any time--” his grin widened--“but there aren't many +nights to sit here--like this--Eh?” + +He was looking up all the time into the face of his father, full and +nakedly lifting his face to the face of his father, and smiling fixedly. +The father, who was perfectly sober, except for the contagion from the +young people, felt a wild tremor go through his heart as he gazed on the +face of his boy. He rose stiffly. + +“You want to stay?” he said. “You want to stay!--Well then--well then, +I'll leave you. But don't be long.” The old man rose to his full height, +rather majestic. The four younger people also rose respectfully--only +Jim lay still prostrate in his chair, twisting up his face towards his +father. + +“You won't stay long,” said the old man, looking round a little +bewildered. He was seeking a responsible eye. Josephine was the only one +who had any feeling for him. + +“No, we won't stay long, Mr. Bricknell,” she said gravely. + +“Good night, Dad,” said Jim, as his father left the room. + +Josephine went to the window. She had rather a stiff, _poupee_ walk. + +“How is the night?” she said, as if to change the whole feeling in +the room. She pushed back the thick grey-silk curtains. “Why?” she +exclaimed. “What is that light burning? A red light?” + +“Oh, that's only the pit-bank on fire,” said Robert, who had followed +her. + +“How strange!--Why is it burning now?” + +“It always burns, unfortunately--it is most consistent at it. It is the +refuse from the mines. It has been burning for years, in spite of all +efforts to the contrary.” + +“How very curious! May we look at it?” Josephine now turned the handle +of the French windows, and stepped out. + +“Beautiful!” they heard her voice exclaim from outside. + +In the room, Julia laid her hand gently, protectively over the hand of +Cyril Scott. + +“Josephine and Robert are admiring the night together!” she said, +smiling with subtle tenderness to him. + +“Naturally! Young people always do these romantic things,” replied Cyril +Scott. He was twenty-two years old, so he could afford to be cynical. + +“Do they?--Don't you think it's nice of them?” she said, gently removing +her hand from his. His eyes were shining with pleasure. + +“I do. I envy them enormously. One only needs to be sufficiently naive,” + he said. + +“One does, doesn't one!” cooed Julia. + +“I say, do you hear the bells?” said Robert, poking his head into the +room. + +“No, dear! Do you?” replied Julia. + +“Bells! Hear the bells! Bells!” exclaimed the half-tipsy and +self-conscious Jim. And he rolled in his chair in an explosion of +sudden, silent laughter, showing his mouthful of pointed teeth, like +a dog. Then he gradually gathered himself together, found his feet, +smiling fixedly. + +“Pretty cool night!” he said aloud, when he felt the air on his almost +bald head. The darkness smelt of sulphur. + +Josephine and Robert had moved out of sight. Julia was abstracted, +following them with her eyes. With almost supernatural keenness she +seemed to catch their voices from the distance. + +“Yes, Josephine, WOULDN'T that be AWFULLY ROMANTIC!”--she suddenly +called shrilly. + +The pair in the distance started. + +“What--!” they heard Josephine's sharp exclamation. + +“What's that?--What would be romantic?” said Jim as he lurched up and +caught hold of Cyril Scott's arm. + +“Josephine wants to make a great illumination of the grounds of the +estate,” said Julia, magniloquent. + +“No--no--I didn't say it,” remonstrated Josephine. + +“What Josephine said,” explained Robert, “was simply that it would be +pretty to put candles on one of the growing trees, instead of having a +Christmas-tree indoors.” + +“Oh, Josephine, how sweet of you!” cried Julia. + +Cyril Scott giggled. + +“Good egg! Champion idea, Josey, my lass. Eh? What--!” cried Jim. “Why +not carry it out--eh? Why not? Most attractive.” He leaned forward over +Josephine, and grinned. + +“Oh, no!” expostulated Josephine. “It all sounds so silly now. No. Let +us go indoors and go to bed.” + +“NO, Josephine dear--No! It's a LOVELY IDEA!” cried Julia. “Let's get +candles and lanterns and things--” + +“Let's!” grinned Jim. “Let's, everybody--let's.” + +“Shall we really?” asked Robert. “Shall we illuminate one of the +fir-trees by the lawn?” + +“Yes! How lovely!” cried Julia. “I'll fetch the candles.” + +“The women must put on warm cloaks,” said Robert. + +They trooped indoors for coats and wraps and candles and lanterns. Then, +lighted by a bicycle lamp, they trooped off to the shed to twist wire +round the candles for holders. They clustered round the bench. + +“I say,” said Julia, “doesn't Cyril look like a pilot on a stormy night! +Oh, I say--!” and she went into one of her hurried laughs. + +They all looked at Cyril Scott, who was standing sheepishly in the +background, in a very large overcoat, smoking a large pipe. The +young man was uncomfortable, but assumed a stoic air of philosophic +indifference. + +Soon they were busy round a prickly fir-tree at the end of the lawn. Jim +stood in the background vaguely staring. The bicycle lamp sent a beam +of strong white light deep into the uncanny foliage, heads clustered and +hands worked. The night above was silent, dim. There was no wind. In +the near distance they could hear the panting of some engine at the +colliery. + +“Shall we light them as we fix them,” asked Robert, “or save them for +one grand rocket at the end?” + +“Oh, as we do them,” said Cyril Scott, who had lacerated his fingers and +wanted to see some reward. + +A match spluttered. One naked little flame sprang alight among the dark +foliage. The candle burned tremulously, naked. They all were silent. + +“We ought to do a ritual dance! We ought to worship the tree,” sang +Julia, in her high voice. + +“Hold on a minute. We'll have a little more illumination,” said Robert. + +“Why yes. We want more than one candle,” said Josephine. + +But Julia had dropped the cloak in which she was huddled, and with arms +slung asunder was sliding, waving, crouching in a _pas seul_ before the +tree, looking like an animated bough herself. + +Jim, who was hugging his pipe in the background, broke into a short, +harsh, cackling laugh. + +“Aren't we fools!” he cried. “What? Oh, God's love, aren't we fools!” + +“No--why?” cried Josephine, amused but resentful. + +But Jim vouchsafed nothing further, only stood like a Red Indian +gripping his pipe. + +The beam of the bicycle-lamp moved and fell upon the hands and faces +of the young people, and penetrated the recesses of the secret trees. +Several little tongues of flame clipped sensitive and ruddy on the naked +air, sending a faint glow over the needle foliage. They gave a strange, +perpendicular aspiration in the night. Julia waved slowly in her tree +dance. Jim stood apart, with his legs straddled, a motionless figure. + +The party round the tree became absorbed and excited as more ruddy +tongues of flame pricked upward from the dark tree. Pale candles became +evident, the air was luminous. The illumination was becoming complete, +harmonious. + +Josephine suddenly looked round. + +“Why-y-y!” came her long note of alarm. + +A man in a bowler hat and a black overcoat stood on the edge of the +twilight. + +“What is it?” cried Julia. + +“_Homo sapiens_!” said Robert, the lieutenant. “Hand the light, Cyril.” + He played the beam of light full on the intruder; a man in a bowler hat, +with a black overcoat buttoned to his throat, a pale, dazed, blinking +face. The hat was tilted at a slightly jaunty angle over the left eye, +the man was well-featured. He did not speak. + +“Did you want anything?” asked Robert, from behind the light. + +Aaron Sisson blinked, trying to see who addressed him. To him, they were +all illusory. He did not answer. + +“Anything you wanted?” repeated Robert, military, rather peremptory. + +Jim suddenly doubled himself up and burst into a loud harsh cackle of +laughter. Whoop! he went, and doubled himself up with laughter. Whoop! +Whoop! he went, and fell on the ground and writhed with laughter. He +was in that state of intoxication when he could find no release from +maddening self-consciousness. He knew what he was doing, he did +it deliberately. And yet he was also beside himself, in a sort of +hysterics. He could not help himself in exasperated self-consciousness. + +The others all began to laugh, unavoidably. It was a contagion. They +laughed helplessly and foolishly. Only Robert was anxious. + +“I'm afraid he'll wake the house,” he said, looking at the doubled up +figure of Jim writhing on the grass and whooping loudly. + +“Or not enough,” put in Cyril Scott. He twigged Jim's condition. + +“No--no!” cried Josephine, weak with laughing in spite of herself. +“No--it's too long--I'm like to die laughing--” + +Jim embraced the earth in his convulsions. Even Robert shook quite +weakly with laughter. His face was red, his eyes full of dancing water. +Yet he managed to articulate. + +“I say, you know, you'll bring the old man down.” Then he went off again +into spasms. + +“Hu! Hu!” whooped Jim, subsiding. “Hu!” + +He rolled over on to his back, and lay silent. The others also became +weakly silent. + +“What's amiss?” said Aaron Sisson, breaking this spell. + +They all began to laugh again, except Jim, who lay on his back looking +up at the strange sky. + +“What're you laughing at?” repeated Aaron. + +“We're laughing at the man on the ground,” replied Josephine. “I think +he's drunk a little too much.” + +“Ay,” said Aaron, standing mute and obstinate. + +“Did you want anything?” Robert enquired once more. + +“Eh?” Aaron looked up. “Me? No, not me.” A sort of inertia kept him +rooted. The young people looked at one another and began to laugh, +rather embarrassed. + +“Another!” said Cyril Scott cynically. + +They wished he would go away. There was a pause. + +“What do you reckon stars are?” asked the sepulchral voice of Jim. He +still lay flat on his back on the grass. + +Josephine went to him and pulled at his coat. + +“Get up,” she said. “You'll take cold. Get up now, we're going indoors.” + +“What do you reckon stars are?” he persisted. + +Aaron Sisson stood on the edge of the light, smilingly staring at the +scene, like a boy out of his place, but stubbornly keeping his ground. + +“Get up now,” said Josephine. “We've had enough.” But Jim would not +move. + +Robert went with the bicycle lamp and stood at Aaron's side. + +“Shall I show you a light to the road--you're off your track,” he said. +“You're in the grounds of Shottle House.” + +“I can find my road,” said Aaron. “Thank you.” + +Jim suddenly got up and went to peer at the stranger, poking his face +close to Aaron's face. + +“Right-o,” he replied. “You're not half a bad sort of chap--Cheery-o! +What's your drink?” + +“Mine--whiskey,” said Aaron. + +“Come in and have one. We're the only sober couple in the bunch--what?” + cried Jim. + +Aaron stood unmoving, static in everything. Jim took him by the arm +affectionately. The stranger looked at the flickering tree, with its +tiers of lights. + +“A Christmas tree,” he said, jerking his head and smiling. + +“That's right, old man,” said Jim, seeming thoroughly sober now. “Come +indoors and have a drink.” + +Aaron Sisson negatively allowed himself to be led off. The others +followed in silence, leaving the tree to flicker the night through. The +stranger stumbled at the open window-door. + +“Mind the step,” said Jim affectionately. + +They crowded to the fire, which was still hot. The newcomer looked round +vaguely. Jim took his bowler hat and gave him a chair. He sat without +looking round, a remote, abstract look on his face. He was very pale, +and seemed-inwardly absorbed. + +The party threw off their wraps and sat around. Josephine turned to +Aaron Sisson, who sat with a glass of whiskey in his hand, rather slack +in his chair, in his thickish overcoat. He did not want to drink. His +hair was blond, quite tidy, his mouth and chin handsome but a little +obstinate, his eyes inscrutable. His pallor was not natural to him. +Though he kept the appearance of a smile, underneath he was hard and +opposed. He did not wish to be with these people, and yet, mechanically, +he stayed. + +“Do you feel quite well?” Josephine asked him. + +He looked at her quickly. + +“Me?” he said. He smiled faintly. “Yes, I'm all right.” Then he dropped +his head again and seemed oblivious. + +“Tell us your name,” said Jim affectionately. + +The stranger looked up. + +“My name's Aaron Sisson, if it's anything to you,” he said. + +Jim began to grin. + +“It's a name I don't know,” he said. Then he named all the party +present. But the stranger hardly heeded, though his eyes looked +curiously from one to the other, slow, shrewd, clairvoyant. + +“Were you on your way home?” asked Robert, huffy. + +The stranger lifted his head and looked at him. + +“Home!” he repeated. “No. The other road--” He indicated the direction +with his head, and smiled faintly. + +“Beldover?” inquired Robert. + +“Yes.” + +He had dropped his head again, as if he did not want to look at them. + +To Josephine, the pale, impassive, blank-seeming face, the blue eyes +with the smile which wasn't a smile, and the continual dropping of the +well-shaped head was curiously affecting. She wanted to cry. + +“Are you a miner?” Robert asked, _de haute en bas_. + +“No,” cried Josephine. She had looked at his hands. + +“Men's checkweighman,” replied Aaron. He had emptied his glass. He put +it on the table. + +“Have another?” said Jim, who was attending fixedly, with curious +absorption, to the stranger. + +“No,” cried Josephine, “no more.” + +Aaron looked at Jim, then at her, and smiled slowly, with remote +bitterness. Then he lowered his head again. His hands were loosely +clasped between his knees. + +“What about the wife?” said Robert--the young lieutenant. + +“What about the wife and kiddies? You're a married man, aren't you?” + +The sardonic look of the stranger rested on the subaltern. + +“Yes,” he said. + +“Won't they be expecting you?” said Robert, trying to keep his temper +and his tone of authority. + +“I expect they will--” + +“Then you'd better be getting along, hadn't you?” + +The eyes of the intruder rested all the time on the flushed subaltern. +The look on Aaron's face became slowly satirical. + +“Oh, dry up the army touch,” said Jim contemptuously, to Robert. “We're +all civvies here. We're all right, aren't we?” he said loudly, turning +to the stranger with a grin that showed his pointed teeth. + +Aaron gave a brief laugh of acknowledgement. + +“How many children have you?” sang Julia from her distance. + +“Three.” + +“Girls or boys?” + +“Girls.” + +“All girls? Dear little things! How old?” + +“Oldest eight--youngest nine months--” + +“So small!” sang Julia, with real tenderness now--Aaron dropped his +head. “But you're going home to them, aren't you?” said Josephine, in +whose eyes the tears had already risen. He looked up at her, at her +tears. His face had the same pale perverse smile. + +“Not tonight,” he said. + +“But why? You're wrong!” cried Josephine. + +He dropped his head and became oblivious. + +“Well!” said Cyril Scott, rising at last with a bored exclamation. “I +think I'll retire.” + +“Will you?” said Julia, also rising. “You'll find your candle outside.” + +She went out. Scott bade good night, and followed her. The four people +remained in the room, quite silent. Then Robert rose and began to walk +about, agitated. + +“Don't you go back to 'em. Have a night out. You stop here tonight,” Jim +said suddenly, in a quiet intimate tone. + +The stranger turned his head and looked at him, considering. + +“Yes?” he said. He seemed to be smiling coldly. + +“Oh, but!” cried Josephine. “Your wife and your children! Won't they be +awfully bothered? Isn't it awfully unkind to them?” + +She rose in her eagerness. He sat turning up his face to her. She could +not understand his expression. + +“Won't you go home to them?” she said, hysterical. + +“Not tonight,” he replied quietly, again smiling. + +“You're wrong!” she cried. “You're wrong!” And so she hurried out of the +room in tears. + +“Er--what bed do you propose to put him in?” asked Robert rather +officer-like. + +“Don't propose at all, my lad,” replied Jim, ironically--he did not like +Robert. Then to the stranger he said: + +“You'll be all right on the couch in my room?--it's a good couch, big +enough, plenty of rugs--” His voice was easy and intimate. + +Aaron looked at him, and nodded. + +They had another drink each, and at last the two set off, rather +stumbling, upstairs. Aaron carried his bowler hat with him. + +Robert remained pacing in the drawing-room for some time. Then he went +out, to return in a little while. He extinguished the lamps and saw that +the fire was safe. Then he went to fasten the window-doors securely. +Outside he saw the uncanny glimmer of candles across the lawn. He had +half a mind to go out and extinguish them--but he did not. So he went +upstairs and the house was quiet. Faint crumbs of snow were falling +outside. + +When Jim woke in the morning Aaron had gone. Only on the floor were two +packets of Christmas-tree candles, fallen from the stranger's pockets. +He had gone through the drawing-room door, as he had come. The housemaid +said that while she was cleaning the grate in the dining-room she heard +someone go into the drawing-room: a parlour-maid had even seen someone +come out of Jim's bedroom. But they had both thought it was Jim himself, +for he was an unsettled house mate. + +There was a thin film of snow, a lovely Christmas morning. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. “THE PILLAR OF SALT” + + +Our story will not yet see daylight. A few days after Christmas, Aaron +sat in the open shed at the bottom of his own garden, looking out on the +rainy darkness. No one knew he was there. It was some time after six in +the evening. + +From where he sat, he looked straight up the garden to the house. The +blind was not drawn in the middle kitchen, he could see the figures of +his wife and one child. There was a light also in the upstairs window. +His wife was gone upstairs again. He wondered if she had the baby ill. +He could see her figure vaguely behind the lace curtains of the bedroom. +It was like looking at his home through the wrong end of a telescope. +Now the little girls had gone from the middle room: only to return in a +moment. + +His attention strayed. He watched the light falling from the window +of the next-door house. Uneasily, he looked along the whole range of +houses. The street sloped down-hill, and the backs were open to the +fields. So he saw a curious succession of lighted windows, between which +jutted the intermediary back premises, scullery and outhouse, in dark +little blocks. It was something like the keyboard of a piano: more +still, like a succession of musical notes. For the rectangular planes +of light were of different intensities, some bright and keen, some soft, +warm, like candle-light, and there was one surface of pure red light, +one or two were almost invisible, dark green. So the long scale of +lights seemed to trill across the darkness, now bright, now dim, +swelling and sinking. The effect was strange. + +And thus the whole private life of the street was threaded in lights. +There was a sense of indecent exposure, from so many backs. He felt +himself almost in physical contact with this contiguous stretch of back +premises. He heard the familiar sound of water gushing from the sink in +to the grate, the dropping of a pail outside the door, the clink of a +coal shovel, the banging of a door, the sound of voices. So many houses +cheek by jowl, so many squirming lives, so many back yards, back doors +giving on to the night. It was revolting. + +Away in the street itself, a boy was calling the newspaper: “--'NING +POST! --'NING PO-O-ST!” It was a long, melancholy howl, and seemed +to epitomise the whole of the dark, wet, secretive, thickly-inhabited +night. A figure passed the window of Aaron's own house, entered, and +stood inside the room talking to Mrs. Sisson. It was a young woman in +a brown mackintosh and a black hat. She stood under the incandescent +light, and her hat nearly knocked the globe. Next door a man had run out +in his shirt sleeves: this time a young, dark-headed collier running to +the gate for a newspaper, running bare-headed, coatless, slippered in +the rain. He had got his news-sheet, and was returning. And just at that +moment the young man's wife came out, shading her candle with a lading +tin. She was going to the coal-house for some coal. Her husband passed +her on the threshold. She could be heard breaking the bits of coal and +placing them on the dustpan. The light from her candle fell faintly +behind her. Then she went back, blown by a swirl of wind. But again she +was at the door, hastily standing her iron shovel against the wall. Then +she shut the back door with a bang. These noises seemed to scrape and +strike the night. + +In Aaron's own house, the young person was still talking to Mrs. Sisson. +Millicent came out, sheltering a candle with her hand. The candle blew +out. She ran indoors, and emerged again, her white pinafore fluttering. +This time she performed her little journey safely. He could see the +faint glimmer of her candle emerging secretly from the closet. + +The young person was taking her leave. He could hear her +sympathetic--“Well--good night! I hope she'll be no worse. Good night +Mrs. Sisson!” She was gone--he heard the windy bang of the street-gate. +Presently Millicent emerged again, flitting indoors. + +So he rose to his feet, balancing, swaying a little before he started +into motion, as so many colliers do. Then he moved along the path +towards the house, in the rain and darkness, very slowly edging +forwards. + +Suddenly the door opened. His wife emerged with a pail. He stepped +quietly aside, on to his side garden, among the sweet herbs. He could +smell rosemary and sage and hyssop. A low wall divided his garden from +his neighbour's. He put his hand on it, on its wetness, ready to drop +over should his wife come forward. But she only threw the contents of +her pail on the garden and retired again. She might have seen him had +she looked. He remained standing where he was, listening to the trickle +of rain in the water-butt. The hollow countryside lay beyond him. +Sometimes in the windy darkness he could see the red burn of New +Brunswick bank, or the brilliant jewels of light clustered at Bestwood +Colliery. Away in the dark hollow, nearer, the glare of the electric +power-station disturbed the night. So again the wind swirled the rain +across all these hieroglyphs of the countryside, familiar to him as his +own breast. + +A motor-car was labouring up the hill. His trained ear attended to it +unconsciously. It stopped with a jar. There was a bang of the yard-gate. +A shortish dark figure in a bowler hat passed the window. Millicent was +drawing down the blind. It was the doctor. The blind was drawn, he could +see no more. + +Stealthily he began to approach the house. He stood by the climbing rose +of the porch, listening. He heard voices upstairs. Perhaps the children +would be downstairs. He listened intently. Voices were upstairs only. He +quietly opened the door. The room was empty, save for the baby, who was +cooing in her cradle. He crossed to the hall. At the foot of the stairs +he could hear the voice of the Indian doctor: “Now little girl, you +must just keep still and warm in bed, and not cry for the moon.” He said +“_de_ moon,” just as ever.--Marjory must be ill. + +So Aaron quietly entered the parlour. It was a cold, clammy room, dark. +He could hear footsteps passing outside on the asphalt pavement below +the window, and the wind howling with familiar cadence. He began feeling +for something in the darkness of the music-rack beside the piano. He +touched and felt--he could not find what he wanted. Perplexed, he turned +and looked out of the window. Through the iron railing of the front wall +he could see the little motorcar sending its straight beams of light in +front of it, up the street. + +He sat down on the sofa by the window. The energy had suddenly left all +his limbs. He sat with his head sunk, listening. The familiar room, the +familiar voice of his wife and his children--he felt weak as if he were +dying. He felt weak like a drowning man who acquiesces in the waters. +His strength was gone, he was sinking back. He would sink back to it +all, float henceforth like a drowned man. + +So he heard voices coming nearer from upstairs, feet moving. They were +coming down. + +“No, Mrs. Sisson, you needn't worry,” he heard the voice of the doctor +on the stairs. “If she goes on as she is, she'll be all right. Only she +must be kept warm and quiet--warm and quiet--that's the chief thing.” + +“Oh, when she has those bouts I can't bear it,” Aaron heard his wife's +voice. + +They were downstairs. Their feet click-clicked on the tiled passage. +They had gone into the middle room. Aaron sat and listened. + +“She won't have any more bouts. If she does, give her a few drops from +the little bottle, and raise her up. But she won't have any more,” the +doctor said. + +“If she does, I s'll go off my head, I know I shall.” + +“No, you won't. No, you won't do anything of the sort. You won't go off +your head. You'll keep your head on your shoulders, where it ought to +be,” protested the doctor. + +“But it nearly drives me mad.” + +“Then don't let it. The child won't die, I tell you. She will be all +right, with care. Who have you got sitting up with her? You're not to +sit up with her tonight, I tell you. Do you hear me?” + +“Miss Smitham's coming in. But it's no good--I shall have to sit up. I +shall HAVE to.” + +“I tell you you won't. You obey ME. I know what's good for you as well +as for her. I am thinking of you as much as of her.” + +“But I can't bear it--all alone.” This was the beginning of tears. There +was a dead silence--then a sound of Millicent weeping with her mother. +As a matter of fact, the doctor was weeping too, for he was an emotional +sympathetic soul, over forty. + +“Never mind--never mind--you aren't alone,” came the doctor's +matter-of-fact voice, after a loud nose-blowing. “I am here to help you. +I will do whatever I can--whatever I can.” + +“I can't bear it. I can't bear it,” wept the woman. + +Another silence, another nose-blowing, and again the doctor: + +“You'll HAVE to bear it--I tell you there's nothing else for it. You'll +have to bear it--but we'll do our best for you. I will do my best +for you--always--ALWAYS--in sickness or out of sickness--There!” He +pronounced _there_ oddly, not quite _dhere_. + +“You haven't heard from your husband?” he added. + +“I had a letter--“--sobs--“from the bank this morning.” + +“FROM DE BANK?” + +“Telling me they were sending me so much per month, from him, as an +allowance, and that he was quite well, but he was travelling.” + +“Well then, why not let him travel? You can live.” + +“But to leave me alone,” there was burning indignation in her voice. “To +go off and leave me with every responsibility, to leave me with all the +burden.” + +“Well I wouldn't trouble about him. Aren't you better off without him?” + +“I am. I am,” she cried fiercely. “When I got that letter this morning, +I said MAY EVIL BEFALL YOU, YOU SELFISH DEMON. And I hope it may.” + + +“Well-well, well-well, don't fret. Don't be angry, it won't make it any +better, I tell you.” + +“Angry! I AM angry. I'm worse than angry. A week ago I hadn't a grey +hair in my head. Now look here--” There was a pause. + +“Well-well, well-well, never mind. You will be all right, don't you +bother. Your hair is beautiful anyhow.” + +“What makes me so mad is that he should go off like that--never a +word--coolly takes his hook. I could kill him for it.” + +“Were you ever happy together?” + +“We were all right at first. I know I was fond of him. But he'd kill +anything.--He kept himself back, always kept himself back, couldn't give +himself--” + +There was a pause. + +“Ah well,” sighed the doctor. “Marriage is a mystery. I'm glad I'm not +entangled in it.” + +“Yes, to make some woman's life a misery.--I'm sure it was death to live +with him, he seemed to kill everything off inside you. He was a man you +couldn't quarrel with, and get it over. Quiet--quiet in his tempers, and +selfish through and through. I've lived with him twelve years--I know +what it is. Killing! You don't know what he was--” + +“I think I knew him. A fair man? Yes?” said the doctor. + +“Fair to look at.--There's a photograph of him in the parlour--taken +when he was married--and one of me.--Yes, he's fairhaired.” + +Aaron guessed that she was getting a candle to come into the parlour. He +was tempted to wait and meet them--and accept it all again. Devilishly +tempted, he was. Then he thought of her voice, and his heart went cold. +Quick as thought, he obeyed his first impulse. He felt behind the couch, +on the floor where the curtains fell. Yes--the bag was there. He took it +at once. In the next breath he stepped out of the room and tip-toed +into the passage. He retreated to the far end, near the street door, and +stood behind the coats that hung on the hall-stand. + +At that moment his wife came into the passage, holding a candle. She was +red-eyed with weeping, and looked frail. + +“Did YOU leave the parlour door open?” she asked of Millicent, +suspiciously. + +“No,” said Millicent from the kitchen. + +The doctor, with his soft, Oriental tread followed Mrs. Sisson into the +parlour. Aaron saw his wife hold up the candle before his portrait and +begin to weep. But he knew her. The doctor laid his hand softly on +her arm, and left it there, sympathetically. Nor did he remove it when +Millicent stole into the room, looking very woe-begone and important. +The wife wept silently, and the child joined in. + +“Yes, I know him,” said the doctor. “If he thinks he will be happier +when he's gone away, you must be happier too, Mrs. Sisson. That's +all. Don't let him triumph over you by making you miserable. You enjoy +yourself as well. You're only a girl---” + +But a tear came from his eye, and he blew his nose vigorously on a large +white silk handkerchief, and began to polish his _pince nez_. Then he +turned, and they all bundled out of the room. + +The doctor took his departure. Mrs. Sisson went almost immediately +upstairs, and Millicent shortly crept after her. Then Aaron, who had +stood motionless as if turned to a pillar of salt, went quietly down +the passage and into the living room. His face was very pale, +ghastly-looking. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the +mantel, as he passed, and felt weak, as if he were really a criminal. +But his heart did not relax, nevertheless. So he hurried into the night, +down the garden, climbed the fence into the field, and went away across +the field in the rain, towards the highroad. + +He felt sick in every fibre. He almost hated the little handbag he +carried, which held his flute and piccolo. It seemed a burden just +then--a millstone round his neck. He hated the scene he had left--and +he hated the hard, inviolable heart that stuck unchanging in his own +breast. + +Coming to the high-road, he saw a tall, luminous tram-car roving along +through the rain. The trams ran across country from town to town. He +dared not board, because people knew him. So he took a side road, and +walked in a detour for two miles. Then he came out on the high-road +again and waited for a tram-car. The rain blew on his face. He waited a +long time for the last car. + + + + +CHAPTER V. AT THE OPERA + + +A friend had given Josephine Ford a box at the opera for one evening; +our story continues by night. The box was large and important, near the +stage. Josephine and Julia were there, with Robert and Jim--also two +more men. The women sat in the front of the box, conspicuously. They +were both poor, they were rather excited. But they belonged to a set +which looked on social triumphs as a downfall that one allows oneself. +The two men, Lilly and Struthers, were artists, the former literary, the +latter a painter. Lilly sat by Josephine in the front of the box: he was +her little lion of the evening. + +Few women can sit in the front of a big box, on a crowded and full-swing +opera night, without thrilling and dilating. There is an intoxication in +being thus thrust forward, conspicuous and enhanced, right in the eye of +the vast crowd that lines the hollow shell of the auditorium. Thus even +Josephine and Julia leaned their elbows and poised their heads regally, +looking condescendingly down upon the watchful world. They were two poor +women, having nothing to do with society. Half bohemians. + +Josephine was an artist. In Paris she was a friend of a very fashionable +dressmaker and decorator, master of modern elegance. Sometimes she +designed dresses for him, and sometimes she accepted from him a +commission to decorate a room. Usually at her last sou, it gave her +pleasure to dispose of costly and exquisite things for other people, and +then be rid of them. + +This evening her dress was a simple, but a marvellously poised thing of +black and silver: in the words of the correct journal. With her tight, +black, bright hair, her arched brows, her dusky-ruddy face and her bare +shoulders; her strange equanimity, her long, slow, slanting looks; she +looked foreign and frightening, clear as a cameo, but dark, far off. +Julia was the English beauty, in a lovely blue dress. Her hair was +becomingly untidy on her low brow, her dark blue eyes wandered and got +excited, her nervous mouth twitched. Her high-pitched, sing-song voice +and her hurried laugh could be heard in the theatre. She twisted a +beautiful little fan that a dead artist had given her. + +Not being fashionable, they were in the box when the overture began. The +opera was Verdi--_Aida_. If it is impossible to be in an important box +at the opera without experiencing the strange intoxication of social +pre-eminence, it is just as impossible to be there without some feeling +of horror at the sight the stage presents. + +Josephine leaned her elbow and looked down: she knew how arresting +that proud, rather stiff bend of her head was. She had some aboriginal +American in her blood. But as she looked, she pursed her mouth. The +artist in her forgot everything, she was filled with disgust. The sham +Egypt of _Aida_ hid from her nothing of its shame. The singers were all +colour-washed, deliberately colour-washed to a bright orange tint. The +men had oblong dabs of black wool under their lower lip; the beard of +the mighty Pharaohs. This oblong dab shook and wagged to the singing. + +The vulgar bodies of the fleshy women were unendurable. They all looked +such good meat. Why were their haunches so prominent? It was a question +Josephine could not solve. She scanned their really expensive, brilliant +clothing. It was _nearly_ right--nearly splendid. It only lacked that +last subtlety which the world always lacks, the last final clinching +which puts calm into a sea of fabric, and yet is the opposite pole to +machine fixity. + +But the leading tenor was the chief pain. He was large, stout, swathed +in a cummerbund, and looked like a eunuch. This fattish, emasculated +look seems common in stage heroes--even the extremely popular. The tenor +sang bravely, his mouth made a large, coffin-shaped, yawning gap in his +orange face, his little beard fluttered oddly, like a tail. He turned +up his eyes to Josephine's box as he sang--that being the regulation +direction. Meanwhile his abdomen shook as he caught his breath, the +flesh of his fat, naked arms swayed. + +Josephine looked down with the fixed gravity of a Red Indian, immovable, +inscrutable. It was not till the scene was ended that she lifted her +head as if breaking a spell, sent the point of her tongue rapidly over +her dried lips, and looked round into the box. Her brown eyes expressed +shame, fear, and disgust. A curious grimace went over her face--a +grimace only to be expressed by the exclamation _Merde!_ But she was +mortally afraid of society, and its fixed institutions. Rapidly she +scanned the eyes of her friends in the box. She rested on the eyes of +Lilly, a dark, ugly man. + +“Isn't it nasty?” she said. + +“You shouldn't look so closely,” he said. But he took it calmly, easily, +whilst she felt floods of burning disgust, a longing to destroy it all. + +“Oh-ho-ho!” laughed Julia. “It's so fu-nny--so funny!” + +“Of course we are too near,” said Robert. + +“Say you admire that pink fondant over there,” said Struthers, +indicating with his eyebrows a blond large woman in white satin with +pink edging, who sat in a box opposite, on the upper tier. + +“Oh, the fondant--exactly--the fondant! Yes, I admire her immensely! +Isn't she exactly IT!” sang Julia. + +Josephine was scanning the auditorium. So many myriads of faces--like +beads on a bead-work pattern--all bead-work, in different layers. She +bowed to various acquaintances--mostly Americans in uniform, whom she +had known in Paris. She smiled to Lady Cochrane, two boxes off--Lady +Cochrane had given her the box. But she felt rather coldly towards her. + +The curtain rose, the opera wound its slow length along. The audience +loved it. They cheered with mad enthusiasm. Josephine looked down on the +choppy sea of applause, white gloves clapping, heads shaking. The +noise was strange and rattling. What a curious multiple object a +theatre-audience was! It seemed to have a million heads, a million +hands, and one monstrous, unnatural consciousness. The singers appeared +before the curtain--the applause rose up like clouds of dust. + +“Oh, isn't it too wonderful!” cried Julia. “I am wild with excitement. +Are you all of you?” + +“Absolutely wild,” said Lilly laconically. + +“Where is Scott to-night?” asked Struthers. + +Julia turned to him and gave him a long, queer look from her dark blue +eyes. + +“He's in the country,” she said, rather enigmatic. + +“Don't you know, he's got a house down in Dorset,” said Robert, verbally +rushing in. “He wants Julia to go down and stay.” + +“Is she going?” said Lilly. + +“She hasn't decided,” replied Robert. + +“Oh! What's the objection?” asked Struthers. + +“Well, none whatsoever, as far as can be seen, except that she can't +make up her mind,” replied Robert. + +“Julia's got no mind,” said Jim rudely. + +“Oh! Hear the brotherly verdict!” laughed Julia hurriedly. + +“You mean to go down to Dorset alone!” said Struthers. + +“Why not?” replied Robert, answering for her. + +“And stay how long?” + +“Oh--as long as it lasts,” said Robert again. + +“Starting with eternity,” said Lilly, “and working back to a fortnight.” + +“And what's the matter?--looks bad in the eyes of the world?” + +“Yes--about that. Afraid of compromising herself--” + +Lilly looked at them. + +“Depends what you take the world to mean. Do you mean us in this box, or +the crew outside there?” he jerked his head towards the auditorium. + +“Do you think, Lilly, that we're the world?” said Robert ironically. + +“Oh, yes, I guess we're shipwrecked in this box, like Robinson Crusoes. +And what we do on our own little island matters to us alone. As for the +infinite crowds of howling savages outside there in the unspeakable, all +you've got to do is mind they don't scrap you.” + +“But WON'T they?” said Struthers. + +“Not unless you put your head in their hands,” said Lilly. + +“I don't know--” said Jim. + +But the curtain had risen, they hushed him into silence. + +All through the next scene, Julia puzzled herself, as to whether she +should go down to the country and live with Scott. She had carried on a +nervous kind of _amour_ with him, based on soul sympathy and emotional +excitement. But whether to go and live with him? She didn't know if she +wanted to or not: and she couldn't for her life find out. She was in +that nervous state when desire seems to evaporate the moment fulfilment +is offered. + +When the curtain dropped she turned. + +“You see,” she said, screwing up her eyes, “I have to think of +Robert.” She cut the word in two, with an odd little hitch in her +voice--“ROB-ert.” + +“My dear Julia, can't you believe that I'm tired of being thought of,” + cried Robert, flushing. + +Julia screwed up her eyes in a slow smile, oddly cogitating. + +“Well, who AM I to think of?” she asked. + +“Yourself,” said Lilly. + +“Oh, yes! Why, yes! I never thought of that!” She gave a hurried little +laugh. “But then it's no FUN to think about oneself,” she cried flatly. +“I think about ROB-ert, and SCOTT.” She screwed up her eyes and peered +oddly at the company. + +“Which of them will find you the greatest treat,” said Lilly +sarcastically. + +“Anyhow,” interjected Robert nervously, “it will be something new for +Scott.” + +“Stale buns for you, old boy,” said Jim drily. + +“I don't say so. But--” exclaimed the flushed, full-blooded Robert, who +was nothing if not courteous to women. + +“How long ha' you been married? Eh?” asked Jim. + +“Six years!” sang Julia sweetly. + +“Good God!” + +“You see,” said Robert, “Julia can't decide anything for herself. She +waits for someone else to decide, then she puts her spoke in.” + +“Put it plainly--” began Struthers. + +“But don't you know, it's no USE putting it plainly,” cried Julia. + +“But DO you want to be with Scott, out and out, or DON'T you?” said +Lilly. + +“Exactly!” chimed Robert. “That's the question for you to answer Julia.” + +“I WON'T answer it,” she cried. “Why should I?” And she looked away into +the restless hive of the theatre. She spoke so wildly that she attracted +attention. But it half pleased her. She stared abstractedly down at the +pit. + +The men looked at one another in some comic consternation. + +“Oh, damn it all!” said the long Jim, rising and stretching himself. +“She's dead nuts on Scott. She's all over him. She'd have eloped with +him weeks ago if it hadn't been so easy. She can't stand it that Robert +offers to hand her into the taxi.” + +He gave his malevolent grin round the company, then went out. He did not +reappear for the next scene. + +“Of course, if she loves Scott--” began Struthers. + +Julia suddenly turned with wild desperation, and cried: + +“I like him tremendously--tre-men-dous-ly! He DOES understand.” + +“Which we don't,” said Robert. + +Julia smiled her long, odd smile in their faces: one might almost say +she smiled in their teeth. + +“What do YOU think, Josephine?” asked Lilly. + +Josephine was leaning froward. She started. Her tongue went rapidly over +her lips. “Who--? I--?” she exclaimed. + +“Yes.” + +“I think Julia should go with Scott,” said Josephine. “She'll bother +with the idea till she's done it. She loves him, really.” + +“Of course she does,” cried Robert. + +Julia, with her chin resting on her arms, in a position which irritated +the neighbouring Lady Cochrane sincerely, was gazing with unseeing eyes +down upon the stalls. + +“Well then--” began Struthers. But the music struck up softly. They +were all rather bored. Struthers kept on making small, half audible +remarks--which was bad form, and displeased Josephine, the hostess of +the evening. + +When the curtain came down for the end of the act, the men got up. +Lilly's wife, Tanny, suddenly appeared. She had come on after a dinner +engagement. + +“Would you like tea or anything?” Lilly asked. + +The women refused. The men filtered out on to the crimson and white, +curving corridor. Julia, Josephine and Tanny remained in the box. Tanny +was soon hitched on to the conversation in hand. + +“Of course,” she replied, “one can't decide such a thing like drinking a +cup of tea.” + +“Of course, one can't, dear Tanny,” said Julia. + +“After all, one doesn't leave one's husband every day, to go and live +with another man. Even if one looks on it as an experiment--.” + +“It's difficult!” cried Julia. “It's difficult! I feel they all want to +FORCE me to decide. It's cruel.” + +“Oh, men with their beastly logic, their either-this-or-that stunt, they +are an awful bore.--But of course, Robert can't love you REALLY, or he'd +want to keep you. I can see Lilly discussing such a thing for ME. But +then you don't love Robert either,” said Tanny. + +“I do! Oh, I do, Tanny! I DO love him, I love him dearly. I think he's +beautiful. Robert's beautiful. And he NEEDS me. And I need him too. I +need his support. Yes, I do love him.” + +“But you like Scott better,” said Tanny. + +“Only because he--he's different,” sang Julia, in long tones. “You see +Scott has his art. His art matters. And ROB-ert--Robert is a dilettante, +don't you think--he's dilettante--” She screwed up her eyes at Tanny. +Tanny cogitated. + +“Of course I don't think that matters,” she replied. + +“But it does, it matters tremendously, dear Tanny, tremendously.” + +“Of course,” Tanny sheered off. “I can see Scott has great +attractions--a great warmth somewhere--” + +“Exactly!” cried Julia. “He UNDERSTANDS!” + +“And I believe he's a real artist. You might even work together. You +might write his librettos.” + +“Yes!--Yes!--” Julia spoke with a long, pondering hiss. + +“It might be AWFULLY nice,” said Tanny rapturously. + +“Yes!--It might!--It might--!” pondered Julia. Suddenly she gave herself +a shake. Then she laughed hurriedly, as if breaking from her line of +thought. + +“And wouldn't Robert be an AWFULLY nice lover for Josephine! Oh, +wouldn't that be splendid!” she cried, with her high laugh. + +Josephine, who had been gazing down into the orchestra, turned now, +flushing darkly. + +“But I don't want a lover, Julia,” she said, hurt. + +“Josephine dear! Dear old Josephine! Don't you really! Oh, yes, +you do.--I want one so BADLY,” cried Julia, with her shaking laugh. +“Robert's awfully good to me. But we've been married six years. And it +does make a difference, doesn't it, Tanny dear?” + +“A great difference,” said Tanny. + +“Yes, it makes a difference, it makes a difference,” mused Julia. “Dear +old Rob-ert--I wouldn't hurt him for worlds. I wouldn't. Do you think it +would hurt Robert?” + +She screwed up her eyes, looking at Tanny. + +“Perhaps it would do Robert good to be hurt a little,” said Tanny. “He's +so well-nourished.” + +“Yes!--Yes!--I see what you mean, Tanny!--Poor old ROB-ert! Oh, poor old +Rob-ert, he's so young!” + +“He DOES seem young,” said Tanny. “One doesn't forgive it.” + +“He is young,” said Julia. “I'm five years older than he. He's only +twenty-seven. Poor Old Robert.” + +“Robert is young, and inexperienced,” said Josephine, suddenly turning +with anger. “But I don't know why you talk about him.” + +“Is he inexperienced, Josephine dear? IS he?” sang Julia. Josephine +flushed darkly, and turned away. + +“Ah, he's not so innocent as all that,” said Tanny roughly. “Those young +young men, who seem so fresh, they're deep enough, really. They're far +less innocent really than men who are experienced.” + +“They are, aren't they, Tanny,” repeated Julia softly. “They're +old--older than the Old Man of the Seas, sometimes, aren't they? +Incredibly old, like little boys who know too much--aren't they? Yes!” + She spoke quietly, seriously, as if it had struck her. + +Below, the orchestra was coming in. Josephine was watching closely. +Julia became aware of this. + +“Do you see anybody we know, Josephine?” she asked. + +Josephine started. + +“No,” she said, looking at her friends quickly and furtively. + +“Dear old Josephine, she knows all sorts of people,” sang Julia. + +At that moment the men returned. + +“Have you actually come back!” exclaimed Tanny to them. They sat down +without answering. Jim spread himself as far as he could, in the narrow +space. He stared upwards, wrinkling his ugly, queer face. It was evident +he was in one of his moods. + +“If only somebody loved me!” he complained. “If only somebody loved me I +should be all right. I'm going to pieces.” He sat up and peered into the +faces of the women. + +“But we ALL love you,” said Josephine, laughing uneasily. “Why aren't +you satisfied?” + +“I'm not satisfied. I'm not satisfied,” murmured Jim. + +“Would you like to be wrapped in swaddling bands and laid at the +breast?” asked Lilly, disagreeably. + +Jim opened his mouth in a grin, and gazed long and malevolently at his +questioner. + +“Yes,” he said. Then he sprawled his long six foot of limb and body +across the box again. + +“You should try loving somebody, for a change,” said Tanny. “You've been +loved too often. Why not try and love somebody?” + +Jim eyed her narrowly. + +“I couldn't love YOU,” he said, in vicious tones. + +“_A la bonne heure_!” said Tanny. + +But Jim sank his chin on his chest, and repeated obstinately: + +“I want to be loved.” + +“How many times have you been loved?” Robert asked him. “It would be +rather interesting to know.” + +Jim looked at Robert long and slow, but did not answer. + +“Did you ever keep count?” Tanny persisted. + +Jim looked up at her, malevolent. + +“I believe I did,” he replied. + +“Forty is the age when a man should begin to reckon up,” said Lilly. + +Jim suddenly sprang to his feet, and brandished his fists. + +“I'll pitch the lot of you over the bloody rail,” he said. + +He glared at them, from under his bald, wrinkled forehead. Josephine +glanced round. She had become a dusky white colour. She was afraid of +him, and she disliked him intensely nowadays. + +“Do you recognise anyone in the orchestra?” she asked. + +The party in the box had become dead silent. They looked down. The +conductor was at his stand. The music began. They all remained silent +and motionless during the next scene, each thinking his own thoughts. +Jim was uncomfortable. He wanted to make good. He sat with his elbows +on his knees, grinning slightly, looking down. At the next interval he +stood up suddenly. + +“It IS the chap--What?” he exclaimed excitedly, looking round at his +friends. + +“Who?” said Tanny. + +“It IS he?” said Josephine quietly, meeting Jim's eye. + +“Sure!” he barked. + +He was leaning forward over the ledge, rattling a programme in his hand, +as if trying to attract attention. Then he made signals. + +“There you are!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “That's the chap.” + +“Who? Who?” they cried. + +But neither Jim nor Josephine would vouchsafe an answer. + +The next was the long interval. Jim and Josephine gazed down at the +orchestra. The musicians were laying aside their instruments and rising. +The ugly fire-curtain began slowly to descend. Jim suddenly bolted out. + +“Is it that man Aaron Sisson?” asked Robert. + +“Where? Where?” cried Julia. “It can't be.” + +But Josephine's face was closed and silent. She did not answer. + +The whole party moved out on to the crimson-carpeted gangway. Groups of +people stood about chatting, men and women were passing along, to pay +visits or to find drinks. Josephine's party stared around, talking +desultorily. And at length they perceived Jim stalking along, leading +Aaron Sisson by the arm. Jim was grinning, the flautist looked +unwilling. He had a comely appearance, in his white shirt--a certain +comely blondness and repose. And as much a gentleman as anybody. + +“Well!” cried Josephine to him. “How do you come here?” + +“I play the flute,” he answered, as he shook hands. + +The little crowd stood in the gangway and talked. + +“How wonderful of you to be here!” cried Julia. + +He laughed. + +“Do you think so?” he answered. + +“Yes, I do.--It seems so FAR from Shottle House and Christmas Eve.--Oh, +wasn't it exciting!” cried Julia. + +Aaron looked at her, but did not answer. + +“We've heard all about you,” said Tanny playfully. + +“Oh, yes,” he replied. + +“Come!” said Josephine, rather irritated. “We crowd up the gangway.” And +she led the way inside the box. + +Aaron stood and looked down at the dishevelled theatre. + +“You get all the view,” he said. + +“We do, don't we!” cried Julia. + +“More than's good for us,” said Lilly. + +“Tell us what you are doing. You've got a permanent job?” asked +Josephine. + +“Yes--at present.” + +“Ah! It's more interesting for you than at Beldover.” + +She had taken her seat. He looked down at her dusky young face. Her +voice was always clear and measured. + +“It's a change,” he said, smiling. + +“Oh, it must be more than that,” she said. “Why, you must feel a whole +difference. It's a whole new life.” + +He smiled, as if he were laughing at her silently. She flushed. + +“But isn't it?” she persisted. + +“Yes. It can be,” he replied. + +He looked as if he were quietly amused, but dissociated. None of the +people in the box were quite real to him. He was not really amused. +Julia found him dull, stupid. Tanny also was offended that he could not +_perceive her_. The men remained practically silent. + +“You're a chap I always hoped would turn up again,” said Jim. + +“Oh, yes!” replied Aaron, smiling as if amused. + +“But perhaps he doesn't like us! Perhaps he's not glad that we turned +up,” said Julia, leaving her sting. + +The flautist turned and looked at her. + +“You can't REMEMBER us, can you?” she asked. + +“Yes,” he said. “I can remember you.” + +“Oh,” she laughed. “You are unflattering.” + +He was annoyed. He did not know what she was getting at. + +“How are your wife and children?” she asked spitefully. + +“All right, I think.” + +“But you've been back to them?” cried Josephine in dismay. + +He looked at her, a slow, half smiling look, but did not speak. + +“Come and have a drink. Damn the women,” said Jim uncouthly, seizing +Aaron by the arm and dragging him off. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. TALK + + +The party stayed to the end of the interminable opera. They had agreed +to wait for Aaron. He was to come around to the vestibule for them, +after the show. They trooped slowly down-stairs into the crush of the +entrance hall. Chattering, swirling people, red carpet, palms green +against cream-and-gilt walls, small whirlpools of life at the open, dark +doorways, men in opera hats steering decisively about-it was the old +scene. But there were no taxis--absolutely no taxis. And it was raining. +Fortunately the women had brought shoes. They slipped these on. Jim +rocked through the crowd, in his tall hat, looking for the flautist. + +At last Aaron was found--wearing a bowler hat. Julia groaned in spirit. +Josephine's brow knitted. Not that anybody cared, really. But as one +must frown at something, why not at the bowler hat? Acquaintances and +elegant young men in uniforms insisted on rushing up and bowing and +exchanging a few words, either with Josephine, or Jim, or Julia, or +Lilly. They were coldly received. The party veered out into the night. + +The women hugged their wraps about them, and set off sharply, feeling +some repugnance for the wet pavements and the crowd. They had not far to +go--only to Jim's rooms in Adelphi. Jim was leading Aaron, holding +him by the arm and slightly pinching his muscles. It gave him +great satisfaction to have between his fingers the arm-muscles of a +working-man, one of the common people, the _fons et origo_ of modern +life. Jim was talking rather vaguely about Labour and Robert Smillie, +and Bolshevism. He was all for revolution and the triumph of labour. + +So they arrived, mounted a dark stair, and entered a large, handsome +room, one of the Adams rooms. Jim had furnished it from Heale's with +striped hangings, green and white and yellow and dark purple, and with +a green-and-black checked carpet, and great stripe-covered chairs +and Chesterfield. A big gas-fire was soon glowing in the handsome old +fire-place, the panelled room seemed cosy. + +While Jim was handing round drinks and sandwiches, and Josephine was +making tea, Robert played Bach on the piano--the pianola, rather. The +chairs and lounge were in a half-circle round the fire. The party threw +off their wraps and sank deep into this expensive comfort of modern +bohemia. They needed the Bach to take away the bad taste that _Aida_ had +left in their mouths. They needed the whiskey and curacao to rouse their +spirits. They needed the profound comfort in which to sink away from the +world. All the men, except Aaron, had been through the war in some +way or other. But here they were, in the old setting exactly, the old +bohemian routine. + +The bell rang, Jim went downstairs. He returned shortly with a frail, +elegant woman--fashionable rather than bohemian. She was cream and +auburn, Irish, with a slightly-lifted upper lip that gave her a pathetic +look. She dropped her wrap and sat down by Julia, taking her hand +delicately. + +“How are you, darling?” she asked. + +“Yes--I'm happy,” said Julia, giving her odd, screwed-up smile. + +The pianola stopped, they all chatted indiscriminately. Jim was watching +the new-comer--Mrs. Browning--with a concentrated wolfish grin. + +“I like her,” he said at last. “I've seen her before, haven't I?--I like +her awfully.” + +“Yes,” said Josephine, with a slight grunt of a laugh. “He wants to be +loved.” + +“Oh,” cried Clariss. “So do I!” + +“Then there you are!” cried Tanny. + +“Alas, no, there we aren't,” cried Clariss. She was beautiful too, with +her lifted upper-lip. “We both want to be loved, and so we miss each +other entirely. We run on in two parallel lines, that can never meet.” + She laughed low and half sad. + +“Doesn't SHE love you?” said Aaron to Jim amused, indicating Josephine. +“I thought you were engaged.” + +“HER!” leered Jim vindictively, glancing at Josephine. “She doesn't love +me.” + +“Is that true?” asked Robert hastily, of Josephine. + +“Why,” she said, “yes. Why should he make me say out here that I don't +love him!” + +“Got you my girl,” said Jim. + +“Then it's no engagement?” said Robert. + +“Listen to the row fools make, rushing in,” said Jim maliciously. + +“No, the engagement is broken,” said Josephine. + +“World coming to pieces bit by bit,” said Lilly. Jim was twisting in +his chair, and looking like a Chinese dragon, diabolical. The room was +uneasy. + +“What gives you such a belly-ache for love, Jim?” said Lilly, “or for +being loved? Why do you want so badly to be loved?” + +“Because I like it, damn you,” barked Jim. “Because I'm in need of it.” + +None of them quite knew whether they ought to take it as a joke. It was +just a bit too real to be quite pleasant. + +“Why are you such a baby?” said Lilly. “There you are, six foot in +length, have been a cavalry officer and fought in two wars, and you +spend your time crying for somebody to love you. You're a comic.” + +“Am I though?” said Jim. “I'm losing life. I'm getting thin.” + +“You don't look as if you were losing life,” said Lilly. + +“Don't I? I am, though. I'm dying.” + +“What of? Lack of life?” + +“That's about it, my young cock. Life's leaving me.” + +“Better sing Tosti's Farewell to it.” + +Jim who had been sprawling full length in his arm-chair, the centre +of interest of all the company, suddenly sprang forward and pushed his +face, grinning, in the face of Lilly. + +“You're a funny customer, you are,” he said. + +Then he turned round in his chair, and saw Clariss sitting at the feet +of Julia, with one white arm over her friend's knee. Jim immediately +stuck forward his muzzle and gazed at her. Clariss had loosened her +masses of thick, auburn hair, so that it hung half free. Her face was +creamy pale, her upper lip lifted with odd pathos! She had rose-rubies +in her ears. + +“I like HER,” said Jim. “What's her name?” + +“Mrs. Browning. Don't be so rude,” said Josephine. + +“Browning for gravies. Any relation of Robert?” + +“Oh, yes! You ask my husband,” came the slow, plangent voice of Clariss. + +“You've got a husband, have you?” + +“Rather! Haven't I, Juley?” + +“Yes,” said Julia, vaguely and wispily. “Yes, dear, you have.” + +“And two fine children,” put in Robert. + +“No! You don't mean it!” said Jim. “Who's your husband? Anybody?” + +“Rather!” came the deep voice of Clariss. “He sees to that.” + +Jim stared, grinning, showing his pointed teeth, reaching nearer and +nearer to Clariss who, in her frail scrap of an evening dress, amethyst +and silver, was sitting still in the deep black hearth-rug, her arm over +Julia's knee, taking very little notice of Jim, although he amused her. + +“I like you awfully, I say,” he repeated. + +“Thanks, I'm sure,” she said. + +The others were laughing, sprawling in their chairs, and sipping curacao +and taking a sandwich or a cigarette. Aaron Sisson alone sat upright, +smiling flickeringly. Josephine watched him, and her pointed tongue went +from time to time over her lips. + +“But I'm sure,” she broke in, “this isn't very interesting for the +others. Awfully boring! Don't be silly all the time, Jim, or we must go +home.” + +Jim looked at her with narrowed eyes. He hated her voice. She let her +eye rest on his for a moment. Then she put her cigarette to her lips. +Robert was watching them both. + +Josephine took her cigarette from her lips again. + +“Tell us about yourself, Mr. Sisson,” she said. “How do you like being +in London?” + +“I like London,” said Aaron. + +Where did he live? Bloomsbury. Did he know many people? No--nobody +except a man in the orchestra. How had he got his job? Through an agent. +Etc. Etc. + +“What do you make of the miners?” said Jim, suddenly taking a new line. + +“Me?” said Sisson. “I don't make anything of them.” + +“Do you think they'll make a stand against the government?” + +“What for?” + +“Nationalisation.” + +“They might, one day.” + +“Think they'd fight?” + +“Fight?” + +“Yes.” + +Aaron sat laughing. + +“What have they to fight for?” + +“Why, everything! What haven't they to fight for?” cried Josephine +fiercely. “Freedom, liberty, and escape from this vile system. Won't +they fight for that?” + +Aaron sat smiling, slowly shaking his head. + +“Nay,” he said, “you mustn't ask me what they'll do--I've only just left +them, for good. They'll do a lot of cavilling.” + +“But won't they ACT?” cried Josephine. + +“Act?” said Aaron. “How, act?” + +“Why, defy the government, and take things in their own hands,” said +Josephine. + +“They might, some time,” said Aaron, rather indifferent. + +“I wish they would!” cried Josephine. “My, wouldn't I love it if they'd +make a bloody revolution!” + +They were all looking now at her. Her black brows were twitching, in her +black and silver dress she looked like a symbol of young disaster. + +“Must it be bloody, Josephine?” said Robert. + +“Why, yes. I don't believe in revolutions that aren't bloody,” said +Josephine. “Wouldn't I love it! I'd go in front with a red flag.” + +“It would be rather fun,” said Tanny. + +“Wouldn't it!” cried Josephine. + +“Oh, Josey, dear!” cried Julia hysterically. “Isn't she a red-hot +Bolsher! _I_ should be frightened.” + +“No!” cried Josephine. “I should love it.” + +“So should I,” said Jim, in a luscious sort of voice. “What price +machine-guns at the end of the Strand! That's a day to live for, what?” + +“Ha! Ha!” laughed Clariss, with her deep laugh. “We'd all Bolsh +together. I'd give the cheers.” + +“I wouldn't mind getting killed. I'd love it, in a real fight,” said +Josephine. + +“But, Josephine,” said Robert, “don't you think we've had enough of that +sort of thing in the war? Don't you think it all works out rather stupid +and unsatisfying?” + +“Ah, but a civil war would be different. I've no interest in fighting +Germans. But a civil war would be different.” + +“That's a fact, it would,” said Jim. + +“Only rather worse,” said Robert. + +“No, I don't agree,” cried Josephine. “You'd feel you were doing +something, in a civil war.” + +“Pulling the house down,” said Lilly. + +“Yes,” she cried. “Don't you hate it, the house we live +in--London--England--America! Don't you hate them?” + +“I don't like them. But I can't get much fire in my hatred. They pall on +me rather,” said Lilly. + +“Ay!” said Aaron, suddenly stirring in his chair. + +Lilly and he glanced at one another with a look of recognition. + +“Still,” said Tanny, “there's got to be a clearance some day or other.” + +“Oh,” drawled Clariss. “I'm all for a clearance. I'm all for pulling the +house down. Only while it stands I do want central heating and a good +cook.” + +“May I come to dinner?” said Jim. + +“Oh, yes. You'd find it rather domestic.” + +“Where do you live?” + +“Rather far out now--Amersham.” + +“Amersham? Where's that--?” + +“Oh, it's on the map.” + +There was a little lull. Jim gulped down a drink, standing at the +sideboard. He was a tall, fine, soldierly figure, and his face, with +its little sandy moustache and bald forehead, was odd. Aaron Sisson sat +watching him, unconsciously. + +“Hello you!” said Jim. “Have one?” + +Aaron shook his head, and Jim did not press him. It saved the drinks. + +“You believe in love, don't you?” said Jim, sitting down near Aaron, and +grinning at him. + +“Love!” said Aaron. + +“LOVE! he says,” mocked Jim, grinning at the company. + +“What about it, then?” asked Aaron. + +“It's life! Love is life,” said Jim fiercely. + +“It's a vice, like drink,” said Lilly. + +“Eh? A vice!” said Jim. “May be for you, old bird.” + +“More so still for you,” said Lilly. + +“It's life. It's life!” reiterated Jim. “Don't you agree?” He turned +wolfishly to Clariss. + +“Oh, yes--every time--” she drawled, nonchalant. + +“Here, let's write it down,” said Lilly. He found a blue pencil and +printed in large letters on the old creamy marble of the mantel-piece +panel:--LOVE IS LIFE. + +Julia suddenly rose and flung her arms asunder wildly. + +“Oh, I hate love. I hate it,” she protested. + +Jim watched her sardonically. + +“Look at her!” he said. “Look at Lesbia who hates love.” + +“No, but perhaps it is a disease. Perhaps we are all wrong, and we can't +love properly,” put in Josephine. + +“Have another try,” said Jim,--“I know what love is. I've thought about +it. Love is the soul's respiration.” + +“Let's have that down,” said Lilly. + +LOVE IS THE SOUL'S RESPIRATION. He printed it on the old mantel-piece. + +Jim eyed the letters. + +“It's right,” he said. “Quite right. When you love, your soul breathes +in. If you don't breathe in, you suffocate.” + +“What about breathing out?” said Robert. “If you don't breathe out, you +asphyxiate.” + +“Right you are, Mock Turtle--” said Jim maliciously. + +“Breathing out is a bloody revolution,” said Lilly. + +“You've hit the nail on the head,” said Jim solemnly. + +“Let's record it then,” said Lilly. And with the blue pencil he printed: + +WHEN YOU LOVE, YOUR SOUL BREATHES IN-- + +WHEN YOUR SOUL BREATHES OUT, IT'S A BLOODY REVOLUTION. + +“I say Jim,” he said. “You must be busting yourself, trying to breathe +in.” + +“Don't you be too clever. I've thought about it,” said Jim. “When I'm in +love, I get a great inrush of energy. I actually feel it rush in--here!” + He poked his finger on the pit of his stomach. “It's the soul's +expansion. And if I can't get these rushes of energy, I'M DYING, AND I +KNOW I AM.” + +He spoke the last words with sudden ferocity and desperation. + +“All _I_ know is,” said Tanny, “you don't look it.” + +“I AM. I am.” Jim protested. “I'm dying. Life's leaving me.” + +“Maybe you're choking with love,” said Robert. “Perhaps you have +breathed in so much, you don't know how to let it go again. Perhaps your +soul's got a crick in it, with expanding so much.” + +“You're a bloody young sucking pig, you are,” said Jim. + +“Even at that age, I've learned my manners,” replied Robert. + +Jim looked round the party. Then he turned to Aaron Sisson. + +“What do you make of 'em, eh?” he said. + +Aaron shook his head, and laughed. + +“Me?” he said. + +But Jim did not wait for an answer. + +“I've had enough,” said Tanny suddenly rising. “I think you're all +silly. Besides, it's getting late.” + +“She!” said Jim, rising and pointing luridly to Clariss. “She's Love. +And HE's the Working People. The hope is these two--” He jerked a thumb +at Aaron Sisson, after having indicated Mrs. Browning. + +“Oh, how awfully interesting. It's quite a long time since I've been a +personification.--I suppose you've never been one before?” said Clariss, +turning to Aaron in conclusion. + +“No, I don't think I have,” he answered. + +“I hope personification is right.--Ought to be _allegory_ or something +else?” This from Clariss to Robert. + +“Or a parable, Clariss,” laughed the young lieutenant. + +“Goodbye,” said Tanny. “I've been awfully bored.” + +“Have you?” grinned Jim. “Goodbye! Better luck next time.” + +“We'd better look sharp,” said Robert, “if we want to get the tube.” + +The party hurried through the rainy narrow streets down to the +Embankment station. Robert and Julia and Clariss were going west, Lilly +and his wife were going to Hampstead, Josephine and Aaron Sisson were +going both to Bloomsbury. + +“I suppose,” said Robert, on the stairs--“Mr. Sisson will see you to +your door, Josephine. He lives your way.” + +“There's no need at all,” said Josephine. + +The four who were going north went down to the low tube level. It +was nearly the last train. The station was half deserted, half rowdy, +several fellows were drunk, shouting and crowing. Down there in the +bowels of London, after midnight, everything seemed horrible and +unnatural. + +“How I hate this London,” said Tanny. She was half Norwegian, and had +spent a large part of her life in Norway, before she married Lilly. + +“Yes, so do I,” said Josephine. “But if one must earn one's living one +must stay here. I wish I could get back to Paris. But there's nothing +doing for me in France.--When do you go back into the country, both of +you?” + +“Friday,” said Lilly. + +“How lovely for you!--And when will you go to Norway, Tanny?” + +“In about a month,” said Tanny. + +“You must be awfully pleased.” + +“Oh--thankful--THANKFUL to get out of England--” + +“I know. That's how I feel. Everything is so awful--so dismal and +dreary, I find it--” + +They crowded into the train. Men were still yelling like wild +beasts--others were asleep--soldiers were singing. + +“Have you really broken your engagement with Jim?” shrilled Tanny in a +high voice, as the train roared. + +“Yes, he's impossible,” said Josephine. “Perfectly hysterical and +impossible.” + +“And SELFISH--” cried Tanny. + +“Oh terribly--” cried Josephine. + +“Come up to Hampstead to lunch with us,” said Lilly to Aaron. + +“Ay--thank you,” said Aaron. + +Lilly scribbled directions on a card. The hot, jaded midnight +underground rattled on. Aaron and Josephine got down to change trains. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. THE DARK SQUARE GARDEN + + +Josephine had invited Aaron Sisson to dinner at a restaurant in Soho, +one Sunday evening. They had a corner to themselves, and with a bottle +of Burgundy she was getting his history from him. + +His father had been a shaft-sinker, earning good money, but had been +killed by a fall down the shaft when Aaron was only four years old. The +widow had opened a shop: Aaron was her only child. She had done well +in her shop. She had wanted Aaron to be a schoolteacher. He had served +three years apprenticeship, then suddenly thrown it up and gone to the +pit. + +“But why?” said Josephine. + +“I couldn't tell you. I felt more like it.” + +He had a curious quality of an intelligent, almost sophisticated mind, +which had repudiated education. On purpose he kept the midland accent in +his speech. He understood perfectly what a personification was--and an +allegory. But he preferred to be illiterate. + +Josephine found out what a miner's checkweighman was. She tried to find +out what sort of wife Aaron had--but, except that she was the daughter +of a publican and was delicate in health, she could learn nothing. + +“And do you send her money?” she asked. + +“Ay,” said Aaron. “The house is mine. And I allow her so much a week out +of the money in the bank. My mother left me a bit over a thousand when +she died.” + +“You don't mind what I say, do you?” said Josephine. + +“No I don't mind,” he laughed. + +He had this pleasant-seeming courteous manner. But he really kept her +at a distance. In some things he reminded her of Robert: blond, erect, +nicely built, fresh and English-seeming. But there was a curious cold +distance to him, which she could not get across. An inward indifference +to her--perhaps to everything. Yet his laugh was so handsome. + +“Will you tell me why you left your wife and children?--Didn't you love +them?” + +Aaron looked at the odd, round, dark muzzle of the girl. She had had her +hair bobbed, and it hung in odd dark folds, very black, over her ears. + +“Why I left her?” he said. “For no particular reason. They're all right +without me.” + +Josephine watched his face. She saw a pallor of suffering under its +freshness, and a strange tension in his eyes. + +“But you couldn't leave your little girls for no reason at all--” + +“Yes, I did. For no reason--except I wanted to have some free room round +me--to loose myself--” + +“You mean you wanted love?” flashed Josephine, thinking he said _lose_. + +“No, I wanted fresh air. I don't know what I wanted. Why should I know?” + +“But we must know: especially when other people will be hurt,” said she. + +“Ah, well! A breath of fresh air, by myself. I felt forced to feel--I +feel if I go back home now, I shall be FORCED--forced to love--or +care--or something.” + +“Perhaps you wanted more than your wife could give you,” she said. + +“Perhaps less. She's made up her mind she loves me, and she's not going +to let me off.” + +“Did you never love her?” said Josephine. + +“Oh, yes. I shall never love anybody else. But I'm damned if I want to +be a lover any more. To her or to anybody. That's the top and bottom of +it. I don't want to CARE, when care isn't in me. And I'm not going to be +forced to it.” + +The fat, aproned French waiter was hovering near. Josephine let him +remove the plates and the empty bottle. + +“Have more wine,” she said to Aaron. + +But he refused. She liked him because of his dead-level indifference to +his surroundings. French waiters and foreign food--he noticed them in +his quick, amiable-looking fashion--but he was indifferent. Josephine +was piqued. She wanted to pierce this amiable aloofness of his. + +She ordered coffee and brandies. + +“But you don't want to get away from EVERYTHING, do you? I myself feel +so LOST sometimes--so dreadfully alone: not in a silly sentimental +fashion, because men keep telling me they love me, don't you know. But +my LIFE seems alone, for some reason--” + +“Haven't you got relations?” he said. + +“No one, now mother is dead. Nothing nearer than aunts and cousins in +America. I suppose I shall see them all again one day. But they hardly +count over here.” + +“Why don't you get married?” he said. “How old are you?” + +“I'm twenty-five. How old are you?” + +“Thirty-three.” + +“You might almost be any age.--I don't know why I don't get married. In +a way, I hate earning my own living--yet I go on--and I like my work--” + +“What are you doing now?” + +“I'm painting scenery for a new play--rather fun--I enjoy it. But I +often wonder what will become of me.” + +“In what way?” + +She was almost affronted. + +“What becomes of me? Oh, I don't know. And it doesn't matter, not to +anybody but myself.” + +“What becomes of anybody, anyhow? We live till we die. What do you +want?” + +“Why, I keep saying I want to get married and feel sure of something. +But I don't know--I feel dreadful sometimes--as if every minute would +be the last. I keep going on and on--I don't know what for--and IT keeps +going on and on--goodness knows what it's all for.” + +“You shouldn't bother yourself,” he said. “You should just let it go on +and on--” + +“But I MUST bother,” she said. “I must think and feel--” + +“You've no occasion,” he said. + +“How--?” she said, with a sudden grunting, unhappy laugh. Then she lit a +cigarette. + +“No,” she said. “What I should really like more than anything would be +an end of the world. I wish the world would come to an end.” + +He laughed, and poured his drops of brandy down his throat. + +“It won't, for wishing,” he said. + +“No, that's the awful part of it. It'll just go on and on-- Doesn't it +make you feel you'd go mad?” + +He looked at her and shook his head. + +“You see it doesn't concern me,” he said. “So long as I can float by +myself.” + +“But ARE you SATISFIED!” she cried. + +“I like being by myself--I hate feeling and caring, and being forced +into it. I want to be left alone--” + +“You aren't very polite to your hostess of the evening,” she said, +laughing a bit miserably. + +“Oh, we're all right,” he said. “You know what I mean--” + +“You like your own company? Do you?--Sometimes I think I'm nothing when +I'm alone. Sometimes I think I surely must be nothing--nothingness.” + +He shook his head. + +“No,” he said. “No. I only want to be left alone.” + +“Not to have anything to do with anybody?” she queried ironically. + +“Not to any extent.” + +She watched him--and then she bubbled with a laugh. + +“I think you're funny,” she said. “You don't mind?” + +“No--why--It's just as you see it.--Jim Bricknell's a rare comic, to my +eye.” + +“Oh, him!--no, not actually. He's self-conscious and selfish and +hysterical. It isn't a bit funny after a while.” + +“I only know what I've seen,” said Aaron. “You'd both of you like a +bloody revolution, though.” + +“Yes. Only when it came he wouldn't be there.” + +“Would you?” + +“Yes, indeed I would. I would give everything to be in it. I'd give +heaven and earth for a great big upheaval--and then darkness.” + +“Perhaps you'll get it, when you die,” said Aaron. + +“Oh, but I don't want to die and leave all this standing. I hate it so.” + +“Why do you?” + +“But don't you?” + +“No, it doesn't really bother me.” + +“It makes me feel I can't live.” + +“I can't see that.” + +“But you always disagree with one!” said Josephine. “How do you like +Lilly? What do you think of him?” + +“He seems sharp,” said Aaron. + +“But he's more than sharp.” + +“Oh, yes! He's got his finger in most pies.” + +“And doesn't like the plums in any of them,” said Josephine tartly. + +“What does he do?” + +“Writes--stories and plays.” + +“And makes it pay?” + +“Hardly at all.--They want us to go. Shall we?” She rose from the table. +The waiter handed her her cloak, and they went out into the blowy dark +night. She folded her wrap round her, and hurried forward with short, +sharp steps. There was a certain Parisian _chic_ and mincingness about +her, even in her walk: but underneath, a striding, savage suggestion as +if she could leg it in great strides, like some savage squaw. + +Aaron pressed his bowler hat down on his brow. + +“Would you rather take a bus?” she said in a high voice, because of the +wind. + +“I'd rather walk.” + +“So would I.” + +They hurried across the Charing Cross Road, where great buses rolled and +rocked, crammed with people. Her heels clicked sharply on the pavement, +as they walked east. They crossed Holborn, and passed the Museum. And +neither of them said anything. + +When they came to the corner, she held out her hand. + +“Look!” she said. “Don't come any further: don't trouble.” + +“I'll walk round with you: unless you'd rather not.” + +“No--But do you want to bother?” + +“It's no bother.” + +So they pursued their way through the high wind, and turned at last +into the old, beautiful square. It seemed dark and deserted, dark like +a savage wilderness in the heart of London. The wind was roaring in the +great bare trees of the centre, as if it were some wild dark grove deep +in a forgotten land. + +Josephine opened the gate of the square garden with her key, and let it +slam to behind him. + +“How wonderful the wind is!” she shrilled. “Shall we listen to it for a +minute?” + +She led him across the grass past the shrubs to the big tree in the +centre. There she climbed up to a seat. He sat beside her. They sat in +silence, looking at the darkness. Rain was blowing in the wind. They +huddled against the big tree-trunk, for shelter, and watched the scene. + +Beyond the tall shrubs and the high, heavy railings the wet street +gleamed silently. The houses of the Square rose like a cliff on this +inner dark sea, dimly lighted at occasional windows. Boughs swayed and +sang. A taxi-cab swirled round a corner like a cat, and purred to a +standstill. There was a light of an open hall door. But all far away, +it seemed, unthinkably far away. Aaron sat still and watched. He was +frightened, it all seemed so sinister, this dark, bristling heart of +London. Wind boomed and tore like waves ripping a shingle beach. The two +white lights of the taxi stared round and departed, leaving the coast +at the foot of the cliffs deserted, faintly spilled with light from the +high lamp. Beyond there, on the outer rim, a policeman passed solidly. + +Josephine was weeping steadily all the time, but inaudibly. Occasionally +she blew her nose and wiped her face. But he had not realized. She +hardly realized herself. She sat near the strange man. He seemed so +still and remote--so fascinating. + +“Give me your hand,” she said to him, subduedly. + +He took her cold hand in his warm, living grasp. She wept more bitterly. +He noticed at last. + +“Why are you crying?” he said. + +“I don't know,” she replied, rather matter-of-fact, through her tears. + +So he let her cry, and said no more, but sat with her cold hand in his +warm, easy clasp. + +“You'll think me a fool,” she said. “I don't know why I cry.” + +“You can cry for nothing, can't you?” he said. + +“Why, yes, but it's not very sensible.” + +He laughed shortly. + +“Sensible!” he said. + +“You are a strange man,” she said. + +But he took no notice. + +“Did you ever intend to marry Jim Bricknell?” he asked. + +“Yes, of course.” + +“I can't imagine it,” he said. + +“Why not?” + +Both were watching blankly the roaring night of mid-London, the +phantasmagoric old Bloomsbury Square. They were still hand in hand. + +“Such as you shouldn't marry,” he said. + +“But why not? I want to.” + +“You think you do.” + +“Yes indeed I do.” + +He did not say any more. + +“Why shouldn't I?” she persisted. “I don't know--” + +And again he was silent. + +“You've known some life, haven't you?” he asked. + +“Me? Why?” + +“You seem to.” + +“Do I? I'm sorry. Do I seem vicious?--No, I'm not vicious.--I've seen +some life, perhaps--in Paris mostly. But not much. Why do you ask?” + +“I wasn't thinking.” + +“But what do you mean? What are you thinking?” + +“Nothing. Nothing.” + +“Don't be so irritating,” said she. + +But he did not answer, and she became silent also. They sat hand in +hand. + +“Won't you kiss me?” came her voice out of the darkness. + +He waited some moments, then his voice sounded gently, half mocking, +half reproachful. + +“Nay!” he said. + +“Why not?” + +“I don't want to.” + +“Why not?” she asked. + +He laughed, but did not reply. + +She sat perfectly still for some time. She had ceased to cry. In the +darkness her face was set and sullen. Sometimes a spray of rain blew +across it. She drew her hand from his, and rose to her feet. + +“Ill go in now,” she said. + +“You're not offended, are you?” he asked. + +“No. Why?” + +They stepped down in the darkness from their perch. + +“I wondered.” + +She strode off for some little way. Then she turned and said: + +“Yes, I think it is rather insulting.” + +“Nay,” he said. “Not it! Not it!” + +And he followed her to the gate. + +She opened with her key, and they crossed the road to her door. + +“Good-night,” she said, turning and giving him her hand. + +“You'll come and have dinner with me--or lunch--will you? When shall we +make it?” he asked. + +“Well, I can't say for certain--I'm very busy just now. I'll let you +know.” + +A policeman shed his light on the pair of them as they stood on the +step. + +“All right,” said Aaron, dropping back, and she hastily opened the big +door, and entered. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. A PUNCH IN THE WIND + + +The Lillys had a labourer's cottage in Hampshire--pleasant enough. They +were poor. Lilly was a little, dark, thin, quick fellow, his wife was +strong and fair. They had known Robert and Julia for some years, but +Josephine and Jim were new acquaintances,--fairly new. + +One day in early spring Lilly had a telegram, “Coming to see you arrive +4:30--Bricknell.” He was surprised, but he and his wife got the spare +room ready. And at four o'clock Lilly went off to the station. He was +a few minutes late, and saw Jim's tall, rather elegant figure stalking +down the station path. Jim had been an officer in the regular army, and +still spent hours with his tailor. But instead of being a soldier he was +a sort of socialist, and a red-hot revolutionary of a very ineffectual +sort. + +“Good lad!” he exclaimed, as Lilly came up. “Thought you wouldn't mind.” + +“Not at all. Let me carry your bag.” Jim had a bag and a knapsack. + +“I had an inspiration this morning,” said Jim. “I suddenly saw that if +there was a man in England who could save me, it was you.” + +“Save you from what?” asked Lilly, rather abashed. + +“Eh--?” and Jim stooped, grinning at the smaller man. + +Lilly was somewhat puzzled, but he had a certain belief in himself as a +saviour. The two men tramped rather incongruously through the lanes to +the cottage. + +Tanny was in the doorway as they came up the garden path. + +“So nice to see you! Are you all right?” she said. + +“A-one!” said Jim, grinning. “Nice of you to have me.” + +“Oh, we're awfully pleased.” + +Jim dropped his knapsack on the broad sofa. + +“I've brought some food,” he said. + +“Have you! That's sensible of you. We can't get a great deal here, +except just at week-ends,” said Tanny. + +Jim fished out a pound of sausages and a pot of fish paste. + +“How lovely the sausages,” said Tanny. “We'll have them for dinner +tonight--and we'll have the other for tea now. You'd like a wash?” + +But Jim had already opened his bag, taken off his coat, and put on an +old one. + +“Thanks,” he said. + +Lilly made the tea, and at length all sat down. + +“Well how unexpected this is--and how nice,” said Tanny. + +“Jolly--eh?” said Jim. + +He ate rapidly, stuffing his mouth too full. + +“How is everybody?” asked Tanny. + +“All right. Julia's gone with Cyril Scott. Can't stand that fellow, can +you? What?” + +“Yes, I think he's rather nice,” said Tanny. “What will Robert do?” + +“Have a shot at Josephine, apparently.” + +“Really? Is he in love with her? I thought so. And she likes him too, +doesn't she?” said Tanny. + +“Very likely,” said Jim. + +“I suppose you're jealous,” laughed Tanny. + +“Me!” Jim shook his head. “Not a bit. Like to see the ball kept +rolling.” + +“What have you been doing lately?” + +“Been staying a few days with my wife.” + +“No, really! I can't believe it.” + +Jim had a French wife, who had divorced him, and two children. Now he +was paying visits to this wife again: purely friendly. Tanny did most +of the talking. Jim excited her, with his way of looking in her face and +grinning wolfishly, and at the same time asking to be saved. + +After tea, he wanted to send telegrams, so Lilly took him round to the +village post-office. Telegrams were a necessary part of his life. He had +to be suddenly starting off to keep sudden appointments, or he felt he +was a void in the atmosphere. He talked to Lilly about social reform, +and so on. Jim's work in town was merely nominal. He spent his time +wavering about and going to various meetings, philandering and weeping. + +Lilly kept in the back of his mind the Saving which James had come to +look for. He intended to do his best. After dinner the three sat cosily +round the kitchen fire. + +“But what do you really think will happen to the world?” Lilly asked +Jim, amid much talk. + +“What? There's something big coming,” said Jim. + +“Where from?” + +“Watch Ireland, and watch Japan--they're the two poles of the world,” + said Jim. + +“I thought Russia and America,” said Lilly. + +“Eh? What? Russia and America! They'll depend on Ireland and Japan. I +know it. I've had a vision of it. Ireland on this side and Japan on the +other--they'll settle it.” + +“I don't see how,” said Lilly. + +“I don't see HOW--But I had a vision of it.” + +“What sort of vision?” + +“Couldn't describe it.” + +“But you don't think much of the Japanese, do you?” asked Lilly. + +“Don't I! Don't I!” said Jim. “What, don't you think they're wonderful?” + +“No. I think they're rather unpleasant.” + +“I think the salvation of the world lies with them.” + +“Funny salvation,” said Lilly. “I think they're anything but angels.” + +“Do you though? Now that's funny. Why?” + +“Looking at them even. I knew a Russian doctor who'd been through the +Russo-Japanese war, and who had gone a bit cracked. He said he saw the +Japs rush a trench. They threw everything away and flung themselves +through the Russian fire and simply dropped in masses. But those that +reached the trenches jumped in with bare hands on the Russians and tore +their faces apart and bit their throats out--fairly ripped the faces +off the bone.--It had sent the doctor a bit cracked. He said the wounded +were awful,--their faces torn off and their throats mangled--and dead +Japs with flesh between the teeth--God knows if it's true. But that's +the impression the Japanese had made on this man. It had affected his +mind really.” + +Jim watched Lilly, and smiled as if he were pleased. + +“No--really--!” he said. + +“Anyhow they're more demon than angel, I believe,” said Lilly. + +“Oh, no, Rawdon, but you always exaggerate,” said Tanny. + +“Maybe,” said Lilly. + +“I think Japanese are fascinating--fascinating--so quick, and such FORCE +in them--” + +“Rather!--eh?” said Jim, looking with a quick smile at Tanny. + +“I think a Japanese lover would be marvellous,” she laughed riskily. + +“I s'd think he would,” said Jim, screwing up his eyes. + +“Do you hate the normal British as much as I do?” she asked him. + +“Hate them! Hate them!” he said, with an intimate grin. + +“Their beastly virtue,” said she. “And I believe there's nobody more +vicious underneath.” + +“Nobody!” said Jim. + +“But you're British yourself,” said Lilly to Jim. + +“No, I'm Irish. Family's Irish--my mother was a Fitz-patrick.” + +“Anyhow you live in England.” + +“Because they won't let me go to Ireland.” + +The talk drifted. Jim finished up all the beer, and they prepared to go +to bed. Jim was a bit tipsy, grinning. He asked for bread and cheese to +take upstairs. + +“Will you have supper?” said Lilly. He was surprised, because Jim had +eaten strangely much at dinner. + +“No--where's the loaf?” And he cut himself about half of it. There was +no cheese. + +“Bread'll do,” said Jim. + +“Sit down and eat it. Have cocoa with it,” said Tanny. + +“No, I like to have it in my bedroom.” + +“You don't eat bread in the night?” said Lilly. + +“I do.” + +“What a funny thing to do.” + +The cottage was in darkness. The Lillys slept soundly. Jim woke up and +chewed bread and slept again. In the morning at dawn he rose and went +downstairs. Lilly heard him roaming about--heard the woman come in +to clean--heard them talking. So he got up to look after his visitor, +though it was not seven o'clock, and the woman was busy.--But before he +went down, he heard Jim come upstairs again. + +Mrs. Short was busy in the kitchen when Lilly went down. + +“The other gentleman have been down, Sir,” said Mrs. Short. “He asked me +where the bread and butter were, so I said should I cut him a piece. But +he wouldn't let me do it. I gave him a knife and he took it for himself, +in the pantry.” + +“I say, Bricknell,” said Lilly at breakfast time, “why do you eat so +much bread?” + +“I've got to feed up. I've been starved during this damned war.” + +“But hunks of bread won't feed you up.” + +“Gives the stomach something to work at, and prevents it grinding on the +nerves,” said Jim. + +“But surely you don't want to keep your stomach always full and heavy.” + +“I do, my boy. I do. It needs keeping solid. I'm losing life, if I +don't. I tell you I'm losing life. Let me put something inside me.” + +“I don't believe bread's any use.” + +During breakfast Jim talked about the future of the world. + +“I reckon Christ's the finest thing time has ever produced,” said he; +“and will remain it.” + +“But you don't want crucifixions _ad infinitum_,” said Lilly. + +“What? Why not?” + +“Once is enough--and have done.” + +“Don't you think love and sacrifice are the finest things in life?” said +Jim, over his bacon. + +“Depends WHAT love, and what sacrifice,” said Lilly. “If I really +believe in an Almighty God, I am willing to sacrifice for Him. That is, +I'm willing to yield my own personal interest to the bigger creative +interest.--But it's obvious Almighty God isn't mere Love.” + +“I think it is. Love and only love,” said Jim. “I think the greatest joy +is sacrificing oneself to love.” + +“To SOMEONE you love, you mean,” said Tanny. + +“No I don't. I don't mean someone at all. I mean love--love--love. I +sacrifice myself to love. I reckon that's the highest man is capable +of.” + +“But you can't sacrifice yourself to an abstract principle,” said Tanny. + +“That's just what you can do. And that's the beauty of it. Who +represents the principle doesn't matter. Christ is the principle of +love,” said Jim. + +“But no!” said Tanny. “It MUST be more individual. It must be SOMEBODY +you love, not abstract love in itself. How can you sacrifice yourself to +an abstraction.” + +“Ha, I think Love and your Christ detestable,” said Lilly--“a sheer +ignominy.” + +“Finest thing the world has produced,” said Jim. + +“No. A thing which sets itself up to be betrayed! No, it's foul. Don't +you see it's the Judas principle you really worship. Judas is the real +hero. But for Judas the whole show would have been _manque_.” + +“Oh yes,” said Jim. “Judas was inevitable. I'm not sure that Judas +wasn't the greatest of the disciples--and Jesus knew it. I'm not sure +Judas wasn't the disciple Jesus loved.” + +“Jesus certainly encouraged him in his Judas tricks,” said Tanny. + +Jim grinned knowingly at Lilly. + +“Then it was a nasty combination. And anything which turns on a Judas +climax is a dirty show, to my thinking. I think your Judas is a rotten, +dirty worm, just a dirty little self-conscious sentimental twister. And +out of all Christianity he is the hero today. When people say Christ +they mean Judas. They find him luscious on the palate. And Jesus +fostered him--” said Lilly. + +“He's a profound figure, is Judas. It's taken two thousand years to +begin to understand him,” said Jim, pushing the bread and marmalade into +his mouth. + +“A traitor is a traitor--no need to understand any further. And a system +which rests all its weight on a piece of treachery makes that treachery +not only inevitable but sacred. That's why I'm sick of Christianity.--At +any rate this modern Christ-mongery.” + +“The finest thing the world has produced, or ever will produce--Christ +and Judas--” said Jim. + +“Not to me,” said Lilly. “Foul combination.” + +It was a lovely morning in early March. Violets were out, and the first +wild anemones. The sun was quite warm. The three were about to take out +a picnic lunch. Lilly however was suffering from Jim's presence. + +“Jolly nice here,” said Jim. “Mind if I stay till Saturday?” + +There was a pause. Lilly felt he was being bullied, almost obscenely +bullied. Was he going to agree? Suddenly he looked up at Jim. + +“I'd rather you went tomorrow,” he said. + +Tanny, who was sitting opposite Jim, dropped her head in confusion. + +“What's tomorrow?” said Jim. + +“Thursday,” said Lilly. + +“Thursday,” repeated Jim. And he looked up and got Lilly's eye. He +wanted to say “Friday then?” + +“Yes, I'd rather you went Thursday,” repeated Lilly. + +“But Rawdon--!” broke in Tanny, who was suffering. She stopped, however. + +“We can walk across country with you some way if you like,” said Lilly +to Jim. It was a sort of compromise. + +“Fine!” said Jim. “We'll do that, then.” + +It was lovely sunshine, and they wandered through the woods. Between Jim +and Tanny was a sort of growing _rapprochement_, which got on Lilly's +nerves. + +“What the hell do you take that beastly personal tone for?” cried Lilly +at Tanny, as the three sat under a leafless great beech-tree. + +“But I'm not personal at all, am I, Mr. Bricknell?” said Tanny. + +Jim watched Lilly, and grinned pleasedly. + +“Why shouldn't you be, anyhow?” he said. + +“Yes!” she retorted. “Why not!” + +“Not while I'm here. I loathe the slimy creepy personal +intimacy.--'Don't you think, Mr. Bricknell, that it's lovely to be able +to talk quite simply to somebody? Oh, it's such a relief, after most +people---'” Lilly mimicked his wife's last speech savagely. + +“But I MEAN it,” cried Tanny. “It is lovely.” + +“Dirty messing,” said Lilly angrily. + +Jim watched the dark, irascible little man with amusement. They rose, +and went to look for an inn, and beer. Tanny still clung rather stickily +to Jim's side. + +But it was a lovely day, the first of all the days of spring, with +crocuses and wall-flowers in the cottage gardens, and white cocks +crowing in the quiet hamlet. + +When they got back in the afternoon to the cottage, they found a +telegram for Jim. He let the Lillys see it--“Meet you for a walk on your +return journey Lois.” At once Tanny wanted to know all about Lois. Lois +was a nice girl, well-to-do middle-class, but also an actress, and she +would do anything Jim wanted. + +“I must get a wire to her to meet me tomorrow,” he said. “Where shall I +say?” + +Lilly produced the map, and they decided on time and station at which +Lois coming out of London, should meet Jim. Then the happy pair could +walk along the Thames valley, spending a night perhaps at Marlowe, or +some such place. + +Off went Jim and Lilly once more to the postoffice. They were quite +good friends. Having so inhospitably fixed the hour of departure, +Lilly wanted to be nice. Arrived at the postoffice, they found it shut: +half-day closing for the little shop. + +“Well,” said Lilly. “We'll go to the station.” + +They proceeded to the station--found the station-master--were conducted +down to the signal-box. Lilly naturally hung back from people, but +Jim was hob-nob with the station-master and the signal man, quite +officer-and-my-men kind of thing. Lilly sat out on the steps of the +signal-box, rather ashamed, while the long telegram was shouted over the +telephone to the junction town--first the young lady and her address, +then the message “Meet me X. station 3:40 tomorrow walk back great +pleasure Jim.” + +Anyhow that was done. They went home to tea. After tea, as the evening +fell, Lilly suggested a little stroll in the woods, while Tanny prepared +the dinner. Jim agreed, and they set out. The two men wandered through +the trees in the dusk, till they came to a bank on the farther edge of +the wood. There they sat down. + +And there Lilly said what he had to say. “As a matter of fact,” he said, +“it's nothing but love and self-sacrifice which makes you feel yourself +losing life.” + +“You're wrong. Only love brings it back--and wine. If I drink a bottle +of Burgundy I feel myself restored at the middle--right here! I feel +the energy back again. And if I can fall in love--But it's becoming so +damned hard--” + +“What, to fall in love?” asked Lilly. + +“Yes.” + +“Then why not leave off trying! What do you want to poke yourself and +prod yourself into love, for?” + +“Because I'm DEAD without it. I'm dead. I'm dying.” + +“Only because you force yourself. If you drop working yourself up--” + +“I shall die. I only live when I can fall in love. Otherwise I'm dying +by inches. Why, man, you don't know what it was like. I used to get +the most grand feelings--like a great rush of force, or light--a great +rush--right here, as I've said, at the solar plexus. And it would come +any time--anywhere--no matter where I was. And then I was all right. + +“All right for what?--for making love?” + +“Yes, man, I was.” + +“And now you aren't?--Oh, well, leave love alone, as any twopenny doctor +would tell you.” + +“No, you're off it there. It's nothing technical. Technically I can make +love as much as you like. It's nothing a doctor has any say in. It's +what I feel inside me. I feel the life going. I know it's going. I never +get those inrushes now, unless I drink a jolly lot, or if I possibly +could fall in love. Technically, I'm potent all right--oh, yes!” + +“You should leave yourself and your inrushes alone.” + +“But you can't. It's a sort of ache.” + +“Then you should stiffen your backbone. It's your backbone that matters. +You shouldn't want to abandon yourself. You shouldn't want to fling +yourself all loose into a woman's lap. You should stand by yourself and +learn to be by yourself. Why don't you be more like the Japanese you +talk about? Quiet, aloof little devils. They don't bother about being +loved. They keep themselves taut in their own selves--there, at the +bottom of the spine--the devil's own power they've got there.” + +Jim mused a bit. + +“Think they have?” he laughed. It seemed comic to him. + +“Sure! Look at them. Why can't you gather yourself there?” + +“At the tail?” + +“Yes. Hold yourself firm there.” + +Jim broke into a cackle of a laugh, and rose. The two went through +the dark woods back to the cottage. Jim staggered and stumbled like a +drunken man: or worse, like a man with locomotor ataxia: as if he had no +power in his lower limbs. + +“Walk there--!” said Lilly, finding him the smoothest bit of the +dark path. But Jim stumbled and shambled, in a state of nauseous weak +relaxation. However, they reached the cottage: and food and beer--and +Tanny, piqued with curiosity to know what the men had been saying +privately to each other. + +After dinner they sat once more talking round the fire. + +Lilly sat in a small chair facing the fire, the other two in the +armchairs on either side the hearth. + +“How nice it will be for you, walking with Lois towards London +tomorrow,” gushed Tanny sentimentally. + +“Good God!” said Lilly. “Why the dickens doesn't he walk by himself, +without wanting a woman always there, to hold his hand.” + +“Don't be so spiteful,” said Tanny. “YOU see that you have a woman +always there, to hold YOUR hand.” + +“My hand doesn't need holding,” snapped Lilly. + +“Doesn't it! More than most men's! But you're so beastly ungrateful and +mannish. Because I hold you safe enough all the time you like to pretend +you're doing it all yourself.” + +“All right. Don't drag yourself in,” said Lilly, detesting his wife +at that moment. “Anyhow,” and he turned to Jim, “it's time you'd done +slobbering yourself over a lot of little women, one after the other.” + +“Why shouldn't I, if I like it?” said Jim. + +“Yes, why not?” said Tanny. + +“Because it makes a fool of you. Look at you, stumbling and staggering +with no use in your legs. I'd be ashamed if I were you.” + +“Would you?” said Jim. + +“I would. And it's nothing but your wanting to be loved which does it. A +maudlin crying to be loved, which makes your knees all go rickety.” + +“Think that's it?” said Jim. + +“What else is it. You haven't been here a day, but you must telegraph +for some female to be ready to hold your hand the moment you go away. +And before she lets go, you'll be wiring for another. YOU WANT TO BE +LOVED, you want to be loved--a man of your years. It's disgusting--” + +“I don't see it. I believe in love--” said Jim, watching and grinning +oddly. + +“Bah, love! Messing, that's what it is. It wouldn't matter if it did +you no harm. But when you stagger and stumble down a road, out of sheer +sloppy relaxation of your will---” + +At this point Jim suddenly sprang from his chair at Lilly, and gave him +two or three hard blows with his fists, upon the front of the body. Then +he sat down in his own chair again, saying sheepishly: + +“I knew I should have to do it, if he said any more.” + +Lilly sat motionless as a statue, his face like paper. One of the blows +had caught him rather low, so that he was almost winded and could not +breathe. He sat rigid, paralysed as a winded man is. But he wouldn't let +it be seen. With all his will he prevented himself from gasping. Only +through his parted lips he drew tiny gasps, controlled, nothing revealed +to the other two. He hated them both far too much. + +For some minutes there was dead silence, whilst Lilly silently and +viciously fought for his breath. Tanny opened her eyes wide in a sort +of pleased bewilderment, and Jim turned his face aside, and hung his +clasped hands between his knees. + +“There's a great silence, suddenly!” said Tanny. + +“What is there to say?” ejaculated Lilly rapidly, with a spoonful of +breath which he managed to compress and control into speech. Then he sat +motionless again, concerned with the business of getting back his wind, +and not letting the other two see. + +Jim jerked in his chair, and looked round. + +“It isn't that I don't like the man,” he said, in a rather small voice. +“But I knew if he went on I should have to do it.” + +To Lilly, rigid and physically preoccupied, there sounded a sort of +self-consciousness in Jim's voice, as if the whole thing had been +semi-deliberate. He detected the sort of maudlin deliberateness which +goes with hysterics, and he was colder, more icy than ever. + +Tanny looked at Lilly, puzzled, bewildered, but still rather pleased, as +if she demanded an answer. None being forthcoming, she said: + +“Of course, you mustn't expect to say all those things without rousing a +man.” + +Still Lilly did not answer. Jim glanced at him, then looked at Tanny. + +“It isn't that I don't like him,” he said, slowly. “I like him better +than any man I've ever known, I believe.” He clasped his hands and +turned aside his face. + +“Judas!” flashed through Lilly's mind. + +Again Tanny looked for her husband's answer. + +“Yes, Rawdon,” she said. “You can't say the things you do without their +having an effect. You really ask for it, you know.” + +“It's no matter.” Lilly squeezed the words out coldly. “He wanted to do +it, and he did it.” + +A dead silence ensued now. Tanny looked from man to man. + +“I could feel it coming on me,” said Jim. + +“Of course!” said Tanny. “Rawdon doesn't know the things he says.” She +was pleased that he had had to pay for them, for once. + +It takes a man a long time to get his breath back, after a sharp blow in +the wind. Lilly was managing by degrees. The others no doubt attributed +his silence to deep or fierce thoughts. It was nothing of the kind, +merely a cold struggle to get his wind back, without letting them know +he was struggling: and a sheer, stock-stiff hatred of the pair of them. + +“I like the man,” said Jim. “Never liked a man more than I like him.” He +spoke as if with difficulty. + +“The man” stuck safely in Lilly's ears. + +“Oh, well,” he managed to say. “It's nothing. I've done my talking and +had an answer, for once.” + +“Yes, Rawdy, you've had an answer, for once. Usually you don't get an +answer, you know--and that's why you go so far--in the things you say. +Now you'll know how you make people feel.” + +“Quite!” said Lilly. + +“_I_ don't feel anything. I don't mind what he says,” said Jim. + +“Yes, but he ought to know the things he DOES say,” said Tanny. “He goes +on, without considering the person he's talking to. This time it's come +back on him. He mustn't say such personal things, if he's not going to +risk an answer.” + +“I don't mind what he says. I don't mind a bit,” said Jim. + +“Nor do I mind,” said Lilly indifferently. “I say what I feel--You do as +you feel--There's an end of it.” + +A sheepish sort of silence followed this speech. It was broken by a +sudden laugh from Tanny. + +“The things that happen to us!” she said, laughing rather shrilly. +“Suddenly, like a thunderbolt, we're all struck into silence!” + +“Rum game, eh!” said Jim, grinning. + +“Isn't it funny! Isn't life too funny!” She looked again at her husband. +“But, Rawdy, you must admit it was your own fault.” + +Lilly's stiff face did not change. + +“Why FAULT!” he said, looking at her coldly. “What is there to talk +about?” + +“Usually there's so much,” she said sarcastically. + +A few phrases dribbled out of the silence. In vain Jim, tried to get +Lilly to thaw, and in vain Tanny gave her digs at her husband. Lilly's +stiff, inscrutable face did not change, he was polite and aloof. So they +all went to bed. + +In the morning, the walk was to take place, as arranged, Lilly and Tanny +accompanying Jim to the third station across country. The morning was +lovely, the country beautiful. Lilly liked the countryside and enjoyed +the walk. But a hardness inside himself never relaxed. Jim talked +a little again about the future of the world, and a higher state of +Christlikeness in man. But Lilly only laughed. Then Tanny managed to +get ahead with Jim, sticking to his side and talking sympathetic +personalities. But Lilly, feeling it from afar, ran after them and +caught them up. They were silent. + +“What was the interesting topic?” he said cuttingly. + +“Nothing at all!” said Tanny, nettled. “Why must you interfere?” + +“Because I intend to,” said Lilly. + +And the two others fell apart, as if severed with a knife. Jim walked +rather sheepishly, as if cut out. + +So they came at last past the canals to the wayside station: and at last +Jim's train came. They all said goodbye. Jim and Tanny were both waiting +for Lilly to show some sign of real reconciliation. But none came. He +was cheerful and aloof. + +“Goodbye,” he said to Jim. “Hope Lois will be there all right. Third +station on. Goodbye! Goodbye!” + +“You'll come to Rackham?” said Jim, leaning out of the train. + +“We should love to,” called Tanny, after the receding train. + +“All right,” said Lilly, non-committal. + +But he and his wife never saw Jim again. Lilly never intended to see +him: a devil sat in the little man's breast. + +“You shouldn't play at little Jesus, coming so near to people, wanting +to help them,” was Tanny's last word. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. LOW-WATER MARK + + +Tanny went away to Norway to visit her people, for the first time for +three years. Lilly did not go: he did not want to. He came to London +and settled in a room over Covent Garden market. The room was high up, a +fair size, and stood at the corner of one of the streets and the market +itself, looking down on the stalls and the carts and the arcade. Lilly +would climb out of the window and sit for hours watching the behaviour +of the great draught-horses which brought the mountains of boxes and +vegetables. Funny half-human creatures they seemed, so massive and +fleshy, yet so Cockney. There was one which could not bear donkeys, +and which used to stretch out its great teeth like some massive serpent +after every poor diminutive ass that came with a coster's barrow. +Another great horse could not endure standing. It would shake itself +and give little starts, and back into the heaps of carrots and broccoli, +whilst the driver went into a frenzy of rage. + +There was always something to watch. One minute it was two great loads +of empty crates, which in passing had got entangled, and reeled, leaning +to fall disastrously. Then the drivers cursed and swore and dismounted +and stared at their jeopardised loads: till a thin fellow was persuaded +to scramble up the airy mountains of cages, like a monkey. And he +actually managed to put them to rights. Great sigh of relief when the +vans rocked out of the market. + +Again there was a particular page-boy in buttons, with a round and perky +behind, who nimbly carried a tea-tray from somewhere to somewhere, under +the arches beside the market. The great brawny porters would tease him, +and he would stop to give them cheek. One afternoon a giant lunged after +him: the boy darted gracefully among the heaps of vegetables, still +bearing aloft his tea-tray, like some young blue-buttoned acolyte +fleeing before a false god. The giant rolled after him--when alas, the +acolyte of the tea-tray slipped among the vegetables, and down came the +tray. Then tears, and a roar of unfeeling mirth from the giants. Lilly +felt they were going to make it up to him. + +Another afternoon a young swell sauntered persistently among the +vegetables, and Lilly, seated in his high little balcony, wondered why. +But at last, a taxi, and a very expensive female, in a sort of silver +brocade gown and a great fur shawl and ospreys in her bonnet. Evidently +an assignation. Yet what could be more conspicuous than this elegant +pair, picking their way through the cabbage-leaves? + +And then, one cold grey afternoon in early April, a man in a black +overcoat and a bowler hat, walking uncertainly. Lilly had risen and was +just retiring out of the chill, damp air. For some reason he lingered to +watch the figure. The man was walking east. He stepped rather insecurely +off the pavement, and wavered across the setts between the wheels of the +standing vans. And suddenly he went down. Lilly could not see him on the +ground, but he saw some van-men go forward, and he saw one of them pick +up the man's hat. + +“I'd better go down,” said Lilly to himself. + +So he began running down the four long flights of stone stairs, past +the many doors of the multifarious business premises, and out into the +market. A little crowd had gathered, and a large policeman was just +rowing into the centre of the interest. Lilly, always a hoverer on the +edge of public commotions, hung now hesitating on the outskirts of the +crowd. + +“What is it?” he said, to a rather sniffy messenger boy. + +“Drunk,” said the messenger boy: except that, in unblushing cockney, he +pronounced it “Drank.” + +Lilly hung further back on the edge of the little crowd. + +“Come on here. Where d' you want to go?” he heard the hearty tones of +the policeman. + +“I'm all right. I'm all right,” came the testy drunken answer. + +“All right, are yer! All right, and then some,--come on, get on your +pins.” + +“I'm all right! I'm all right.” + +The voice made Lilly peer between the people. And sitting on the granite +setts, being hauled up by a burly policeman, he saw our acquaintance +Aaron, very pale in the face and a little dishevelled. + +“Like me to tuck the sheets round you, shouldn't you? Fancy yourself +snug in bed, don't you? You won't believe you're right in the way of +traffic, will you now, in Covent Garden Market? Come on, we'll see to +you.” And the policeman hoisted the bitter and unwilling Aaron. + +Lilly was quickly at the centre of the affair, unobtrusive like a +shadow, different from the other people. + +“Help him up to my room, will you?” he said to the constable. “Friend of +mine.” + +The large constable looked down on the bare-headed wispy, unobtrusive +Lilly with good-humoured suspicion and incredulity. Lilly could not have +borne it if the policeman had uttered any of this cockney suspicion, so +he watched him. There was a great gulf between the public official and +the odd, quiet little individual--yet Lilly had his way. + +“Which room?” said the policeman, dubious. + +Lilly pointed quickly round. Then he said to Aaron: + +“Were you coming to see me, Sisson? You'll come in, won't you?” + +Aaron nodded rather stupidly and testily. His eyes looked angry. +Somebody stuck his hat on his head for him, and made him look a fool. +Lilly took it off again, and carried it for him. He turned and the crowd +eased. He watched Aaron sharply, and saw that it was with difficulty +he could walk. So he caught him by the arm on the other side from the +policeman, and they crossed the road to the pavement. + +“Not so much of this sort of thing these days,” said the policeman. + +“Not so much opportunity,” said Lilly. + +“More than there was, though. Coming back to the old days, like. Working +round, bit by bit.” + +They had arrived at the stairs. Aaron stumbled up. + +“Steady now! Steady does it!” said the policeman, steering his charge. +There was a curious breach of distance between Lilly and the constable. + +At last Lilly opened his own door. The room was pleasant. The fire +burned warm, the piano stood open, the sofa was untidy with cushions and +papers. Books and papers covered the big writing desk. Beyond the screen +made by the bookshelves and the piano were two beds, with washstand by +one of the large windows, the one through which Lilly had climbed. + +The policeman looked round curiously. + +“More cosy here than in the lock-up, sir!” he said. + +Lilly laughed. He was hastily clearing the sofa. + +“Sit on the sofa, Sisson,” he said. + +The policeman lowered his charge, with a-- + +“Right we are, then!” + +Lilly felt in his pocket, and gave the policeman half a crown. But +he was watching Aaron, who sat stupidly on the sofa, very pale and +semi-conscious. + +“Do you feel ill, Sisson?” he said sharply. + +Aaron looked back at him with heavy eyes, and shook his head slightly. + +“I believe you are,” said Lilly, taking his hand. + +“Might be a bit o' this flu, you know,” said the policeman. + +“Yes,” said Lilly. “Where is there a doctor?” he added, on reflection. + +“The nearest?” said the policeman. And he told him. “Leave a message for +you, Sir?” + +Lilly wrote his address on a card, then changed his mind. + +“No, I'll run round myself if necessary,” he said. + +And the policeman departed. + +“You'll go to bed, won't you?” said Lilly to Aaron, when the door was +shut. Aaron shook his head sulkily. + +“I would if I were you. You can stay here till you're all right. I'm +alone, so it doesn't matter.” + +But Aaron had relapsed into semi-consciousness. Lilly put the big kettle +on the gas stove, the little kettle on the fire. Then he hovered in +front of the stupefied man. He felt uneasy. Again he took Aaron's hand +and felt the pulse. + +“I'm sure you aren't well. You must go to bed,” he said. And he kneeled +and unfastened his visitor's boots. Meanwhile the kettle began to boil, +he put a hot-water bottle into the bed. + +“Let us get your overcoat off,” he said to the stupefied man. “Come +along.” And with coaxing and pulling and pushing he got off the overcoat +and coat and waistcoat. + +At last Aaron was undressed and in bed. Lilly brought him tea. With +a dim kind of obedience he took the cup and would drink. He looked at +Lilly with heavy eyes. + +“I gave in, I gave in to her, else I should ha' been all right,” he +said. + +“To whom?” said Lilly. + +“I gave in to her--and afterwards I cried, thinking of Lottie and the +children. I felt my heart break, you know. And that's what did it. I +should have been all right if I hadn't given in to her--” + +“To whom?” said Lilly. + +“Josephine. I felt, the minute I was loving her, I'd done myself. And I +had. Everything came back on me. If I hadn't given in to her, I should +ha' kept all right.” + +“Don't bother now. Get warm and still--” + +“I felt it--I felt it go, inside me, the minute I gave in to her. It's +perhaps killed me.” + +“No, not it. Never mind, be still. Be still, and you'll be all right in +the morning.” + +“It's my own fault, for giving in to her. If I'd kept myself back, my +liver wouldn't have broken inside me, and I shouldn't have been sick. +And I knew--” + +“Never mind now. Have you drunk your tea? Lie down. Lie down, and go to +sleep.” + +Lilly pushed Aaron down in the bed, and covered him over. Then he +thrust his hands under the bedclothes and felt his feet--still cold. He +arranged the water bottle. Then he put another cover on the bed. + +Aaron lay still, rather grey and peaked-looking, in a stillness that was +not healthy. For some time Lilly went about stealthily, glancing at his +patient from time to time. Then he sat down to read. + +He was roused after a time by a moaning of troubled breathing and a +fretful stirring in the bed. He went across. Aaron's eyes were open, and +dark looking. + +“Have a little hot milk,” said Lilly. + +Aaron shook his head faintly, not noticing. + +“A little Bovril?” + +The same faint shake. + +Then Lilly wrote a note for the doctor, went into the office on the same +landing, and got a clerk, who would be leaving in a few minutes, to call +with the note. When he came back he found Aaron still watching. + +“Are you here by yourself?” asked the sick man. + +“Yes. My wife's gone to Norway.” + +“For good?” + +“No,” laughed Lilly. “For a couple of months or so. She'll come back +here: unless she joins me in Switzerland or somewhere.” + +Aaron was still for a while. + +“You've not gone with her,” he said at length. + +“To see her people? No, I don't think they want me very badly--and I +didn't want very badly to go. Why should I? It's better for married +people to be separated sometimes.” + +“Ay!” said Aaron, watching the other man with fever-darkened eyes. + +“I hate married people who are two in one--stuck together like two +jujube lozenges,” said Lilly. + +“Me an' all. I hate 'em myself,” said Aaron. + +“Everybody ought to stand by themselves, in the first place--men and +women as well. They can come together, in the second place, if +they like. But nothing is any good unless each one stands alone, +intrinsically.” + +“I'm with you there,” said Aaron. “If I'd kep' myself to myself I +shouldn't be bad now--though I'm not very bad. I s'll be all right in +the morning. But I did myself in when I went with another woman. I felt +myself go--as if the bile broke inside me, and I was sick.” + +“Josephine seduced you?” laughed Lilly. + +“Ay, right enough,” replied Aaron grimly. “She won't be coming here, +will she?” + +“Not unless I ask her.” + +“You won't ask her, though?” + +“No, not if you don't want her.” + +“I don't.” + +The fever made Aaron naive and communicative, unlike himself. And he +knew he was being unlike himself, he knew that he was not in proper +control of himself, so he was unhappy, uneasy. + +“I'll stop here the night then, if you don't mind,” he said. + +“You'll have to,” said Lilly. “I've sent for the doctor. I believe +you've got the flu.” + +“Think I have?” said Aaron frightened. + +“Don't be scared,” laughed Lilly. + +There was a long pause. Lilly stood at the window looking at the +darkening market, beneath the street-lamps. + +“I s'll have to go to the hospital, if I have,” came Aaron's voice. + +“No, if it's only going to be a week or a fortnight's business, you can +stop here. I've nothing to do,” said Lilly. + +“There's no occasion for you to saddle yourself with me,” said Aaron +dejectedly. + +“You can go to your hospital if you like--or back to your lodging--if +you wish to,” said Lilly. “You can make up your mind when you see how +you are in the morning.” + +“No use going back to my lodgings,” said Aaron. + +“I'll send a telegram to your wife if you like,” said Lilly. + +Aaron was silent, dead silent, for some time. + +“Nay,” he said at length, in a decided voice. “Not if I die for it.” + +Lilly remained still, and the other man lapsed into a sort of +semi-sleep, motionless and abandoned. The darkness had fallen over +London, and away below the lamps were white. + +Lilly lit the green-shaded reading lamp over the desk. Then he stood and +looked at Aaron, who lay still, looking sick. Rather beautiful the bones +of the countenance: but the skull too small for such a heavy jaw and +rather coarse mouth. Aaron half-opened his eyes, and writhed feverishly, +as if his limbs could not be in the right place. Lilly mended the fire, +and sat down to write. Then he got up and went downstairs to unfasten +the street door, so that the doctor could walk up. The business people +had gone from their various holes, all the lower part of the tall house +was in darkness. + +Lilly waited and waited. He boiled an egg and made himself toast. Aaron +said he might eat the same. Lilly cooked another egg and took it to the +sick man. Aaron looked at it and pushed it away with nausea. He would +have some tea. So Lilly gave him tea. + +“Not much fun for you, doing this for somebody who is nothing to you,” + said Aaron. + +“I shouldn't if you were unsympathetic to me,” said Lilly. “As it is, +it's happened so, and so we'll let be.” + +“What time is it?” + +“Nearly eight o'clock.” + +“Oh, my Lord, the opera.” + +And Aaron got half out of bed. But as he sat on the bedside he knew he +could not safely get to his feet. He remained a picture of dejection. + +“Perhaps we ought to let them know,” said Lilly. + +But Aaron, blank with stupid misery, sat huddled there on the bedside +without answering. + +“Ill run round with a note,” said Lilly. “I suppose others have had flu, +besides you. Lie down!” + +But Aaron stupidly and dejectedly sat huddled on the side of the bed, +wearing old flannel pyjamas of Lilly's, rather small for him. He felt +too sick to move. + +“Lie down! Lie down!” said Lilly. “And keep still while I'm gone. I +shan't be more than ten minutes.” + +“I don't care if I die,” said Aaron. + +Lilly laughed. + +“You're a long way from dying,” said he, “or you wouldn't say it.” + +But Aaron only looked up at him with queer, far-off, haggard eyes, +something like a criminal who is just being executed. + +“Lie down!” said Lilly, pushing him gently into the bed. “You won't +improve yourself sitting there, anyhow.” + +Aaron lay down, turned away, and was quite still. Lilly quietly left the +room on his errand. + +The doctor did not come until ten o'clock: and worn out with work when +he did come. + +“Isn't there a lift in this establishment?” he said, as he groped his +way up the stone stairs. Lilly had heard him, and run down to meet him. + +The doctor poked the thermometer under Aaron's tongue and felt the +pulse. Then he asked a few questions: listened to the heart and +breathing. + +“Yes, it's the flu,” he said curtly. “Nothing to do but to keep warm in +bed and not move, and take plenty of milk and liquid nourishment. I'll +come round in the morning and give you an injection. Lungs are all right +so far.” + +“How long shall I have to be in bed?” said Aaron. + +“Oh--depends. A week at least.” + +Aaron watched him sullenly--and hated him. Lilly laughed to himself. The +sick man was like a dog that is ill but which growls from a deep corner, +and will bite if you put your hand in. He was in a state of black +depression. + +Lilly settled him down for the night, and himself went to bed. Aaron +squirmed with heavy, pained limbs, the night through, and slept and had +bad dreams. Lilly got up to give him drinks. The din in the market was +terrific before dawn, and Aaron suffered bitterly. + +In the morning he was worse. The doctor gave him injections against +pneumonia. + +“You wouldn't like me to wire to your wife?” said Lilly. + +“No,” said Aaron abruptly. “You can send me to the hospital. I'm nothing +but a piece of carrion.” + +“Carrion!” said Lilly. “Why?” + +“I know it. I feel like it.” + +“Oh, that's only the sort of nauseated feeling you get with flu.” + +“I'm only fit to be thrown underground, and made an end of. I can't +stand myself--” + +He had a ghastly, grey look of self-repulsion. + +“It's the germ that makes you feel like that,” said Lilly. “It poisons +the system for a time. But you'll work it off.” + +At evening he was no better, the fever was still high. Yet there were no +complications--except that the heart was irregular. + +“The one thing I wonder,” said Lilly, “is whether you hadn't better be +moved out of the noise of the market. It's fearful for you in the early +morning.” + +“It makes no difference to me,” said Aaron. + +The next day he was a little worse, if anything. The doctor knew there +was nothing to be done. At evening he gave the patient a calomel pill. +It was rather strong, and Aaron had a bad time. His burning, parched, +poisoned inside was twisted and torn. Meanwhile carts banged, porters +shouted, all the hell of the market went on outside, away down on the +cobble setts. But this time the two men did not hear. + +“You'll feel better now,” said Lilly, “after the operation.” + +“It's done me harm,” cried Aaron fretfully. “Send me to the hospital, or +you'll repent it. Get rid of me in time.” + +“Nay,” said Lilly. “You get better. Damn it, you're only one among a +million.” + +Again over Aaron's face went the ghastly grimace of self-repulsion. + +“My soul's gone rotten,” he said. + +“No,” said Lilly. “Only toxin in the blood.” + +Next day the patient seemed worse, and the heart more irregular. He +rested badly. So far, Lilly had got a fair night's rest. Now Aaron was +not sleeping, and he seemed to struggle in the bed. + +“Keep your courage up, man,” said the doctor sharply. “You give way.” + +Aaron looked at him blackly, and did not answer. + +In the night Lilly was up time after time. Aaron would slip down on his +back, and go semi-conscious. And then he would awake, as if drowning, +struggling to move, mentally shouting aloud, yet making no sound for +some moments, mentally shouting in frenzy, but unable to stir or make a +sound. When at last he got some sort of physical control he cried: “Lift +me up! Lift me up!” + +Lilly hurried and lifted him up, and he sat panting with a sobbing +motion, his eyes gloomy and terrified, more than ever like a criminal +who is just being executed. He drank brandy, and was laid down on his +side. + +“Don't let me lie on my back,” he said, terrified. “No, I won't,” said +Lilly. Aaron frowned curiously on his nurse. “Mind you don't let me,” he +said, exacting and really terrified. + +“No, I won't let you.” + +And now Lilly was continually crossing over and pulling Aaron on to his +side, whenever he found him slipped down on his back. + +In the morning the doctor was puzzled. Probably it was the toxin in the +blood which poisoned the heart. There was no pneumonia. And yet Aaron +was clearly growing worse. The doctor agreed to send in a nurse for the +coming night. + +“What's the matter with you, man!” he said sharply to his patient. “You +give way! You give way! Can't you pull yourself together?” + +But Aaron only became more gloomily withheld, retracting from life. +And Lilly began to be really troubled. He got a friend to sit with the +patient in the afternoon, whilst he himself went out and arranged to +sleep in Aaron's room, at his lodging. + +The next morning, when he came in, he found the patient lying as ever, +in a sort of heap in the bed. Nurse had had to lift him up and hold him +up again. And now Aaron lay in a sort of semi-stupor of fear, frustrated +anger, misery and self-repulsion: a sort of interlocked depression. + +The doctor frowned when he came. He talked with the nurse, and wrote +another prescription. Then he drew Lilly away to the door. + +“What's the matter with the fellow?” he said. “Can't you rouse his +spirit? He seems to be sulking himself out of life. He'll drop out quite +suddenly, you know, if he goes on like this. Can't you rouse him up?” + +“I think it depresses him partly that his bowels won't work. It +frightens him. He's never been ill in his life before,” said Lilly. + +“His bowels won't work if he lets all his spirit go, like an animal +dying of the sulks,” said the doctor impatiently. “He might go off quite +suddenly--dead before you can turn round--” + +Lilly was properly troubled. Yet he did not quite know what to do. It +was early afternoon, and the sun was shining into the room. There were +daffodils and anemones in a jar, and freezias and violets. Down below in +the market were two stalls of golden and blue flowers, gay. + +“The flowers are lovely in the spring sunshine,” said Lilly. “I wish I +were in the country, don't you? As soon as you are better we'll go. It's +been a terrible cold, wet spring. But now it's going to be nice. Do you +like being in the country?” + +“Yes,” said Aaron. + +He was thinking of his garden. He loved it. Never in his life had he +been away from a garden before. + +“Make haste and get better, and we'll go.” + +“Where?” said Aaron. + +“Hampshire. Or Berkshire. Or perhaps you'd like to go home? Would you?” + +Aaron lay still, and did not answer. + +“Perhaps you want to, and you don't want to,” said Lilly. “You can +please yourself, anyhow.” + +There was no getting anything definite out of the sick man--his soul +seemed stuck, as if it would not move. + +Suddenly Lilly rose and went to the dressing-table. + +“I'm going to rub you with oil,” he said. “I'm going to rub you as +mothers do their babies whose bowels don't work.” + +Aaron frowned slightly as he glanced at the dark, self-possessed face of +the little man. + +“What's the good of that?” he said irritably. “I'd rather be left +alone.” + +“Then you won't be.” + +Quickly he uncovered the blond lower body of his patient, and began to +rub the abdomen with oil, using a slow, rhythmic, circulating motion, +a sort of massage. For a long time he rubbed finely and steadily, then +went over the whole of the lower body, mindless, as if in a sort of +incantation. He rubbed every speck of the man's lower body--the abdomen, +the buttocks, the thighs and knees, down to the feet, rubbed it all +warm and glowing with camphorated oil, every bit of it, chafing the toes +swiftly, till he was almost exhausted. Then Aaron was covered up again, +and Lilly sat down in fatigue to look at his patient. + +He saw a change. The spark had come back into the sick eyes, and the +faint trace of a smile, faintly luminous, into the face. Aaron was +regaining himself. But Lilly said nothing. He watched his patient fall +into a proper sleep. + +And he sat and watched him sleep. And he thought to himself: “I wonder +why I do it. I wonder why I bother with him.... Jim ought to have taught +me my lesson. As soon as this man's really better he'll punch me in the +wind, metaphorically if not actually, for having interfered with him. +And Tanny would say, he was quite right to do it. She says I want power +over them. What if I do? They don't care how much power the mob has over +them, the nation, Lloyd George and Northcliffe and the police and money. +They'll yield themselves up to that sort of power quickly enough, and +immolate themselves _pro bono publico_ by the million. And what's +the bonum publicum but a mob power? Why can't they submit to a bit of +healthy individual authority? The fool would die, without me: just as +that fool Jim will die in hysterics one day. Why does he last so long! + +“Tanny's the same. She does nothing really but resist me: my authority, +or my influence, or just ME. At the bottom of her heart she just blindly +and persistently opposes me. God knows what it is she opposes: just me +myself. She thinks I want her to submit to me. So I do, in a measure +natural to our two selves. Somewhere, she ought to submit to me. But +they all prefer to kick against the pricks. Not that THEY get many +pricks. I get them. Damn them all, why don't I leave them alone? They +only grin and feel triumphant when they've insulted one and punched one +in the wind. + +“This Aaron will do just the same. I like him, and he ought to like me. +And he'll be another Jim: he WILL like me, if he can knock the wind out +of me. A lot of little Stavrogins coming up to whisper affectionately, +and biting one's ear. + +“But anyhow I can soon see the last of this chap: and him the last of +all the rest. I'll be damned for ever if I see their Jims and Roberts +and Julias and Scotts any more. Let them dance round their insipid +hell-broth. Thin tack it is. + +“There's a whole world besides this little gang of Europeans. Except, +dear God, that they've exterminated all the peoples worth knowing. I +can't do with folk who teem by the billion, like the Chinese and Japs +and orientals altogether. Only vermin teem by the billion. Higher types +breed slower. I would have loved the Aztecs and the Red Indians. I KNOW +they hold the element in life which I am looking for--they had living +pride. Not like the flea-bitten Asiatics--even niggers are better than +Asiatics, though they are wallowers--the American races--and the South +Sea Islanders--the Marquesans, the Maori blood. That was the true blood. +It wasn't frightened. All the rest are craven--Europeans, Asiatics, +Africans--everyone at his own individual quick craven and cringing: only +conceited in the mass, the mob. How I hate them: the mass-bullies, the +individual Judases. + +“Well, if one will be a Jesus he must expect his Judas. That's why +Abraham Lincoln gets shot. A Jesus makes a Judas inevitable. A man +should remain himself, not try to spread himself over humanity. He +should pivot himself on his own pride. + +“I suppose really I ought to have packed this Aaron off to the hospital. +Instead of which here am I rubbing him with oil to rub the life into +him. And I KNOW he'll bite me, like a warmed snake, the moment he +recovers. And Tanny will say 'Quite right, too,' I shouldn't have been +so intimate. No, I should have left it to mechanical doctors and nurses. + +“So I should. Everything to its own. And Aaron belongs to this little +system, and Jim is waiting to be psychoanalysed, and Tanny is waiting +for her own glorification. + +“All right, Aaron. Last time I break my bread for anybody, this is. So +get better, my flautist, so that I can go away. + +“It was easy for the Red Indians and the Others to take their hook into +death. They might have stayed a bit longer to help one to defy the white +masses. + +“I'll make some tea--” + +Lilly rose softly and went across to the fire. He had to cross a landing +to a sort of little lavatory, with a sink and a tap, for water. The +clerks peeped out at him from an adjoining office and nodded. He nodded, +and disappeared from their sight as quickly as possible, with his +kettle. His dark eyes were quick, his dark hair was untidy, there was +something silent and withheld about him. People could never approach him +quite ordinarily. + +He put on the kettle, and quietly set cups and plates on a tray. The +room was clean and cosy and pleasant. He did the cleaning himself, and +was as efficient and inobtrusive a housewife as any woman. While the +kettle boiled, he sat darning the socks which he had taken off Aaron's +feet when the flautist arrived, and which he had washed. He preferred +that no outsider should see him doing these things. Yet he preferred +also to do them himself, so that he should be independent of outside +aid. + +His face was dark and hollow, he seemed frail, sitting there in the +London afternoon darning the black woollen socks. His full brow was +knitted slightly, there was a tension. At the same time, there was an +indomitable stillness about him, as it were in the atmosphere about him. +His hands, though small, were not very thin. He bit off the wool as he +finished his darn. + +As he was making the tea he saw Aaron rouse up in bed. + +“I've been to sleep. I feel better,” said the patient, turning round to +look what the other man was doing. And the sight of the water steaming +in a jet from the teapot seemed attractive. + +“Yes,” said Lilly. “You've slept for a good two hours.” + +“I believe I have,” said Aaron. + +“Would you like a little tea?” + +“Ay--and a bit of toast.” + +“You're not supposed to have solid food. Let me take your temperature.” + +The temperature was down to a hundred, and Lilly, in spite of the +doctor, gave Aaron a piece of toast with his tea, enjoining him not to +mention it to the nurse. + +In the evening the two men talked. + +“You do everything for yourself, then?” said Aaron. + +“Yes, I prefer it.” + +“You like living all alone?” + +“I don't know about that. I never have lived alone. Tanny and I have +been very much alone in various countries: but that's two, not one.” + +“You miss her then?” + +“Yes, of course. I missed her horribly in the cottage, when she'd first +gone. I felt my heart was broken. But here, where we've never been +together, I don't notice it so much.” + +“She'll come back,” said Aaron. + +“Yes, she'll come back. But I'd rather meet her abroad than here--and +get on a different footing.” + +“Why?” + +“Oh, I don't know. There's something with marriage altogether, I think. +_Egoisme a deux_--” + +“What's that mean?” + +“_Egoisme a deux_? Two people, one egoism. Marriage is a self-conscious +egoistic state, it seems to me.” + +“You've got no children?” said Aaron. + +“No. Tanny wants children badly. I don't. I'm thankful we have none.” + +“Why?” + +“I can't quite say. I think of them as a burden. Besides, there ARE such +millions and billions of children in the world. And we know well enough +what sort of millions and billions of people they'll grow up into. I +don't want to add my quota to the mass--it's against my instinct--” + +“Ay!” laughed Aaron, with a curt acquiescence. + +“Tanny's furious. But then, when a woman has got children, she thinks +the world wags only for them and her. Nothing else. The whole world wags +for the sake of the children--and their sacred mother.” + +“Ay, that's DAMNED true,” said Aaron. + +“And myself, I'm sick of the children stunt. Children are all right, so +long as you just take them for what they are: young immature things like +kittens and half-grown dogs, nuisances, sometimes very charming. But +I'll be hanged if I can see anything high and holy about children. I +should be sorry, too, it would be so bad for the children. Young brats, +tiresome and amusing in turns.” + +“When they don't give themselves airs,” said Aaron. + +“Yes, indeed. Which they do half the time. Sacred children, and sacred +motherhood, I'm absolutely fed stiff by it. That's why I'm thankful I +have no children. Tanny can't come it over me there.” + +“It's a fact. When a woman's got her children, by God, she's a bitch +in the manger. You can starve while she sits on the hay. It's useful to +keep her pups warm.” + +“Yes.” + +“Why, you know,” Aaron turned excitedly in the bed, “they look on a man +as if he was nothing but an instrument to get and rear children. If you +have anything to do with a woman, she thinks it's because you want to +get children by her. And I'm damned if it is. I want my own pleasure, or +nothing: and children be damned.” + +“Ah, women--THEY must be loved, at any price!” said Lilly. “And if you +just don't want to love them--and tell them so--what a crime.” + +“A crime!” said Aaron. “They make a criminal of you. Them and their +children be cursed. Is my life given me for nothing but to get children, +and work to bring them up? See them all in hell first. They'd better die +while they're children, if childhood's all that important.” + +“I quite agree,” said Lilly. “If childhood is more important than +manhood, then why live to be a man at all? Why not remain an infant?” + +“Be damned and blasted to women and all their importances,” cried Aaron. +“They want to get you under, and children is their chief weapon.” + +“Men have got to stand up to the fact that manhood is more than +childhood--and then force women to admit it,” said Lilly. “But the +rotten whiners, they're all grovelling before a baby's napkin and a +woman's petticoat.” + +“It's a fact,” said Aaron. But he glanced at Lilly oddly, as if +suspiciously. And Lilly caught the look. But he continued: + +“And if they think you try to stand on your legs and walk with the feet +of manhood, why, there isn't a blooming father and lover among them but +will do his best to get you down and suffocate you--either with a baby's +napkin or a woman's petticoat.” + +Lilly's lips were curling; he was dark and bitter. + +“Ay, it is like that,” said Aaron, rather subduedly. + +“The man's spirit has gone out of the world. Men can't move an inch +unless they can grovel humbly at the end of the journey.” + +“No,” said Aaron, watching with keen, half-amused eyes. + +“That's why marriage wants readjusting--or extending--to get men on to +their own legs once more, and to give them the adventure again. But men +won't stick together and fight for it. Because once a woman has climbed +up with her children, she'll find plenty of grovellers ready to support +her and suffocate any defiant spirit. And women will sacrifice eleven +men, fathers, husbands, brothers and lovers, for one baby--or for her +own female self-conceit--” + +“She will that,” said Aaron. + +“And can you find two men to stick together, without feeling criminal, +and without cringing, and without betraying one another? You can't. One +is sure to go fawning round some female, then they both enjoy giving +each other away, and doing a new grovel before a woman again.” + +“Ay,” said Aaron. + +After which Lilly was silent. + + + + +CHAPTER X. THE WAR AGAIN + + +“One is a fool,” said Lilly, “to be lachrymose. The thing to do is to +get a move on.” + +Aaron looked up with a glimpse of a smile. The two men were sitting +before the fire at the end of a cold, wet April day: Aaron convalescent, +somewhat chastened in appearance. + +“Ay,” he said rather sourly. “A move back to Guilford Street.” + +“Oh, I meant to tell you,” said Lilly. “I was reading an old Baden +history. They made a law in 1528--not a law, but a regulation--that: if +a man forsakes his wife and children, as now so often happens, the said +wife and children are at once to be dispatched after him. I thought that +would please you. Does it?” + +“Yes,” said Aaron briefly. + +“They would have arrived the next day, like a forwarded letter.” + +“I should have had to get a considerable move on, at that rate,” grinned +Aaron. + +“Oh, no. You might quite like them here.” But Lilly saw the white frown +of determined revulsion on the convalescent's face. + +“Wouldn't you?” he asked. + +Aaron shook his head. + +“No,” he said. And it was obvious he objected to the topic. “What are +you going to do about your move on?” + +“Me!” said Lilly. “I'm going to sail away next week--or steam dirtily +away on a tramp called the _Maud Allen Wing_.” + +“Where to?” + +“Malta.” + +“Where from?” + +“London Dock. I fixed up my passage this morning for ten pounds. I am +cook's assistant, signed on.” + +Aaron looked at him with a little admiration. + +“You can take a sudden jump, can't you?” he said. + +“The difficulty is to refrain from jumping: overboard or anywhere.” + +Aaron smoked his pipe slowly. + +“And what good will Malta do you?” he asked, envious. + +“Heaven knows. I shall cross to Syracuse, and move up Italy.” + +“Sounds as if you were a millionaire.” + +“I've got thirty-five pounds in all the world. But something will come +along.” + +“I've got more than that,” said Aaron. + +“Good for you,” replied Lilly. + +He rose and went to the cupboard, taking out a bowl and a basket of +potatoes. He sat down again, paring the potatoes. His busy activity +annoyed Aaron. + +“But what's the good of going to Malta? Shall YOU be any different in +yourself, in another place? You'll be the same there as you are here.” + +“How am I here?” + +“Why, you're all the time grinding yourself against something inside +you. You're never free. You're never content. You never stop chafing.” + +Lilly dipped his potato into the water, and cut out the eyes carefully. +Then he cut it in two, and dropped it in the clean water of the second +bowl. He had not expected this criticism. + +“Perhaps I don't,” said he. + +“Then what's the use of going somewhere else? You won't change +yourself.” + +“I may in the end,” said Lilly. + +“You'll be yourself, whether it's Malta or London,” said Aaron. + +“There's a doom for me,” laughed Lilly. The water on the fire was +boiling. He rose and threw in salt, then dropped in the potatoes with +little plops. “There there are lots of mes. I'm not only just one +proposition. A new place brings out a new thing in a man. Otherwise +you'd have stayed in your old place with your family.” + +“The man in the middle of you doesn't change,” said Aaron. + +“Do you find it so?” said Lilly. + +“Ay. Every time.” + +“Then what's to be done?” + +“Nothing, as far as I can see. You get as much amusement out of life as +possible, and there's the end of it.” + +“All right then, I'll get the amusement.” + +“Ay, all right then,” said Aaron. “But there isn't anything wonderful +about it. You talk as if you were doing something special. You aren't. +You're no more than a man who drops into a pub for a drink, to liven +himself up a bit. Only you give it a lot of names, and make out as if +you were looking for the philosopher's stone, or something like that. +When you're only killing time like the rest of folks, before time kills +you.” + +Lilly did not answer. It was not yet seven o'clock, but the sky was +dark. Aaron sat in the firelight. Even the saucepan on the fire was +silent. Darkness, silence, the firelight in the upper room, and the two +men together. + +“It isn't quite true,” said Lilly, leaning on the mantelpiece and +staring down into the fire. + +“Where isn't it? You talk, and you make a man believe you've got +something he hasn't got? But where is it, when it comes to? What have +you got, more than me or Jim Bricknell! Only a bigger choice of words, +it seems to me.” + +Lilly was motionless and inscrutable like a shadow. + +“Does it, Aaron!” he said, in a colorless voice. + +“Yes. What else is there to it?” Aaron sounded testy. + +“Why,” said Lilly at last, “there's something. I agree, it's true what +you say about me. But there's a bit of something else. There's just a +bit of something in me, I think, which ISN'T a man running into a pub +for a drink--” + +“And what--?” + +The question fell into the twilight like a drop of water falling down a +deep shaft into a well. + +“I think a man may come into possession of his own soul at last--as +the Buddhists teach--but without ceasing to love, or even to hate. One +loves, one hates--but somewhere beyond it all, one understands, and +possesses one's soul in patience and in peace--” + +“Yes,” said Aaron slowly, “while you only stand and talk about it. +But when you've got no chance to talk about it--and when you've got to +live--you don't possess your soul, neither in patience nor in peace, +but any devil that likes possesses you and does what it likes with you, +while you fridge yourself and fray yourself out like a worn rag.” + +“I don't care,” said Lilly, “I'm learning to possess my soul in patience +and in peace, and I know it. And it isn't a negative Nirvana either. And +if Tanny possesses her own soul in patience and peace as well--and if in +this we understand each other at last--then there we are, together +and apart at the same time, and free of each other, and eternally +inseparable. I have my Nirvana--and I have it all to myself. But more +than that. It coincides with her Nirvana.” + +“Ah, yes,” said Aaron. “But I don't understand all that word-splitting.” + +“I do, though. You learn to be quite alone, and possess your own soul +in isolation--and at the same time, to be perfectly WITH someone +else--that's all I ask.” + +“Sort of sit on a mountain top, back to back with somebody else, like a +couple of idols.” + +“No--because it isn't a case of sitting--or a case of back to back. It's +what you get to after a lot of fighting and a lot of sensual fulfilment. +And it never does away with the fighting and with the sensual passion. +It flowers on top of them, and it would never flower save on top of +them.” + +“What wouldn't?” + +“The possessing one's own soul--and the being together with someone else +in silence, beyond speech.” + +“And you've got them?” + +“I've got a BIT of the real quietness inside me.” + +“So has a dog on a mat.” + +“So I believe, too.” + +“Or a man in a pub.” + +“Which I don't believe.” + +“You prefer the dog?” + +“Maybe.” + +There was silence for a few moments. + +“And I'm the man in the pub,” said Aaron. + +“You aren't the dog on the mat, anyhow.” + +“And you're the idol on the mountain top, worshipping yourself.” + +“You talk to me like a woman, Aaron.” + +“How do you talk to ME, do you think?” + +“How do I?” + +“Are the potatoes done?” + +Lilly turned quickly aside, and switched on the electric light. +Everything changed. Aaron sat still before the fire, irritated. Lilly +went about preparing the supper. + +The room was pleasant at night. Two tall, dark screens hid the two beds. +In front, the piano was littered with music, the desk littered with +papers. Lilly went out on to the landing, and set the chops to grill on +the gas stove. Hastily he put a small table on the hearth-rug, spread it +with a blue-and-white cloth, set plates and glasses. Aaron did not move. +It was not his nature to concern himself with domestic matters--and +Lilly did it best alone. + +The two men had an almost uncanny understanding of one another--like +brothers. They came from the same district, from the same class. Each +might have been born into the other's circumstance. Like brothers, there +was a profound hostility between them. But hostility is not antipathy. + +Lilly's skilful housewifery always irritated Aaron: it was so +self-sufficient. But most irritating of all was the little man's +unconscious assumption of priority. Lilly was actually unaware that he +assumed this quiet predominance over others. He mashed the potatoes, he +heated the plates, he warmed the red wine, he whisked eggs into the +milk pudding, and served his visitor like a housemaid. But none of this +detracted from the silent assurance with which he bore himself, and with +which he seemed to domineer over his acquaintance. + +At last the meal was ready. Lilly drew the curtains, switched off the +central light, put the green-shaded electric lamp on the table, and +the two men drew up to the meal. It was good food, well cooked and hot. +Certainly Lilly's hands were no longer clean: but it was clean dirt, as +he said. + +Aaron sat in the low arm-chair at table. So his face was below, in the +full light. Lilly sat high on a small chair, so that his face was in +the green shadow. Aaron was handsome, and always had that peculiar +well-dressed look of his type. Lilly was indifferent to his own +appearance, and his collar was a rag. + +So the two men ate in silence. They had been together alone for a +fortnight only: but it was like a small eternity. Aaron was well +now--only he suffered from the depression and the sort of fear that +follows influenza. + +“When are you going?” he asked irritably, looking up at Lilly, whose +face hovered in that green shadow above, and worried him. + +“One day next week. They'll send me a telegram. Not later than +Thursday.” + +“You're looking forward to going?” The question was half bitter. + +“Yes. I want to get a new tune out of myself.” + +“Had enough of this?” + +“Yes.” + +A flush of anger came on Aaron's face. + +“You're easily on, and easily off,” he said, rather insulting. + +“Am I?” said Lilly. “What makes you think so?” + +“Circumstances,” replied Aaron sourly. + +To which there was no answer. The host cleared away the plates, and put +the pudding on the table. He pushed the bowl to Aaron. + +“I suppose I shall never see you again, once you've gone,” said Aaron. + +“It's your choice. I will leave you an address.” + +After this, the pudding was eaten in silence. + +“Besides, Aaron,” said Lilly, drinking his last sip of wine, “what do +you care whether you see me again or not? What do you care whether +you see anybody again or not? You want to be amused. And now you're +irritated because you think I am not going to amuse you any more: and +you don't know who is going to amuse you. I admit it's a dilemma. But +it's a hedonistic dilemma of the commonest sort.” + +“I don't know hedonistic. And supposing I am as you say--are you any +different?” + +“No, I'm not very different. But I always persuade myself there's a bit +of difference. Do you know what Josephine Ford confessed to me? She's +had her lovers enough. 'There isn't any such thing as love, Lilly,' she +said. 'Men are simply afraid to be alone. That is absolutely all there +is in it: fear of being alone.'” + +“What by that?” said Aaron. + +“You agree?” + +“Yes, on the whole.” + +“So do I--on the whole. And then I asked her what about woman. And then +she said with a woman it wasn't fear, it was just boredom. A woman is +like a violinist: any fiddle, any instrument rather than empty hands and +no tune going.” + +“Yes--what I said before: getting as much amusement out of life as +possible,” said Aaron. + +“You amuse me--and I'll amuse you.” + +“Yes--just about that.” + +“All right, Aaron,” said Lilly. “I'm not going to amuse you, or try to +amuse you any more.” + +“Going to try somebody else; and Malta.” + +“Malta, anyhow.” + +“Oh, and somebody else--in the next five minutes.” + +“Yes--that also.” + +“Goodbye and good luck to you.” + +“Goodbye and good luck to you, Aaron.” + +With which Lilly went aside to wash the dishes. Aaron sat alone under +the zone of light, turning over a score of _Pelleas_. Though the noise +of London was around them, it was far below, and in the room was a deep +silence. Each of the men seemed invested in his own silence. + +Aaron suddenly took his flute, and began trying little passages from the +opera on his knee. He had not played since his illness. The noise came +out a little tremulous, but low and sweet. Lilly came forward with a +plate and a cloth in his hand. + +“Aaron's rod is putting forth again,” he said, smiling. + +“What?” said Aaron, looking up. + +“I said Aaron's rod is putting forth again.” + +“What rod?” + +“Your flute, for the moment.” + +“It's got to put forth my bread and butter.” + +“Is that all the buds it's going to have?” + +“What else!” + +“Nay--that's for you to show. What flowers do you imagine came out of +the rod of Moses's brother?” + +“Scarlet runners, I should think if he'd got to live on them.” + +“Scarlet enough, I'll bet.” + +Aaron turned unnoticing back to his music. Lilly finished the wiping of +the dishes, then took a book and sat on the other side of the table. + +“It's all one to you, then,” said Aaron suddenly, “whether we ever see +one another again?” + +“Not a bit,” said Lilly, looking up over his spectacles. “I very much +wish there might be something that held us together.” + +“Then if you wish it, why isn't there?” + +“You might wish your flute to put out scarlet-runner flowers at the +joints.” + +“Ay--I might. And it would be all the same.” + +The moment of silence that followed was extraordinary in its hostility. + +“Oh, we shall run across one another again some time,” said Aaron. + +“Sure,” said Lilly. “More than that: I'll write you an address that will +always find me. And when you write I will answer you.” + +He took a bit of paper and scribbled an address. Aaron folded it and put +it into his waistcoat pocket. It was an Italian address. + +“But how can I live in Italy?” he said. “You can shift about. I'm tied +to a job.” + +“You--with your budding rod, your flute--and your charm--you can always +do as you like.” + +“My what?” + +“Your flute and your charm.” + +“What charm?” + +“Just your own. Don't pretend you don't know you've got it. I don't +really like charm myself; too much of a trick about it. But whether or +not, you've got it.” + +“It's news to me.” + +“Not it.” + +“Fact, it is.” + +“Ha! Somebody will always take a fancy to you. And you can live on that, +as well as on anything else.” + +“Why do you always speak so despisingly?” + +“Why shouldn't I?” + +“Have you any right to despise another man?” + +“When did it go by rights?” + +“No, not with you.” + +“You answer me like a woman, Aaron.” + +Again there was a space of silence. And again it was Aaron who at last +broke it. + +“We're in different positions, you and me,” he said. + +“How?” + +“You can live by your writing--but I've got to have a job.” + +“Is that all?” said Lilly. + +“Ay. And plenty. You've got the advantage of me.” + +“Quite,” said Lilly. “But why? I was a dirty-nosed little boy when +you were a clean-nosed little boy. And I always had more patches on my +breeches than you: neat patches, too, my poor mother! So what's the good +of talking about advantages? You had the start. And at this very moment +you could buy me up, lock, stock, and barrel. So don't feel hard done +by. It's a lie.” + +“You've got your freedom.” + +“I make it and I take it.” + +“Circumstances make it for you.” + +“As you like.” + +“You don't do a man justice,” said Aaron. + +“Does a man care?” + +“He might.” + +“Then he's no man.” + +“Thanks again, old fellow.” + +“Welcome,” said Lilly, grimacing. + +Again Aaron looked at him, baffled, almost with hatred. Lilly grimaced +at the blank wall opposite, and seemed to ruminate. Then he went back to +his book. And no sooner had he forgotten Aaron, reading the fantasies of +a certain Leo Frobenius, than Aaron must stride in again. + +“You can't say there isn't a difference between your position and mine,” + he said pertinently. + +Lilly looked darkly over his spectacles. + +“No, by God,” he said. “I should be in a poor way otherwise.” + +“You can't say you haven't the advantage--your JOB gives you the +advantage.” + +“All right. Then leave it out with my job, and leave me alone.” + +“That's your way of dodging it.” + +“My dear Aaron, I agree with you perfectly. There is no difference +between us, save the fictitious advantage given to me by my job. Save +for my job--which is to write lies--Aaron and I are two identical little +men in one and the same little boat. Shall we leave it at that, now?” + +“Yes,” said Aaron. “That's about it.” + +“Let us shake hands on it--and go to bed, my dear chap. You are just +recovering from influenza, and look paler than I like.” + +“You mean you want to be rid of me,” said Aaron. + +“Yes, I do mean that,” said Lilly. + +“Ay,” said Aaron. + +And after a few minutes more staring at the score of _Pelleas_, he rose, +put the score away on the piano, laid his flute beside it, and retired +behind the screen. In silence, the strange dim noise of London sounding +from below, Lilly read on about the Kabyles. His soul had the faculty of +divesting itself of the moment, and seeking further, deeper interests. +These old Africans! And Atlantis! Strange, strange wisdom of the +Kabyles! Old, old dark Africa, and the world before the flood! How +jealous Aaron seemed! The child of a jealous God. A jealous God! Could +any race be anything but despicable, with such an antecedent? + +But no, persistent as a jealous God himself, Aaron reappeared in his +pyjamas, and seated himself in his chair. + +“What is the difference then between you and me, Lilly?” he said. + +“Haven't we shaken hands on it--a difference of jobs.” + +“You don't believe that, though, do you?” + +“Nay, now I reckon you're trespassing.” + +“Why am I? I know you don't believe it.” + +“What do I believe then?” said Lilly. + +“You believe you know something better than me--and that you are +something better than me. Don't you?” + +“Do YOU believe it?” + +“What?” + +“That I AM something better than you, and that I KNOW something better?” + +“No, because I don't see it,” said Aaron. + +“Then if you don't see it, it isn't there. So go to bed and sleep the +sleep of the just and the convalescent. I am not to be badgered any +more.” + +“Am I badgering you?” said Aaron. + +“Indeed you are.” + +“So I'm in the wrong again?” + +“Once more, my dear.” + +“You're a God-Almighty in your way, you know.” + +“So long as I'm not in anybody else's way--Anyhow, you'd be much better +sleeping the sleep of the just. And I'm going out for a minute or two. +Don't catch cold there with nothing on-- + +“I want to catch the post,” he added, rising. + +Aaron looked up at him quickly. But almost before there was time to +speak, Lilly had slipped into his hat and coat, seized his letters, and +gone. + +It was a rainy night. Lilly turned down King Street to walk to Charing +Cross. He liked being out of doors. He liked to post his letters at +Charing Cross post office. He did not want to talk to Aaron any more. He +was glad to be alone. + +He walked quickly down Villiers Street to the river, to see it flowing +blackly towards the sea. It had an endless fascination for him: never +failed to soothe him and give him a sense of liberty. He liked the +night, the dark rain, the river, and even the traffic. He enjoyed the +sense of friction he got from the streaming of people who meant nothing +to him. It was like a fox slipping alert among unsuspecting cattle. + +When he got back, he saw in the distance the lights of a taxi standing +outside the building where he lived, and heard a thumping and hallooing. +He hurried forward. + +It was a man called Herbertson. + +“Oh, why, there you are!” exclaimed Herbertson, as Lilly drew near. “Can +I come up and have a chat?” + +“I've got that man who's had flu. I should think he is gone to bed.” + +“Oh!” The disappointment was plain. “Well, look here I'll just come up +for a couple of minutes.” He laid his hand on Lilly's arm. “I heard you +were going away. Where are you going?” + +“Malta.” + +“Malta! Oh, I know Malta very well. Well now, it'll be all right if +I come up for a minute? I'm not going to see much more of you, +apparently.” He turned quickly to the taxi. “What is it on the clock?” + +The taxi was paid, the two men went upstairs. Aaron was in bed, but he +called as Lilly entered the room. + +“Hullo!” said Lilly. “Not asleep? Captain Herbertson has come in for a +minute.” + +“Hope I shan't disturb you,” said Captain Herbertson, laying down his +stick and gloves, and his cap. He was in uniform. He was one of the +few surviving officers of the Guards, a man of about forty-five, +good-looking, getting rather stout. He settled himself in the chair +where Aaron had sat, hitching up his trousers. The gold identity plate, +with its gold chain, fell conspicuously over his wrist. + +“Been to 'Rosemary,'” he said. “Rotten play, you know--but passes the +time awfully well. Oh, I quite enjoyed it.” + +Lilly offered him Sauterne--the only thing in the house. + +“Oh, yes! How awfully nice! Yes, thanks, I shall love it. Can I have it +with soda? Thanks! Do you know, I think that's the very best drink in +the tropics: sweet white wine, with soda? Yes--well!-- Well--now, why +are you going away?” + +“For a change,” said Lilly. + +“You're quite right, one needs a change now the damned thing is all +over. As soon as I get out of khaki I shall be off. Malta! Yes! I've +been in Malta several times. I think Valletta is quite enjoyable, +particularly in winter, with the opera. Oh--er--how's your wife? All +right? Yes!--glad to see her people again. Bound to be-- Oh, by the +way, I met Jim Bricknell. Sends you a message hoping you'll go down and +stay--down at Captain Bingham's place in Surrey, you know. Awfully queer +lot down there. Not my sort, no. You won't go down? No, I shouldn't. Not +the right sort of people.” + +Herbertson rattled away, rather spasmodic. He had been through the very +front hell of the war--and like every man who had, he had the war at the +back of his mind, like an obsession. But in the meantime, he skirmished. + +“Yes. I was on guard one day when the Queen gave one of her tea-parties +to the blind. Awful affair. But the children are awfully nice children. +Prince of Wales awfully nice, almost too nice. Prince Henry smart boy, +too--oh, a smart boy. Queen Mary poured the tea, and I handed round +bread and butter. She told me I made a very good waiter. I said, +Thank you, Madam. But I like the children. Very different from +the Battenbergs. Oh!--” he wrinkled his nose. “I can't stand the +Battenbergs.” + +“Mount Battens,” said Lilly. + +“Yes! Awful mistake, changing the royal name. They were Guelfs, why not +remain it? Why, I'll tell you what Battenberg did. He was in the Guards, +too--” + +The talk flowed on: about royalty and the Guards, Buckingham Palace and +St. James. + +“Rather a nice story about Queen Victoria. Man named Joyce, something +or other, often used to dine at the Palace. And he was an awfully good +imitator--really clever, you know. Used to imitate the Queen. 'Mr. +Joyce,' she said, 'I hear your imitation is very amusing. Will you do it +for us now, and let us see what it is like?' 'Oh, no, Madam! I'm afraid +I couldn't do it now. I'm afraid I'm not in the humour.' But she would +have him do it. And it was really awfully funny. He had to do it. You +know what he did. He used to take a table-napkin, and put it on with +one corner over his forehead, and the rest hanging down behind, like +her veil thing. And then he sent for the kettle-lid. He always had the +kettle-lid, for that little crown of hers. And then he impersonated her. +But he was awfully good--so clever. 'Mr. Joyce,' she said. 'We are not +amused. Please leave the room.' Yes, that is exactly what she said: 'WE +are not amused--please leave the room.' I like the WE, don't you? And he +a man of sixty or so. However, he left the room and for a fortnight or +so he wasn't invited--Wasn't she wonderful--Queen Victoria?” + +And so, by light transitions, to the Prince of Wales at the front, and +thus into the trenches. And then Herbertson was on the subject he was +obsessed by. He had come, unconsciously, for this and this only, to talk +war to Lilly: or at Lilly. For the latter listened and watched, and said +nothing. As a man at night helplessly takes a taxi to find some woman, +some prostitute, Herbertson had almost unthinkingly got into a taxi and +come battering at the door in Covent Garden, only to talk war to Lilly, +whom he knew very little. But it was a driving instinct--to come and get +it off his chest. + +And on and on he talked, over his wine and soda. He was not +conceited--he was not showing off--far from it. It was the same thing +here in this officer as it was with the privates, and the same with this +Englishman as with a Frenchman or a German or an Italian. Lilly had sat +in a cowshed listening to a youth in the north country: he had sat on +the corn-straw that the oxen had been treading out, in Calabria, under +the moon: he had sat in a farm-kitchen with a German prisoner: and every +time it was the same thing, the same hot, blind, anguished voice of a +man who has seen too much, experienced too much, and doesn't know where +to turn. None of the glamour of returned heroes, none of the romance of +war: only a hot, blind, mesmerised voice, going on and on, mesmerised by +a vision that the soul cannot bear. + +In this officer, of course, there was a lightness and an appearance of +bright diffidence and humour. But underneath it all was the same as in +the common men of all the combatant nations: the hot, seared burn of +unbearable experience, which did not heal nor cool, and whose irritation +was not to be relieved. The experience gradually cooled on top: but only +with a surface crust. The soul did not heal, did not recover. + +“I used to be awfully frightened,” laughed Herbertson. “Now you say, +Lilly, you'd never have stood it. But you would. You're nervous--and +it was just the nervous ones that did stand it. When nearly all our +officers were gone, we had a man come out--a man called Margeritson, +from India--big merchant people out there. They all said he was no +good--not a bit of good--nervous chap. No good at all. But when you +had to get out of the trench and go for the Germans he was +perfect--perfect--It all came to him then, at the crisis, and he was +perfect. + +“Some things frighten one man, and some another. Now shells would never +frighten me. But I couldn't stand bombs. You could tell the +difference between our machines and the Germans. Ours was a steady +noise--drrrrrrrr!--but their's was heavy, drrrrRURUrrrrRURU!-- My word, +that got on my nerves.... + +“No I was never hit. The nearest thing was when I was knocked down by an +exploding shell--several times that--you know. When you shout like mad +for the men to come and dig you out, under all the earth. And my word, +you do feel frightened then.” Herbertson laughed with a twinkling motion +to Lilly. But between his brows there was a tension like madness. + +“And a funny thing you know--how you don't notice things. In--let me +see--1916, the German guns were a lot better than ours. Ours were old, +and when they're old you can't tell where they'll hit: whether they'll +go beyond the mark, or whether they'll fall short. Well, this day our +guns were firing short, and killing our own men. We'd had the order to +charge, and were running forward, and I suddenly felt hot water spurting +on my neck--” He put his hand to the back of his neck and glanced round +apprehensively. “It was a chap called Innes--Oh, an awfully decent +sort--people were in the Argentine. He'd been calling out to me as we +were running, and I was just answering. When I felt this hot water on my +neck and saw him running past me with no head--he'd got no head, and he +went running past me. I don't know how far, but a long way.... Blood, +you know--Yes--well-- + +“Oh, I hated Chelsea--I loathed Chelsea--Chelsea was purgatory to me. +I had a corporal called Wallace--he was a fine chap--oh, he was a +fine chap--six foot two--and about twenty-four years old. He was my +stand-back. Oh, I hated Chelsea, and parades, and drills. You know, when +it's drill, and you're giving orders, you forget what order you've just +given--in front of the Palace there the crowd don't notice--but it's +AWFUL for you. And you know you daren't look round to see what the men +are doing. But Wallace was splendid. He was just behind me, and I'd +hear him, quite quiet you know, 'It's right wheel, sir.' Always perfect, +always perfect--yes--well.... + +“You know you don't get killed if you don't think you will. Now I never +thought I should get killed. And I never knew a man get killed if he +hadn't been thinking he would. I said to Wallace I'd rather be out here, +at the front, than at Chelsea. I hated Chelsea--I can't tell you how +much. 'Oh no, sir!' he said. 'I'd rather be at Chelsea than here. I'd +rather be at Chelsea. There isn't hell like this at Chelsea.' We'd had +orders that we were to go back to the real camp the next day. 'Never +mind, Wallace,' I said. 'We shall be out of this hell-on-earth +tomorrow.' And he took my hand. We weren't much for showing feeling +or anything in the guards. But he took my hand. And we climbed out to +charge--Poor fellow, he was killed--” Herbertson dropped his head, and +for some moments seemed to go unconscious, as if struck. Then he lifted +his face, and went on in the same animated chatty fashion: “You see, he +had a presentiment. I'm sure he had a presentiment. None of the men got +killed unless they had a presentiment--like that, you know....” + +Herbertson nodded keenly at Lilly, with his sharp, twinkling, yet +obsessed eyes. Lilly wondered why he made the presentiment responsible +for the death--which he obviously did--and not vice versa. Herbertson +implied every time, that you'd never get killed if you could keep +yourself from having a presentiment. Perhaps there was something in it. +Perhaps the soul issues its own ticket of death, when it can stand no +more. Surely life controls life: and not accident. + +“It's a funny thing what shock will do. We had a sergeant and he shouted +to me. Both his feet were off--both his feet, clean at the ankle. I gave +him morphia. You know officers aren't allowed to use the needle--might +give the man blood poisoning. You give those tabloids. They say they act +in a few minutes, but they DON'T. It's a quarter of an hour. And nothing +is more demoralising than when you have a man, wounded, you know, and +crying out. Well, this man I gave him the morphia before he got over the +stunning, you know. So he didn't feel the pain. Well, they carried him +in. I always used to like to look after my men. So I went next morning +and I found he hadn't been removed to the Clearing Station. I got hold +of the doctor and I said, 'Look here! Why hasn't this man been taken +to the Clearing Station?' I used to get excited. But after some years +they'd got used to me. 'Don't get excited, Herbertson, the man's dying.' +'But,' I said, 'he's just been talking to me as strong as you are.' And +he had--he'd talk as strong and well as you or me, then go quiet for +a bit. I said I gave him the morphia before he came round from the +stunning. So he'd felt nothing. But in two hours he was dead. The doctor +says that the shock does it like that sometimes. You can do nothing +for them. Nothing vital is injured--and yet the life is broken in them. +Nothing can be done--funny thing--Must be something in the brain--” + +“It's obviously not the brain,” said Lilly. “It's deeper than the +brain.” + +“Deeper,” said Herbertson, nodding. + +“Funny thing where life is. We had a lieutenant. You know we all buried +our own dead. Well, he looked as if he was asleep. Most of the chaps +looked like that.” Herbertson closed his eyes and laid his face aside, +like a man asleep and dead peacefully. “You very rarely see a man dead +with any other look on his face--you know the other look.--” And +he clenched his teeth with a sudden, momentaneous, ghastly +distortion.--“Well, you'd never have known this chap was dead. He had a +wound here--in the back of the head--and a bit of blood on his hand--and +nothing else, nothing. Well, I said we'd give him a decent burial. He +lay there waiting--and they'd wrapped him in a filthy blanket--you know. +Well, I said he should have a proper blanket. He'd been dead lying there +a day and a half you know. So I went and got a blanket, a beautiful +blanket, out of his private kit--his people were Scotch, well-known +family--and I got the pins, you know, ready to pin him up properly, for +the Scots Guards to bury him. And I thought he'd be stiff, you see. But +when I took him by the arms, to lift him on, he sat up. It gave me an +awful shock. 'Why he's alive!' I said. But they said he was dead. I +couldn't believe it. It gave me an awful shock. He was as flexible as +you or me, and looked as if he was asleep. You couldn't believe he was +dead. But we pinned him up in his blanket. It was an awful shock to me. +I couldn't believe a man could be like that after he'd been dead two +days.... + +“The Germans were wonderful with the machine guns--it's a wicked thing, +a machine gun. But they couldn't touch us with the bayonet. Every time +the men came back they had bayonet practice, and they got awfully good. +You know when you thrust at the Germans--so--if you miss him, you bring +your rifle back sharp, with a round swing, so that the butt comes up and +hits up under the jaw. It's one movement, following on with the stab, +you see, if you miss him. It was too quick for them--But bayonet charge +was worst, you know. Because your man cries out when you catch him, when +you get him, you know. That's what does you.... + +“No, oh no, this was no war like other wars. All the machinery of it. +No, you couldn't stand it, but for the men. The men are wonderful, you +know. They'll be wiped out.... No, it's your men who keep you going, +if you're an officer.... But there'll never be another war like this. +Because the Germans are the only people who could make a war like +this--and I don't think they'll ever do it again, do you? + +“Oh, they were wonderful, the Germans. They were amazing. It was +incredible, what they invented and did. We had to learn from them, in +the first two years. But they were too methodical. That's why they lost +the war. They were too methodical. They'd fire their guns every ten +minutes--regular. Think of it. Of course we knew when to run, and when +to lie down. You got so that you knew almost exactly what they'd do--if +you'd been out long enough. And then you could time what you wanted to +do yourselves. + +“They were a lot more nervous than we were, at the last. They sent up +enough light at night from their trenches--you know, those things that +burst in the air like electric light--we had none of that to do--they +did it all for us--lit up everything. They were more nervous than we +were....” + +It was nearly two o'clock when Herbertson left. Lilly, depressed, +remained before the fire. Aaron got out of bed and came uneasily to the +fire. + +“It gives me the bellyache, that damned war,” he said. + +“So it does me,” said Lilly. “All unreal.” + +“Real enough for those that had to go through it.” + +“No, least of all for them,” said Lilly sullenly. “Not as real as a bad +dream. Why the hell don't they wake up and realise it!” + +“That's a fact,” said Aaron. “They're hypnotised by it.” + +“And they want to hypnotise me. And I won't be hypnotised. The war was a +lie and is a lie and will go on being a lie till somebody busts it.” + +“It was a fact--you can't bust that. You can't bust the fact that it +happened.” + +“Yes you can. It never happened. It never happened to me. No more than +my dreams happen. My dreams don't happen: they only seem.” + +“But the war did happen, right enough,” smiled Aaron palely. + +“No, it didn't. Not to me or to any man, in his own self. It took place +in the automatic sphere, like dreams do. But the ACTUAL MAN in every man +was just absent--asleep--or drugged--inert--dream-logged. That's it.” + +“You tell 'em so,” said Aaron. + +“I do. But it's no good. Because they won't wake up now even--perhaps +never. They'll all kill themselves in their sleep.” + +“They wouldn't be any better if they did wake up and be themselves--that +is, supposing they are asleep, which I can't see. They are what they +are--and they're all alike--and never very different from what they are +now.” + +Lilly stared at Aaron with black eyes. + +“Do you believe in them less than I do, Aaron?” he asked slowly. + +“I don't even want to believe in them.” + +“But in yourself?” Lilly was almost wistful--and Aaron uneasy. + +“I don't know that I've any more right to believe in myself than in +them,” he replied. Lilly watched and pondered. + +“No,” he said. “That's not true--I KNEW the war was false: humanly +quite false. I always knew it was false. The Germans were false, we were +false, everybody was false.” + +“And not you?” asked Aaron shrewishly. + +“There was a wakeful, self-possessed bit of me which knew that the war +and all that horrible movement was false for me. And so I wasn't going +to be dragged in. The Germans could have shot my mother or me or what +they liked: I wouldn't have joined the WAR. I would like to kill my +enemy. But become a bit of that huge obscene machine they called the +war, that I never would, no, not if I died ten deaths and had eleven +mothers violated. But I would like to kill my enemy: Oh, yes, more than +one enemy. But not as a unit in a vast obscene mechanism. That never: +no, never.” + +Poor Lilly was too earnest and vehement. Aaron made a fine nose. It +seemed to him like a lot of words and a bit of wriggling out of a hole. + +“Well,” he said, “you've got men and nations, and you've got the +machines of war--so how are you going to get out of it? League of +Nations?” + +“Damn all leagues. Damn all masses and groups, anyhow. All I want is +to get MYSELF out of their horrible heap: to get out of the swarm. The +swarm to me is nightmare and nullity--horrible helpless writhing in +a dream. I want to get myself awake, out of it all--all that +mass-consciousness, all that mass-activity--it's the most horrible +nightmare to me. No man is awake and himself. No man who was awake and +in possession of himself would use poison gases: no man. His own awake +self would scorn such a thing. It's only when the ghastly mob-sleep, +the dream helplessness of the mass-psyche overcomes him, that he becomes +completely base and obscene.” + +“Ha--well,” said Aaron. “It's the wide-awake ones that invent the poison +gas, and use it. Where should we be without it?” + +Lilly started, went stiff and hostile. + +“Do you mean that, Aaron?” he said, looking into Aaron's face with a +hard, inflexible look. + +Aaron turned aside half sheepishly. + +“That's how it looks on the face of it, isn't it?” he said. + +“Look here, my friend, it's too late for you to be talking to me about +the face of things. If that's how you feel, put your things on and +follow Herbertson. Yes--go out of my room. I don't put up with the face +of things here.” + +Aaron looked at him in cold amazement. + +“It'll do tomorrow morning, won't it?” he asked rather mocking. + +“Yes,” said Lilly coldly. “But please go tomorrow morning.” + +“Oh, I'll go all right,” said Aaron. “Everybody's got to agree with +you--that's your price.” + +But Lilly did not answer. Aaron turned into bed, his satirical smile +under his nose. Somewhat surprised, however, at this sudden turn of +affairs. + +As he was just going to sleep, dismissing the matter, Lilly came once +more to his bedside, and said, in a hard voice: + +“I'm NOT going to pretend to have friends on the face of things. No, +and I don't have friends who don't fundamentally agree with me. A friend +means one who is at one with me in matters of life and death. And if +you're at one with all the rest, then you're THEIR friend, not mine. So +be their friend. And please leave me in the morning. You owe me +nothing, you have nothing more to do with me. I have had enough of these +friendships where I pay the piper and the mob calls the tune. + +“Let me tell you, moreover, your heroic Herbertsons lost us more than +ever they won. A brave ant is a damned cowardly individual. Your heroic +officers are a sad sight AFTERWARDS, when they come home. Bah, your +Herbertson! The only justification for war is what we learn from it. And +what have they learnt?--Why did so many of them have presentiments, as +he called it? Because they could feel inside them, there was nothing +to come after. There was no life-courage: only death-courage. Nothing +beyond this hell--only death or love--languishing--” + +“What could they have seen, anyhow?” said Aaron. + +“It's not what you see, actually. It's the kind of spirit you keep +inside you: the life spirit. When Wallace had presentiments, Herbertson, +being officer, should have said: 'None of that, Wallace. You and I, +we've got to live and make life smoke.'--Instead of which he let Wallace +be killed and his own heart be broken. Always the death-choice-- And we +won't, we simply will not face the world as we've made it, and our own +souls as we find them, and take the responsibility. We'll never get +anywhere till we stand up man to man and face EVERYTHING out, and +break the old forms, but never let our own pride and courage of life be +broken.” + +Lilly broke off, and went silently to bed. Aaron turned over to sleep, +rather resenting the sound of so many words. What difference did it +make, anyhow? In the morning, however, when he saw the other man's pale, +closed, rather haughty face, he realised that something _had_ happened. +Lilly was courteous and even affable: but with a curious cold space +between him and Aaron. Breakfast passed, and Aaron knew that he must +leave. There was something in Lilly's bearing which just showed him the +door. In some surprise and confusion, and in some anger, not unmingled +with humorous irony, he put his things in his bag. He put on his hat and +coat. Lilly was seated rather stiffly writing. + +“Well,” said Aaron. “I suppose we shall meet again.” + +“Oh, sure to,” said Lilly, rising from his chair. “We are sure to run +across one another.” + +“When are you going?” asked Aaron. + +“In a few days' time.” + +“Oh, well, I'll run in and see you before you go, shall I?” + +“Yes, do.” + +Lilly escorted his guest to the top of the stairs, shook hands, and then +returned into his own room, closing the door on himself. + +Aaron did not find his friend at home when he called. He took it rather +as a slap in the face. But then he knew quite well that Lilly had made +a certain call on his, Aaron's soul: a call which he, Aaron, did not +at all intend to obey. If in return the soul-caller chose to shut his +street-door in the face of the world-friend--well, let it be quits. He +was not sure whether he felt superior to his unworldly enemy or not. He +rather thought he did. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. MORE PILLAR OF SALT + + +The opera season ended, Aaron was invited by Cyril Scott to join a group +of musical people in a village by the sea. He accepted, and spent a +pleasant month. It pleased the young men musically-inclined and bohemian +by profession to patronise the flautist, whom they declared marvellous. +Bohemians with well-to-do parents, they could already afford to squander +a little spasmodic and self-gratifying patronage. And Aaron did not mind +being patronised. He had nothing else to do. + +But the party broke up early in September. The flautist was detained a +few days at a country house, for the amusement of the guests. Then he +left for London. + +In London he found himself at a loose end. A certain fretful dislike +of the patronage of indifferent young men, younger than himself, and a +certain distaste for regular work in the orchestra made him look round. +He wanted something else. He wanted to disappear again. Qualms and +emotions concerning his abandoned family overcame him. The early, +delicate autumn affected him. He took a train to the Midlands. + +And again, just after dark, he strolled with his little bag across the +field which lay at the end of his garden. It had been mown, and the +grass was already growing long. He stood and looked at the line of back +windows, lighted once more. He smelled the scents of autumn, phlox and +moist old vegetation and corn in sheaf. A nostalgia which was half at +least revulsion affected him. The place, the home, at once fascinated +and revolted him. + +Sitting in his shed, he scrutinised his garden carefully, in the +starlight. There were two rows of beans, rather disshevelled. Near at +hand the marrow plants sprawled from their old bed. He could detect +the perfume of a few carnations. He wondered who it was had planted +the garden, during his long absence. Anyhow, there it was, planted and +fruited and waning into autumn. + +The blind was not drawn. It was eight o'clock. The children were going +to bed. Aaron waited in his shed, his bowels stirred with violent but +only half-admitted emotions. There was his wife, slim and graceful, +holding a little mug to the baby's mouth. And the baby was drinking. She +looked lonely. Wild emotions attacked his heart. There was going to be a +wild and emotional reconciliation. + +Was there? It seemed like something fearful and imminent. A passion +arose in him, a craving for the violent emotional reconciliation. He +waited impatiently for the children to be gone to bed, gnawed with +restless desire. + +He heard the clock strike nine, then half-past, from the village behind. +The children would be asleep. His wife was sitting sewing some little +frock. He went lingering down the garden path, stooping to lift the +fallen carnations, to see how they were. There were many flowers, but +small. He broke one off, then threw it away. The golden rod was out. +Even in the little lawn there were asters, as of old. + +His wife started to listen, hearing his step. He was filled with a +violent conflict of tenderness, like a sickness. He hesitated, tapping +at the door, and entered. His wife started to her feet, at bay. + +“What have you come for!” was her involuntary ejaculation. + +But he, with the familiar odd jerk of his head towards the garden, asked +with a faint smile: + +“Who planted the garden?” + +And he felt himself dropping into the twang of the vernacular, which he +had discarded. + +Lottie only stood and stared at him, objectively. She did not think +to answer. He took his hat off, and put it on the dresser. Again the +familiar act maddened her. + +“What have you come for?” she cried again, with a voice full of hate. Or +perhaps it was fear and doubt and even hope as well. He heard only hate. + +This time he turned to look at her. The old dagger was drawn in her. + +“I wonder,” he said, “myself.” + +Then she recovered herself, and with trembling hand picked up her sewing +again. But she still stood at bay, beyond the table. She said nothing. +He, feeling tired, sat down on the chair nearest the door. But he +reached for his hat, and kept it on his knee. She, as she stood there +unnaturally, went on with her sewing. There was silence for some time. +Curious sensations and emotions went through the man's frame seeming to +destroy him. They were like electric shocks, which he felt she emitted +against him. And an old sickness came in him again. He had forgotten +it. It was the sickness of the unrecognised and incomprehensible strain +between him and her. + +After a time she put down her sewing, and sat again in her chair. + +“Do you know how vilely you've treated me?” she said, staring across the +space at him. He averted his face. + +Yet he answered, not without irony. + +“I suppose so.” + +“And why?” she cried. “I should like to know why.” + +He did not answer. The way she rushed in made him go vague. + +“Justify yourself. Say why you've been so vile to me. Say what you had +against me,” she demanded. + +“What I HAD against her,” he mused to himself: and he wondered that she +used the past tense. He made no answer. + +“Accuse me,” she insisted. “Say what I've done to make you treat me like +this. Say it. You must THINK it hard enough.” + +“Nay,” he said. “I don't think it.” + +This speech, by which he merely meant that he did not trouble to +formulate any injuries he had against her, puzzled her. + +“Don't come pretending you love me, NOW. It's too late,” she said with +contempt. Yet perhaps also hope. + +“You might wait till I start pretending,” he said. + +This enraged her. + +“You vile creature!” she exclaimed. “Go! What have you come for?” + +“To look at YOU,” he said sarcastically. + +After a few minutes she began to cry, sobbing violently into her apron. +And again his bowels stirred and boiled. + +“What have I done! What have I done! I don't know what I've done that he +should be like this to me,” she sobbed, into her apron. It was childish, +and perhaps true. At least it was true from the childish part of her +nature. He sat gloomy and uneasy. + +She took the apron from her tear-stained face, and looked at him. It +was true, in her moments of roused exposure she was a beautiful woman--a +beautiful woman. At this moment, with her flushed, tear-stained, wilful +distress, she was beautiful. + +“Tell me,” she challenged. “Tell me! Tell me what I've done. Tell me +what you have against me. Tell me.” + +Watching like a lynx, she saw the puzzled, hurt look in his face. +Telling isn't so easy--especially when the trouble goes too deep for +conscious comprehension. He couldn't _tell_ what he had against her. And +he had not the slightest intention of doing what she would have liked +him to do, starting to pile up detailed grievances. He knew the detailed +grievances were nothing in themselves. + +“You CAN'T,” she cried vindictively. “You CAN'T. You CAN'T find anything +real to bring against me, though you'd like to. You'd like to be able +to accuse me of something, but you CAN'T, because you know there isn't +anything.” + +She watched him, watched. And he sat in the chair near the door, without +moving. + +“You're unnatural, that's what you are,” she cried. “You're unnatural. +You're not a man. You haven't got a man's feelings. You're nasty, and +cold, and unnatural. And you're a coward. You're a coward. You run away +from me, without telling me what you've got against me.” + +“When you've had enough, you go away and you don't care what you do,” he +said, epigrammatic. + +She paused a moment. + +“Enough of what?” she said. “What have you had enough of? Of me and your +children? It's a nice manly thing to say. Haven't I loved you? Haven't +I loved you for twelve years, and worked and slaved for you and tried to +keep you right? Heaven knows where you'd have been but for me, evil as +you are at the bottom. You're evil, that's what it is--and weak. You're +too weak to love a woman and give her what she wants: too weak. Unmanly +and cowardly, he runs away.” + +“No wonder,” he said. + +“No,” she cried. “It IS no wonder, with a nature like yours: weak and +unnatural and evil. It IS no wonder.” + +She became quiet--and then started to cry again, into her apron. Aaron +waited. He felt physically weak. + +“And who knows what you've been doing all these months?” she wept. “Who +knows all the vile things you've been doing? And you're the father of my +children--the father of my little girls--and who knows what vile things +he's guilty of, all these months?” + +“I shouldn't let my imagination run away with me,” he answered. “I've +been playing the flute in the orchestra of one of the theatres in +London.” + +“Ha!” she cried. “It's more than that. Don't think I'm going to believe +you. I know you, with your smooth-sounding lies. You're a liar, as you +know. And I know you've been doing other things besides play a flute +in an orchestra. You!--as if I don't know you. And then coming crawling +back to me with your lies and your pretense. Don't think I'm taken in.” + +“I should be sorry,” he said. + +“Coming crawling back to me, and expecting to be forgiven,” she went on. +“But no--I don't forgive--and I can't forgive--never--not as long as I +live shall I forgive what you've done to me.” + +“You can wait till you're asked, anyhow,” he said. + +“And you can wait,” she said. “And you shall wait.” She took up her +sewing, and stitched steadily, as if calmly. Anyone glancing in would +have imagined a quiet domestic hearth at that moment. He, too, feeling +physically weak, remained silent, feeling his soul absent from the +scene. + +Again she suddenly burst into tears, weeping bitterly. + +“And the children,” she sobbed, rocking herself with grief and chagrin. +“What have I been able to say to the children--what have I been able to +tell them?” + +“What HAVE you told them?” he asked coldly. + +“I told them you'd gone away to work,” she sobbed, laying her head on +her arms on the table. “What else could I tell them? I couldn't tell +them the vile truth about their father. I couldn't tell THEM how evil +you are.” She sobbed and moaned. + +He wondered what exactly the vile truth would have been, had she +_started_ to tell it. And he began to feel, coldly and cynically, that +among all her distress there was a luxuriating in the violent emotions +of the scene in hand, and the situation altogether. + +Then again she became quiet, and picked up her sewing. She stitched +quietly, wistfully, for some time. Then she looked up at him--a long +look of reproach, and sombre accusation, and wifely tenderness. He +turned his face aside. + +“You know you've been wrong to me, don't you?” she said, half wistfully, +half menacing. + +He felt her wistfulness and her menace tearing him in his bowels and +loins. + +“You do know, don't you?” she insisted, still with the wistful appeal, +and the veiled threat. + +“You do, or you would answer,” she said. “You've still got enough that's +right in you, for you to know.” + +She waited. He sat still, as if drawn by hot wires. + +Then she slipped across to him, put her arms round him, sank on her +knees at his side, and sank her face against his thigh. + +“Say you know how wrong you are. Say you know how cruel you've been to +me,” she pleaded. But under her female pleading and appeal he felt the +iron of her threat. + +“You DO know it,” she murmured, looking up into his face as she crouched +by his knee. “You DO know it. I can see in your eyes that you know it. +And why have you come back to me, if you don't know it! Why have you +come back to me? Tell me!” Her arms gave him a sharp, compulsory little +clutch round the waist. “Tell me! Tell me!” she murmured, with all her +appeal liquid in her throat. + +But him, it half overcame, and at the same time, horrified. He had a +certain horror of her. The strange liquid sound of her appeal seemed +to him like the swaying of a serpent which mesmerises the fated, +fluttering, helpless bird. She clasped her arms round him, she drew +him to her, she half roused his passion. At the same time she coldly +horrified and repelled him. He had not the faintest feeling, at the +moment, of his own wrong. But she wanted to win his own self-betrayal +out of him. He could see himself as the fascinated victim, falling to +this cajoling, awful woman, the wife of his bosom. But as well, he had +a soul outside himself, which looked on the whole scene with cold +revulsion, and which was as unchangeable as time. + +“No,” he said. “I don't feel wrong.” + +“You DO!” she said, giving him a sharp, admonitory clutch. “You DO. +Only you're silly, and obstinate, babyish and silly and obstinate. An +obstinate little boy--you DO feel wrong. And you ARE wrong. And you've +got to say it.” + +But quietly he disengaged himself and got to his feet, his face pale and +set, obstinate as she said. He put his hat on, and took his little bag. +She watched him curiously, still crouching by his chair. + +“I'll go,” he said, putting his hand on the latch. + +Suddenly she sprang to her feet and clutched him by the shirt-neck, her +hand inside his soft collar, half strangling him. + +“You villain,” she said, and her face was transfigured with passion as +he had never seen it before, horrible. “You villain!” she said thickly. +“What have you come here for?” + +His soul went black as he looked at her. He broke her hand away from his +shirt collar, bursting the stud-holes. She recoiled in silence. And in +one black, unconscious movement he was gone, down the garden and over +the fence and across the country, swallowed in a black unconsciousness. + +She, realising, sank upon the hearth-rug and lay there curled upon +herself. She was defeated. But she, too, would never yield. She lay +quite motionless for some time. Then she got up, feeling the draught on +the floor. She closed the door, and drew down the blind. Then she looked +at her wrist, which he had gripped, and which pained her. Then she +went to the mirror and looked for a long time at her white, strained, +determined face. Come life, come death, she, too would never yield. And +she realised now that he would never yield. + +She was faint with weariness, and would be glad to get to bed and sleep. + +Aaron meanwhile had walked across the country and was looking for a +place to rest. He found a cornfield with a half-built stack, and sheaves +in stook. Ten to one some tramp would have found the stack. He threw +a dozen sheaves together and lay down, looking at the stars in the +September sky. He, too, would never yield. The illusion of love was gone +for ever. Love was a battle in which each party strove for the mastery +of the other's soul. So far, man had yielded the mastery to woman. Now +he was fighting for it back again. And too late, for the woman would +never yield. + +But whether woman yielded or not, he would keep the mastery of his own +soul and conscience and actions. He would never yield himself up to her +judgment again. He would hold himself forever beyond her jurisdiction. + +Henceforth, life single, not life double. + +He looked at the sky, and thanked the universe for the blessedness +of being alone in the universe. To be alone, to be oneself, not to be +driven or violated into something which is not oneself, surely it is +better than anything. He thought of Lottie, and knew how much more truly +herself she was when she was alone, with no man to distort her. And he +was thankful for the division between them. Such scenes as the last were +too horrible and unreal. + +As for future unions, too soon to think about it. Let there be clean +and pure division first, perfected singleness. That is the only way to +final, living unison: through sheer, finished singleness. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. NOVARA + + +Having no job for the autumn, Aaron fidgetted in London. He played at +some concerts and some private shows. He was one of an odd quartette, +for example, which went to play to Lady Artemis Hooper, when she lay +in bed after her famous escapade of falling through the window of her +taxi-cab. Aaron had that curious knack, which belongs to some people, +of getting into the swim without knowing he was doing it. Lady Artemis +thought his flute lovely, and had him again to play for her. Aaron +looked at her and she at him. She, as she reclined there in bed in a +sort of half-light, well made-up, smoking her cigarettes and talking in +a rather raucous voice, making her slightly rasping witty comments +to the other men in the room--of course there were other men, the +audience--was a shock to the flautist. This was the bride of the moment! +Curious how raucous her voice sounded out of the cigarette smoke. Yet +he liked her--the reckless note of the modern, social freebooter. In +himself was a touch of the same quality. + +“Do you love playing?” she asked him. + +“Yes,” he said, with that shadow of irony which seemed like a smile on +his face. + +“Live for it, so to speak,” she said. + +“I make my living by it,” he said. + +“But that's not really how you take it?” she said. He eyed her. She +watched him over her cigarette. It was a personal moment. + +“I don't think about it,” he said. + +“I'm sure you don't. You wouldn't be so good if you did. You're awfully +lucky, you know, to be able to pour yourself down your flute.” + +“You think I go down easy?” he laughed. + +“Ah!” she replied, flicking her cigarette broadcast. “That's the point. +What should you say, Jimmy?” she turned to one of the men. He screwed +his eyeglass nervously and stiffened himself to look at her. + +“I--I shouldn't like to say, off-hand,” came the small-voiced, +self-conscious answer. And Jimmy bridled himself and glanced at Aaron. + +“Do you find it a tight squeeze, then?” she said, turning to Aaron once +more. + +“No, I can't say that,” he answered. “What of me goes down goes down +easy enough. It's what doesn't go down.” + +“And how much is that?” she asked, eying him. + +“A good bit, maybe,” he said. + +“Slops over, so to speak,” she retorted sarcastically. “And which do you +enjoy more, trickling down your flute or slopping over on to the lap of +Mother Earth--of Miss, more probably!” + +“Depends,” he said. + +Having got him a few steps too far upon the personal ground, she left +him to get off by himself. + +So he found London got on his nerves. He felt it rubbed him the wrong +way. He was flattered, of course, by his own success--and felt at +the same time irritated by it. This state of mind was by no means +acceptable. Wherever he was he liked to be given, tacitly, the +first place--or a place among the first. Among the musical people +he frequented, he found himself on a callow kind of equality with +everybody, even the stars and aristocrats, at one moment, and a +backstairs outsider the next. It was all just as the moment demanded. +There was a certain excitement in slithering up and down the social +scale, one minute chatting in a personal tete-a-tete with the most +famous, or notorious, of the society beauties: and the next walking in +the rain, with his flute in a bag, to his grubby lodging in Bloomsbury. +Only the excitement roused all the savage sarcasm that lay at the bottom +of his soul, and which burned there like an unhealthy bile. + +Therefore he determined to clear out--to disappear. He had a letter from +Lilly, from Novara. Lilly was drifting about. Aaron wrote to Novara, and +asked if he should come to Italy, having no money to speak of. “Come +if you want to. Bring your flute. And if you've no money, put on a good +suit of clothes and a big black hat, and play outside the best cafe in +any Italian town, and you'll collect enough to get on with.” + +It was a sporting chance. Aaron packed his bag and got a passport, and +wrote to Lilly to say he would join him, as invited, at Sir William +Franks'. He hoped Lilly's answer would arrive before he left London. But +it didn't. + +Therefore behold our hero alighting at Novara, two hours late, on a +wet, dark evening. He hoped Lilly would be there: but nobody. With some +slight dismay he faced the big, crowded station. The stream of people +carried him automatically through the barrier, a porter having seized +his bag, and volleyed various unintelligible questions at him. Aaron +understood not one word. So he just wandered after the blue blouse of +the porter. + +The porter deposited the bag on the steps of the station front, fired +off more questions and gesticulated into the half-illuminated space of +darkness outside the station. Aaron decided it meant a cab, so he nodded +and said “Yes.” But there were no cabs. So once more the blue-bloused +porter slung the big bag and the little bag on the strap over his +shoulder, and they plunged into the night, towards some lights and a +sort of theatre place. + +One carriage stood there in the rain--yes, and it was free. + +“Keb? Yes--orright--sir. Whe'to? Where you go? Sir William Franks? Yes, +I know. Long way go--go long way. Sir William Franks.” + +The cabman spattered his few words of English. Aaron gave the porter an +English shilling. The porter let the coin lie in the middle of his palm, +as if it were a live beetle, and darted to the light of the carriage to +examine the beast, exclaiming volubly. The cabman, wild with interest, +peered down from the box into the palm of the porter, and carried on an +impassioned dialogue. Aaron stood with one foot on the step. + +“What you give--he? One franc?” asked the driver. + +“A shilling,” said Aaron. + +“One sheeling. Yes. I know that. One sheeling English”--and the driver +went off into impassioned exclamations in Torinese. The porter, still +muttering and holding his hand as if the coin might sting him, filtered +away. + +“Orright. He know--sheeling--orright. English moneys, eh? Yes, he know. +You get up, sir.” + +And away went Aaron, under the hood of the carriage, clattering down the +wide darkness of Novara, over a bridge apparently, past huge rain-wet +statues, and through more rainy, half-lit streets. + +They stopped at last outside a sort of park wall with trees above. The +big gates were just beyond. + +“Sir William Franks--there.” In a mixture of Italian and English the +driver told Aaron to get down and ring the bell on the right. Aaron got +down and in the darkness was able to read the name on the plate. + +“How much?” said Aaron to the driver. + +“Ten franc,” said the fat driver. + +But it was his turn now to screw down and scrutinise the pink +ten-shilling note. He waved it in his hand. + +“Not good, eh? Not good moneys?” + +“Yes,” said Aaron, rather indignantly. “Good English money. Ten +shillings. Better than ten francs, a good deal. Better--better--” + +“Good--you say? Ten sheeling--” The driver muttered and muttered, as +if dissatisfied. But as a matter of fact he stowed the note in his +waistcoat pocket with considerable satisfaction, looked at Aaron +curiously, and drove away. + +Aaron stood there in the dark outside the big gates, and wished himself +somewhere else. However, he rang the bell. There was a huge barking +of dogs on the other side. Presently a light switched on, and a woman, +followed by a man, appeared cautiously, in the half-opened doorway. + +“Sir William Franks?” said Aaron. + +“Si, signore.” + +And Aaron stepped with his two bags inside the gate. Huge dogs jumped +round. He stood in the darkness under the trees at the foot of the +park. The woman fastened the gate--Aaron saw a door--and through an +uncurtained window a man writing at a desk--rather like the clerk in an +hotel office. He was going with his two bags to the open door, when the +woman stopped him, and began talking to him in Italian. It was evident +he must not go on. So he put down the bags. The man stood a few yards +away, watchfully. + +Aaron looked down at the woman and tried to make out something of what +she was saying, but could not. The dogs still barked spasmodically, +drops fell from the tall, dark trees that rose overhead. + +“Is Mr. Lilly here? Mr. Lilly?” he asked. + +“Signor Lillee. No, Signore--” + +And off the woman went in Italian. But it was evident Lilly was not at +the house. Aaron wished more than ever he had not come, but had gone to +an hotel. + +He made out that the woman was asking him for his name--“Meester--? +Meester--?” she kept saying, with a note of interrogation. + +“Sisson. Mr. Sisson,” said Aaron, who was becoming impatient. And he +found a visiting card to give her. She seemed appeased--said something +about telephone--and left him standing. + +The rain had ceased, but big drops were shaken from the dark, high +trees. Through the uncurtained window he saw the man at the desk reach +the telephone. There was a long pause. At length the woman came back +and motioned to him to go up--up the drive which curved and disappeared +under the dark trees. + +“Go up there?” said Aaron, pointing. + +That was evidently the intention. So he picked up his bags and strode +forward, from out of the circle of electric light, up the curved drive +in the darkness. It was a steep incline. He saw trees and the grass +slopes. There was a tang of snow in the air. + +Suddenly, up ahead, a brilliant light switched on. He continued uphill +through the trees along the path, towards it, and at length, emerged +at the foot of a great flight of steps, above which was a wide glass +entrance, and an Italian manservant in white gloves hovering as if on +the brink. + +Aaron emerged from the drive and climbed the steps. The manservant came +down two steps and took the little bag. Then he ushered Aaron and the +big bag into a large, pillared hall, with thick Turkish carpet on the +floor, and handsome appointments. It was spacious, comfortable and warm; +but somewhat pretentious; rather like the imposing hall into which the +heroine suddenly enters on the film. + +Aaron dropped his heavy bag, with relief, and stood there, hat in hand, +in his damp overcoat in the circle of light, looking vaguely at the +yellow marble pillars, the gilded arches above, the shadowy distances +and the great stairs. The butler disappeared--reappeared in another +moment--and through an open doorway came the host. Sir William was a +small, clean old man with a thin, white beard and a courtly deportment, +wearing a black velvet dinner jacket faced with purple silk. + +“How do you do, Mr. Sisson. You come straight from England?” + +Sir William held out his hand courteously and benevolently, smiling an +old man's smile of hospitality. + +“Mr. Lilly has gone away?” said Aaron. + +“Yes. He left us several days ago.” + +Aaron hesitated. + +“You didn't expect me, then?” + +“Yes, oh, yes. Yes, oh, yes. Very glad to see you--well, now, come in +and have some dinner--” + +At this moment Lady Franks appeared--short, rather plump, but erect and +definite, in a black silk dress and pearls round her throat. + +“How do you do? We are just at dinner,” she said. “You haven't eaten? +No--well, then--would you like a bath now, or--?” + +It was evident the Franks had dispensed much hospitality: much of it +charitable. Aaron felt it. + +“No,” he said. “I'll wash my hands and come straight in, shall I?” + +“Yes, perhaps that would be better--” + +“I'm afraid I am a nuisance.” + +“Not at all--Beppe--” and she gave instructions in Italian. + +Another footman appeared, and took the big bag. Aaron took the little +one this time. They climbed the broad, turning stairs, crossed another +handsome lounge, gilt and ormolu and yellow silk chairs and scattered +copies of _The Graphic_ or of _Country Life_, then they disappeared +through a doorway into a much narrower flight of stairs. Man can so +rarely keep it up all the way, the grandeur. + +Two black and white chamber-maids appeared. Aaron found himself in a +blue silk bedroom, and a footman unstrapping his bag, which he did not +want unstrapped. Next minute he was beckoned and allured by the Italian +servants down the corridor, and presented to the handsome, spacious +bathroom, which was warm and creamy-coloured and glittering with massive +silver and mysterious with up-to-date conveniences. There he was left to +his own devices, and felt like a small boy finding out how it works. For +even the mere turning on of the taps was a problem in silver mechanics. + +In spite of all the splendours and the elaborated convenience, he washed +himself in good hot water, and wished he were having a bath, chiefly +because of the wardrobe of marvellous Turkish towels. Then he clicked +his way back to his bedroom, changed his shirt and combed his hair in +the blue silk bedroom with the Greuze picture, and felt a little dim and +superficial surprise. He had fallen into country house parties before, +but never into quite such a plushy sense of riches. He felt he ought to +have his breath taken away. But alas, the cinema has taken our breath +away so often, investing us in all the splendours of the splendidest +American millionaire, or all the heroics and marvels of the Somme or the +North Pole, that life has now no magnate richer than we, no hero nobler +than we have been, on the film. _Connu_! _Connu_! Everything life has to +offer is known to us, couldn't be known better, from the film. + +So Aaron tied his tie in front of a big Venice mirror, and nothing was +a surprise to him. He found a footman hovering to escort him to the +dining-room--a real Italian footman, uneasy because milady's dinner was +unsettled. He entered the rather small dining-room, and saw the people +at table. + +He was told various names: bowed to a young, slim woman with big +blue eyes and dark hair like a photograph, then to a smaller rather +colourless young woman with a large nose: then to a stout, rubicund, +bald colonel, and to a tall, thin, Oxford-looking major with a black +patch over his eye--both these men in khaki: finally to a good-looking, +well-nourished young man in a dinner-jacket, and he sat down to his +soup, on his hostess' left hand. The colonel sat on her right, and was +confidential. Little Sir William, with his hair and his beard white like +spun glass, his manner very courteous and animated, the purple facings +of his velvet jacket very impressive, sat at the far end of the table +jesting with the ladies and showing his teeth in an old man's smile, a +little bit affected, but pleasant, wishing everybody to be happy. + +Aaron ate his soup, trying to catch up. Milady's own confidential +Italian butler, fidelity itself, hovered quivering near, spiritually +helping the newcomer to catch up. Two nice little entree dishes, +specially prepared for Aaron to take the place of the bygone fish and +vol au-vents of the proper dinner, testified to the courtesy and charity +of his hostess. + +Well, eating rapidly, he had more or less caught up by the time the +sweets came. So he swallowed a glass of wine and looked round. His +hostess with her pearls, and her diamond star in her grey hair, was +speaking of Lilly and then of music to him. + +“I hear you are a musician. That's what I should have been if I had had +my way.” + +“What instrument?” asked Aaron. + +“Oh, the piano. Yours is the flute, Mr. Lilly says. I think the flute +can be so attractive. But I feel, of course you have more range with the +piano. I love the piano--and orchestra.” + +At that moment, the colonel and hostess-duties distracted her. But she +came back in snatches. She was a woman who reminded him a little +of Queen Victoria; so assured in her own room, a large part of her +attention always given to the successful issue of her duties, the +remainder at the disposal of her guests. It was an old-fashioned, not +unpleasant feeling: like retrospect. But she had beautiful, big, smooth +emeralds and sapphires on her fingers. Money! What a curious thing it +is! Aaron noticed the deference of all the guests at table: a touch of +obsequiousness: before the money! And the host and hostess accepted the +deference, nay, expected it, as their due. Yet both Sir William and Lady +Franks knew that it was only money and success. They had both a certain +afterthought, knowing dimly that the game was but a game, and that +they were the helpless leaders in the game. They had a certain basic +ordinariness which prevented their making any great hits, and which +kept them disillusioned all the while. They remembered their poor and +insignificant days. + +“And I hear you were playing in the orchestra at Covent Garden. We came +back from London last week. I enjoyed Beecham's operas so much.” + +“Which do you like best?” said Aaron. + +“Oh, the Russian. I think _Ivan_. It is such fine music.” + +“I find _Ivan_ artificial.” + +“Do you? Oh, I don't think so. No, I don't think you can say that.” + +Aaron wondered at her assurance. She seemed to put him just a tiny bit +in his place, even in an opinion on music. Money gave her that right, +too. Curious--the only authority left. And he deferred to her opinion: +that is, to her money. He did it almost deliberately. Yes--what did he +believe in, besides money? What does any man? He looked at the black +patch over the major's eye. What had he given his eye for?--the nation's +money. Well, and very necessary, too; otherwise we might be where +the wretched Austrians are. Instead of which--how smooth his hostess' +sapphires! + +“Of course I myself prefer Moussorgsky,” said Aaron. “I think he is a +greater artist. But perhaps it is just personal preference.” + +“Yes. _Boris_ is wonderful. Oh, some of the scenes in _Boris_!” + +“And even more _Kovantchina_,” said Aaron. “I wish we could go back +to melody pure and simple. Yet I find _Kovantchina_, which is all mass +music practically, gives me more satisfaction than any other opera.” + +“Do you really? I shouldn't say so: oh, no--but you can't mean that +you would like all music to go back to melody pure and simple! Just a +flute--just a pipe! Oh, Mr. Sisson, you are bigoted for your instrument. +I just LIVE in harmony--chords, chords!” She struck imaginary chords on +the white damask, and her sapphires swam blue. But at the same time she +was watching to see if Sir William had still got beside his plate the +white medicine _cachet_ which he must swallow at every meal. Because if +so, she must remind him to swallow it. However, at that very moment, +he put it on his tongue. So that she could turn her attention again to +Aaron and the imaginary chord on the white damask; the thing she just +lived in. But the rubicund bald colonel, more rubicund after wine, most +rubicund now the Marsala was going, snatched her attention with a burly +homage to her femininity, and shared his fear with her with a boyish +gallantry. + +When the women had gone up, Sir William came near and put his hand on +Aaron's shoulder. It was evident the charm was beginning to work. Sir +William was a self-made man, and not in the least a snob. He liked the +fundamental ordinariness in Aaron, the commonness of the common man. + +“Well now, Mr. Sisson, we are very glad to see you! Very glad, indeed. I +count Mr. Lilly one of the most interesting men it has ever been my good +fortune to know. And so for your own sake, and for Mr. Lilly's sake, +we are very glad to see you. Arthur, my boy, give Mr. Sisson some +Marsala--and take some yourself.” + +“Thank you, Sir,” said the well-nourished young man in nice evening +clothes. “You'll take another glass yourself, Sir?” + +“Yes, I will, I will. I will drink a glass with Mr. Sisson. Major, where +are you wandering off to? Come and take a glass with us, my boy.” + +“Thanks, Sir William,” drawled the young major with the black patch. + +“Now, Colonel--I hope you are in good health and spirits.” + +“Never better, Sir William, never better.” + +“I'm very glad to hear it; very glad indeed. Try my Marsala--I think it +is quite good. Port is beyond us for the moment--for the moment--” + +And the old man sipped his brown wine, and smiled again. He made quite a +handsome picture: but he was frail. + +“And where are you bound, Mr. Sisson? Towards Rome?” + +“I came to meet Lilly,” said Aaron. + +“Ah! But Lilly has fled over the borders by this time. Never was such a +man for crossing frontiers. Wonderful person, to be able to do it.” + +“Where has he gone?” said Aaron. + +“I think to Geneva for the moment. But he certainly talked of Venice. +You yourself have no definite goal?” + +“No.” + +“Ah! You have not come to Italy to practice your art?” + +“I shall HAVE to practice it: or else--no, I haven't come for that.” + +“Ah, you will HAVE to practice it. Ah, yes! We are all under the +necessity to eat. And you have a family in England? Am I not right?” + +“Quite. I've got a family depending on me.” + +“Yes, then you must practice your art: you must practice your art. +Well--shall we join the ladies? Coffee will no doubt be served.” + +“Will you take my arm, Sir?” said the well-nourished Arthur. + +“Thank you, thank you,” the old man motioned him away. + +So they went upstairs to where the three women were sitting in the +library round the fire, chattering not very interested. The entry of Sir +William at once made a stir. + +The girl in white, with the biggish nose, fluttered round him. She was +Arthur's wife. The girl in soft blue spread herself on the couch: she +was the young Major's wife, and she had a blue band round her hair. The +Colonel hovered stout and fidgetty round Lady Franks and the liqueur +stand. He and the Major were both in khaki--belonging to the service on +duty in Italy still. + +Coffee appeared--and Sir William doled out _creme de menthe_. There +was no conversation--only tedious words. The little party was just +commonplace and dull--boring. Yet Sir William, the self-made man, was a +study. And the young, Oxford-like Major, with his English diffidence and +his one dark, pensive, baffled eye was only waiting to be earnest, poor +devil. + +The girl in white had been a sort of companion to Lady Franks, so that +Arthur was more or less a son-in-law. In this capacity, he acted. Aaron +strayed round uneasily looking at the books, bought but not read, and at +the big pictures above. It was Arthur who fetched out the little boxes +containing the orders conferred on Sir William for his war-work: and +perhaps more, for the many thousands of pounds he had spent on his +war-work. + +There were three orders: one British, and quite important, a large +silver star for the breast: one Italian, smaller, and silver and gold; +and one from the State of Ruritania, in silver and red-and-green enamel, +smaller than the others. + +“Come now, William,” said Lady Franks, “you must try them all on. You +must try them all on together, and let us see how you look.” + +The little, frail old man, with his strange old man's blue eyes and his +old man's perpetual laugh, swelled out his chest and said: + +“What, am I to appear in all my vanities?” And he laughed shortly. + +“Of course you are. We want to see you,” said the white girl. + +“Indeed we do! We shouldn't mind all appearing in such vanities--what, +Lady Franks!” boomed the Colonel. + +“I should think not,” replied his hostess. “When a man has honours +conferred on him, it shows a poor spirit if he isn't proud of them.” + +“Of course I am proud of them!” said Sir William. “Well then, come and +have them pinned on. I think it's wonderful to have got so much in one +life-time--wonderful,” said Lady Franks. + +“Oh, Sir William is a wonderful man,” said the Colonel. “Well--we won't +say so before him. But let us look at him in his orders.” + +Arthur, always ready on these occasions, had taken the large and shining +British star from its box, and drew near to Sir William, who stood +swelling his chest, pleased, proud, and a little wistful. + +“This one first, Sir,” said Arthur. + +Sir William stood very still, half tremulous, like a man undergoing an +operation. + +“And it goes just here--the level of the heart. This is where it goes.” + And carefully he pinned the large, radiating ornament on the black +velvet dinner-jacket of the old man. + +“That is the first--and very becoming,” said Lady Franks. + +“Oh, very becoming! Very becoming!” said the tall wife of the Major--she +was a handsome young woman of the tall, frail type. + +“Do you think so, my dear?” said the old man, with his eternal smile: +the curious smile of old people when they are dead. + +“Not only becoming, Sir,” said the Major, bending his tall, slim figure +forwards. “But a reassuring sign that a nation knows how to distinguish +her valuable men.” + +“Quite!” said Lady Franks. “I think it is a very great honour to have +got it. The king was most gracious, too-- Now the other. That goes +beside it--the Italian--” + +Sir William stood there undergoing the operation of the pinning-on. The +Italian star being somewhat smaller than the British, there was a +slight question as to where exactly it should be placed. However, Arthur +decided it: and the old man stood before the company with his two stars +on his breast. + +“And now the Ruritanian,” said Lady Franks eagerly. + +“That doesn't go on the same level with the others, Lady Franks,” said +Arthur. “That goes much lower down--about here.” + +“Are you sure?” said Lady Franks. “Doesn't it go more here?” + +“No no, no no, not at all. Here! Isn't it so, Sybil?” + +“Yes, I think so,” said Sybil. + +Old Sir William stood quite silent, his breast prepared, peering over +the facings of his coat to see where the star was going. The Colonel was +called in, and though he knew nothing about it, he agreed with Arthur, +who apparently did know something. So the star was pinned quite low +down. Sir William, peeping down, exclaimed: + +“Well, that is most curious now! I wear an order over the pit of my +stomach! I think that is very curious: a curious place to wear an +order.” + +“Stand up! Stand up and let us look!” said Lady Franks. “There now, +isn't it handsome? And isn't it a great deal of honour for one man? +Could he have expected so much, in one life-time? I call it wonderful. +Come and look at yourself, dear”--and she led him to a mirror. + +“What's more, all thoroughly deserved,” said Arthur. + +“I should think so,” said the Colonel, fidgetting. + +“Ah, yes, nobody has deserved them better,” cooed Sybil. + +“Nor on more humane and generous grounds,” said the Major, _sotto voce._ + +“The effort to save life, indeed,” returned the Major's young wife: +“splendid!” + +Sir William stood naively before the mirror and looked at his three +stars on his black velvet dinner-jacket. + +“Almost directly over the pit of my stomach,” he said. “I hope that is +not a decoration for my greedy APPETITE.” And he laughed at the young +women. + +“I assure you it is in position, Sir,” said Arthur. “Absolutely correct. +I will read it out to you later.” + +“Aren't you satisfied? Aren't you a proud man! Isn't it wonderful?” said +Lady Franks. “Why, what more could a man want from life? He could never +EXPECT so much.” + +“Yes, my dear. I AM a proud man. Three countries have honoured me--” + There was a little, breathless pause. + +“And not more than they ought to have done,” said Sybil. + +“Well! Well! I shall have my head turned. Let me return to my own humble +self. I am too much in the stars at the moment.” + +Sir William turned to Arthur to have his decorations removed. Aaron, +standing in the background, felt the whole scene strange, childish, a +little touching. And Lady Franks was so obviously trying to _console_ +her husband: to console the frail, excitable old man with his honours. +But why console him? Did he need consolation? And did she? It was +evident that only the hard-money woman in her put any price on the +decorations. + +Aaron came forward and examined the orders, one after the other. Just +metal playthings of curious shiny silver and gilt and enamel. Heavy the +British one--but only like some heavy buckle, a piece of metal merely +when one turned it over. Somebody dropped the Italian cross, and there +was a moment of horror. But the lump of metal took no hurt. Queer to see +the things stowed in their boxes again. Aaron had always imagined these +mysterious decorations as shining by nature on the breasts of heroes. +Pinned-on pieces of metal were a considerable come-down. + +The orders were put away, the party sat round the fire in the +comfortable library, the men sipping more _creme de menthe_, since +nothing else offered, and the couple of hours in front promising the +tedium of small-talk of tedious people who had really nothing to say and +no particular originality in saying it. + +Aaron, however, had reckoned without his host. Sir William sat upright +in his chair, with all the determination of a frail old man who insists +on being level with the young. The new guest sat in a lower chair, +smoking, that curious glimmer on his face which made him so attractive, +and which only meant that he was looking on the whole scene from the +outside, as it were, from beyond a fence. Sir William came almost +directly to the attack. + +“And so, Mr. Sisson, you have no definite purpose in coming to Italy?” + +“No, none,” said Aaron. “I wanted to join Lilly.” + +“But when you had joined him--?” + +“Oh, nothing--stay here a time, in this country, if I could earn my +keep.” + +“Ah!--earn your keep? So you hope to earn your keep here? May I ask +how?” + +“By my flute.” + +“Italy is a poor country.” + +“I don't want much.” + +“You have a family to provide for.” + +“They are provided for--for a couple of years.” + +“Oh, indeed! Is that so?” + +The old man got out of Aaron the detailed account of his +circumstances--how he had left so much money to be paid over to his +wife, and had received only a small amount for himself. + +“I see you are like Lilly--you trust to Providence,” said Sir William. + +“Providence or fate,” said Aaron. + +“Lilly calls it Providence,” said Sir William. “For my own part, I +always advise Providence plus a banking account. I have every belief in +Providence, plus a banking account. Providence and no banking account I +have observed to be almost invariably fatal. Lilly and I have argued it. +He believes in casting his bread upon the waters. I sincerely hope +he won't have to cast himself after his bread, one of these days. +Providence with a banking account. Believe in Providence once you have +secured enough to live on. I should consider it disastrous to believe in +Providence BEFORE. One can never be SURE of Providence.” + +“What can you be sure of, then?” said Aaron. + +“Well, in moderation, I can believe in a little hard cash, and in my own +ability to earn a little hard cash.” + +“Perhaps Lilly believes in his own ability, too.” + +“No. Not so. Because he will never directly work to earn money. He +works--and works quite well, I am told: but only as the spirit moves +him, and never with any eye to the market. Now I call that TEMPTING +Providence, myself. The spirit may move him in quite an opposite +direction to the market--then where is Lilly? I have put it to him more +than once.” + +“The spirit generally does move him dead against the market,” said +Aaron. “But he manages to scrape along.” + +“In a state of jeopardy: all the time in a state of jeopardy,” said +the old man. “His whole existence, and that of his wife, is completely +precarious. I found, in my youth, the spirit moved me to various things +which would have left me and my wife starving. So I realised in time, +this was no good. I took my spirit in hand, therefore, and made him +pull the cart which mankind is riding in. I harnessed him to the work of +productive labour. And so he brought me my reward.” + +“Yes,” said Aaron. “But every man according to his belief.” + +“I don't see,” said Sir William, “how a man can BELIEVE in a Providence +unless he sets himself definitely to the work of earning his daily +bread, and making provision for future needs. That's what Providence +means to me--making provision for oneself and one's family. Now, Mr. +Lilly--and you yourself--you say you believe in a Providence that does +NOT compel you to earn your daily bread, and make provision. I confess +myself I cannot see it: and Lilly has never been able to convince me.” + +“I don't believe in a kind-hearted Providence,” said Aaron, “and I don't +believe Lilly does. But I believe in chance. I believe, if I go my own +way, without tying my nose to a job, chance will always throw something +in my way: enough to get along with.” + +“But on what do you base such a very unwarrantable belief?” + +“I just feel like that.” + +“And if you are ever quite without success--and nothing to fall back +on?” + +“I can work at something.” + +“In case of illness, for example?” + +“I can go to a hospital--or die.” + +“Dear me! However, you are more logical than Lilly. He seems to believe +that he has the Invisible--call it Providence if you will--on his side, +and that this Invisible will never leave him in the lurch, or let him +down, so long as he sticks to his own side of the bargain, and NEVER +works for his own ends. I don't quite see how he works. Certainly he +seems to me a man who squanders a great deal of talent unworthily. Yet +for some reason or other he calls this true, genuine activity, and has +a contempt for actual work by which a man makes provision for his years +and for his family. In the end, he will have to fall back on charity. +But when I say so, he denies it, and says that in the end we, the men +who work and make provision, will have to fall back on him. Well, all +I can say is, that SO FAR he is in far greater danger of having to fall +back on me, than I on him.” + +The old man sat back in his chair with a little laugh of triumph. But it +smote almost devilishly on Aaron's ears, and for the first time in his +life he felt that there existed a necessity for taking sides. + +“I don't suppose he will do much falling back,” he said. + +“Well, he is young yet. You are both young. You are squandering your +youth. I am an old man, and I see the end.” + +“What end, Sir William?” + +“Charity--and poverty--and some not very congenial 'job,' as you call +it, to put bread in your mouth. No, no, I would not like to trust myself +to your Providence, or to your Chance. Though I admit your Chance is +a sounder proposition than Lilly's Providence. You speculate with your +life and your talent. I admit the nature which is a born speculator. +After all, with your flute, you will speculate in other people's taste +for luxury, as a man may speculate in theatres or _trains de luxe_. You +are the speculator. That may be your way of wisdom. But Lilly does not +even speculate. I cannot see his point. I cannot see his point. I cannot +see his point. Yet I have the greatest admiration for his mentality.” + +The old man had fired up during this conversation--and all the others +in the room had gone silent. Lady Franks was palpably uneasy. She alone +knew how frail the old man was--frailer by far than his years. She alone +knew what fear of his own age, what fear of death haunted him now: fear +of his own non-existence. His own old age was an agony to him; worse +than an agony, a horror. He wanted to be young--to live, to live. And +he was old, he was breaking up. The glistening youth of Aaron, the +impetuousness of Lilly fascinated him. And both these men seemed calmly +to contradict his own wealth and honours. + +Lady Franks tried to turn off the conversation to the trickles of normal +chit-chat. The Colonel was horribly bored--so were all the women--Arthur +was indifferent. Only the young Major was implicated, troubled in his +earnest and philosophic spirit. + +“What I can't see,” he said, “is the place that others have in your +scheme.” + +“Is isn't a scheme,” said Aaron. + +“Well then, your way of life. Isn't it pretty selfish, to marry a woman +and then expect her to live on very little indeed, and that always +precarious, just because you happen to believe in Providence or in +Chance: which I think worse? What I don't see is where others come in. +What would the world be like if everybody lived that way?” + +“Other people can please themselves,” said Aaron. + +“No, they can't--because you take first choice, it seems to me. +Supposing your wife--or Lilly's wife--asks for security and for +provision, as Sir William says. Surely she has a right to it.” + +“If I've no right to it myself--and I HAVE no right to it, if I don't +want it--then what right has she?” + +“Every right, I should say. All the more since you are improvident.” + +“Then she must manage her rights for herself. It's no good her foisting +her rights on to me.” + +“Isn't that pure selfishness?” + +“It may be. I shall send my wife money as long as I've money to send.” + +“And supposing you have none?” + +“Then I can't send it--and she must look out for herself.” + +“I call that almost criminal selfishness.” + +“I can't help it.” + +The conversation with the young Major broke off. + +“It is certainly a good thing for society that men like you and Mr. +Lilly are not common,” said Sir William, laughing. + +“Becoming commoner every day, you'll find,” interjaculated the Colonel. + +“Indeed! Indeed! Well. May we ask you another question, Mr. Sisson? I +hope you don't object to our catechism?” + +“No. Nor your judgment afterwards,” said Aaron, grinning. + +“Then upon what grounds did you abandon your family? I know it is a +tender subject. But Lilly spoke of it to us, and as far I could +see....” + +“There were no grounds,” said Aaron. “No, there weren't I just left +them.” + +“Mere caprice?” + +“If it's a caprice to be begotten--and a caprice to be born--and a +caprice to die--then that was a caprice, for it was the same.” + +“Like birth or death? I don't follow.” + +“It happened to me: as birth happened to me once--and death will happen. +It was a sort of death, too: or a sort of birth. But as undeniable as +either. And without any more grounds.” + +The old, tremulous man, and the young man were watching one another. + +“A natural event,” said Sir William. + +“A natural event,” said Aaron. + +“Not that you loved any other woman?” + +“God save me from it.” + +“You just left off loving?” + +“Not even that. I went away.” + +“What from?” + +“From it all.” + +“From the woman in particular?” + +“Oh, yes. Yes. Yes, that.” + +“And you couldn't go back?” + +Aaron shook his head. + +“Yet you can give no reasons?” + +“Not any reasons that would be any good. It wasn't a question of +reasons. It was a question of her and me and what must be. What makes a +child be born out of its mother to the pain and trouble of both of them? +I don't know.” + +“But that is a natural process.” + +“So is this--or nothing.” + +“No,” interposed the Major. “Because birth is a universal process--and +yours is a specific, almost unique event.” + +“Well, unique or not, it so came about. I didn't ever leave off loving +her--not as far as I know. I left her as I shall leave the earth when I +die--because it has to be.” + +“Do you know what I think it is, Mr. Sisson?” put in Lady Franks. “I +think you are just in a wicked state of mind: just that. Mr. Lilly, too. +And you must be very careful, or some great misfortune will happen to +you.” + +“It may,” said Aaron. + +“And it will, mark my word, it will.” + +“You almost wish it might, as a judgment on me,” smiled Aaron. + +“Oh, no, indeed. I should only be too sorry. But I feel it will, unless +you are careful.” + +“I'll be careful, then.” + +“Yes, and you can't be too careful.” + +“You make me frightened.” + +“I would like to make you very frightened indeed, so that you went back +humbly to your wife and family.” + +“It would HAVE to be a big fright then, I assure you.” + +“Ah, you are really heartless. It makes me angry.” + +She turned angrily aside. + +“Well, well! Well, well! Life! Life! Young men are a new thing to me!” + said Sir William, shaking his head. “Well, well! What do you say to +whiskey and soda, Colonel?” + +“Why, delighted, Sir William,” said the Colonel, bouncing up. + +“A night-cap, and then we retire,” said Lady Franks. + +Aaron sat thinking. He knew Sir William liked him: and that Lady Franks +didn't. One day he might have to seek help from Sir William. So he had +better placate milady. Wrinkling the fine, half mischievous smile on his +face, and trading on his charm, he turned to his hostess. + +“You wouldn't mind, Lady Franks, if I said nasty things about my wife +and found a lot of fault with her. What makes you angry is that I know +it is not a bit more her fault than mine, that we come apart. It can't +be helped.” + +“Oh, yes, indeed. I disapprove of your way of looking at things +altogether. It seems to me altogether cold and unmanly and inhuman. +Thank goodness my experience of a man has been different.” + +“We can't all be alike, can we? And if I don't choose to let you see me +crying, that doesn't prove I've never had a bad half hour, does it? I've +had many--ay, and a many.” + +“Then why are you so WRONG, so wrong in your behaviour?” + +“I suppose I've got to have my bout out: and when it's out, I can +alter.” + +“Then I hope you've almost had your bout out,” she said. + +“So do I,” said he, with a half-repentant, half-depressed look on his +attractive face. The corners of his mouth grimaced slightly under his +moustache. + +“The best thing you can do is to go straight back to England, and to +her.” + +“Perhaps I'd better ask her if she wants me, first,” he said drily. + +“Yes, you might do that, too.” And Lady Franks felt she was quite +getting on with her work of reform, and the restoring of woman to her +natural throne. Best not go too fast, either. + +“Say when,” shouted the Colonel, who was manipulating the syphon. + +“When,” said Aaron. + +The men stood up to their drinks. + +“Will you be leaving in the morning, Mr. Sisson?” asked Lady Franks. + +“May I stay till Monday morning?” said Aaron. They were at Saturday +evening. + +“Certainly. And you will take breakfast in your room: we all do. At what +time? Half past eight?” + +“Thank you very much.” + +“Then at half past eight the man will bring it in. Goodnight.” + +Once more in his blue silk bedroom, Aaron grimaced to himself and stood +in the middle of the room grimacing. His hostess' admonitions were like +vitriol in his ears. He looked out of the window. Through the darkness +of trees, the lights of a city below. Italy! The air was cold with snow. +He came back into his soft, warm room. Luxurious it was. And luxurious +the deep, warm bed. + +He was still asleep when the man came noiselessly in with the tray: and +it was morning. Aaron woke and sat up. He felt that the deep, warm bed, +and the soft, warm room had made him sleep too well: robbed him of his +night, like a narcotic. He preferred to be more uncomfortable and more +aware of the flight of the dark hours. It seemed numbing. + +The footman in his grey house-jacket was neat and Italian and +sympathising. He gave good-morning in Italian--then softly arranged the +little table by the bedside, and put out the toast and coffee and butter +and boiled egg and honey, with silver and delicate china. Aaron watched +the soft, catlike motions of the man. The dark eyes glanced once at the +blond man, leaning on his elbow on the pillow. Aaron's face had that +watchful, half-amused expression. The man said something in Italian. +Aaron shook his head, laughed, and said: + +“Tell me in English.” + +The man went softly to the window curtains, and motioned them with his +hand. + +“Yes, do,” said Aaron. + +So the man drew the buff-coloured silk curtains: and Aaron, sitting +in bed, could see away beyond red roofs of a town, and in the further +heaven great snowy mountains. + +“The Alps,” he said in surprise. + +“Gli Alpi--si, signore.” The man bowed, gathered up Aaron's clothes, and +silently retired. + +Aaron watched through the window. It was a frosty morning at the end +of September, with a clear blue morning-sky, Alpine, and the watchful, +snow-streaked mountain tops bunched in the distance, as if waiting. +There they were, hovering round, circling, waiting. They reminded him +of marvellous striped sky-panthers circling round a great camp: the +red-roofed city. Aaron looked, and looked again. In the near distance, +under the house elm-tree tops were yellowing. He felt himself changing +inside his skin. + +So he turned away to his coffee and eggs. A little silver egg-cup with a +curious little frill round it: honey in a frail, iridescent glass bowl, +gold-iridescent: the charm of delicate and fine things. He smiled half +mockingly to himself. Two instincts played in him: the one, an instinct +for fine, delicate things: he had attractive hands; the other, an +inclination to throw the dainty little table with all its niceties out +of the window. It evoked a sort of devil in him. + +He took his bath: the man had brought back his things: he dressed and +went downstairs. No one in the lounge: he went down to the ground floor: +no one in the big hall with its pillars of yellow marble and its gold +arches, its enormous, dark, bluey-red carpet. He stood before the great +glass doors. Some red flowers still were blooming in the tubs, on the +steps, handsome: and beautiful chrysanthemums in the wide portico. +Beyond, yellow leaves were already falling on the green grass and the +neat drive. Everywhere was silent and empty. He climbed the wide stairs, +sat in the long, upper lounge where the papers were. He wanted his hat +and coat, and did not know where to find them. The windows looked on to +a terraced garden, the hill rising steeply behind the house. He wanted +to go out. + +So he opened more doors, and in a long drawing-room came upon five or +six manservants, all in the grey house-jackets, all clean-shaven, neat, +with neat black hair, all with dusters or brushes or feather brooms, and +all frolicking, chattering, playing like so many monkeys. They were all +of the same neat, smallish size. They were all laughing. They rolled +back a great rug as if it were some football game, one flew at the +curtains. And they merely looked at Aaron and went on chattering, and +laughing and dusting. + +Surprised, and feeling that he trespassed, he stood at the window a +moment looking out. The noise went on behind him. So he turned, smiling, +and asked for his hat, pointing to his head. They knew at once what he +wanted. One of the fellows beckoned him away, down to the hall and to +the long cupboard place where hats and coats and sticks were hung. There +was his hat; he put it on, while the man chattered to him pleasantly and +unintelligibly, and opened for him the back door, into the garden. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. WIE ES IHNEN GEFAELLT + + +The fresh morning air comes startling after a central heated house. So +Aaron found it. He felt himself dashing up the steps into the garden +like a bird dashing out of a trap where it has been caught: that warm +and luxurious house. Heaven bless us, we who want to save civilisation. +We had better make up our minds what of it we want to save. The kernel +may be all well and good. But there is precious little kernel, to a lot +of woolly stuffing and poisonous rind. + +The gardens to Sir William's place were not imposing, and still rather +war-neglected. But the pools of water lay smooth in the bright air, the +flowers showed their colour beside the walks. Many birds dashed +about, rather bewildered, having crossed the Alps in their migration +southwards. Aaron noted with gratification a certain big magnificence, +a certain reckless powerfulness in the still-blossoming, harsh-coloured, +autumn flowers. Distinct satisfaction he derived from it. + +He wandered upwards, up the succeeding flights of step; till he came +to the upper rough hedge, and saw the wild copse on the hill-crest just +above. Passing through a space in the hedge, he climbed the steep last +bit of Sir William's lane. It was a little vineyard, with small vines +and yellowing leaves. Everywhere the place looked neglected--but as if +man had just begun to tackle it once more. + +At the very top, by the wild hedge where spindle-berries hung pink, +seats were placed, and from here the view was very beautiful. The hill +dropped steep beneath him. A river wound on the near side of the city, +crossed by a white bridge. The city lay close clustered, ruddy on the +plains, glittering in the clear air with its flat roofs and domes and +square towers, strangely naked-seeming in the clear, clean air. And +massive in the further nearness, snow-streaked mountains, the tiger-like +Alps. Tigers prowling between the north and the south. And this +beautiful city lying nearest exposed. The snow-wind brushed her this +morning like the icy whiskers of a tiger. And clear in the light lay +Novara, wide, fearless, violent Novara. Beautiful the perfect air, the +perfect and unblemished Alp-sky. And like the first southern flower, +Novara. + +Aaron sat watching in silence. Only the uneasy birds rustled. He watched +the city and the winding river, the bridges, and the imminent Alps. He +was on the south side. On the other side of the time barrier. His old, +sleepy English nature was startled in its sleep. He felt like a man who +knows it is time to wake up, and who doesn't want to wake up, to face +the responsibility of another sort of day. + +To open his darkest eyes and wake up to a new responsibility. Wake +up and enter on the responsibility of a new self in himself. Ach, the +horror of responsibility! He had all his life slept and shelved the +burden. And he wanted to go on sleeping. It was so hateful to have +to get a new grip on his own bowels, a new hard recklessness into his +heart, a new and responsible consciousness into his mind and soul. He +felt some finger prodding, prodding, prodding him awake out of the sleep +of pathos and tragedy and spasmodic passion, and he wriggled, unwilling, +oh, most unwilling to undertake the new business. + +In fact he ran away again. He gave a last look at the town and its +white-fanged mountains, and descended through the garden, round the way +of the kitchen garden and garage and stables and pecking chickens, back +to the house again. In the hall still no one. He went upstairs to the +long lounge. There sat the rubicund, bald, boy-like Colonel reading the +_Graphic_. Aaron sat down opposite him, and made a feeble attempt at +conversation. But the Colonel wasn't having any. It was evident he +didn't care for the fellow--Mr. Aaron, that is. Aaron therefore dried +up, and began to sit him out, with the aid of _The Queen_. Came a +servant, however, and said that the Signor Colonello was called up from +the hospital, on the telephone. The Colonel once departed, Aaron fled +again, this time out of the front doors, and down the steep little park +to the gates. + +Huge dogs and little dogs came bounding forward. Out of the lodge came +the woman with the keys, smiling very pleasantly this morning. So, he +was in the street. The wide road led him inevitably to the big bridge, +with the violent, physical stone statue-groups. Men and women were +moving about, and he noticed for the first time the littleness and +the momentaneousness of the Italians in the street. Perhaps it was the +wideness of the bridge and the subsequent big, open boulevard. But there +it was: the people seemed little, upright brisk figures moving in a +certain isolation, like tiny figures on a big stage. And he felt himself +moving in the space between. All the northern cosiness gone. He was set +down with a space round him. + +Little trams flitted down the boulevard in the bright, sweet light. The +barbers' shops were all busy, half the Novarese at that moment ambushed +in lather, full in the public gaze. A shave is nothing if not a public +act, in the south. At the little outdoor tables of the cafes a very few +drinkers sat before empty coffee-cups. Most of the shops were shut. It +was too soon after the war for life to be flowing very fast. The feeling +of emptiness, of neglect, of lack of supplies was evident everywhere. + +Aaron strolled on, surprised himself at his gallant feeling of liberty: +a feeling of bravado and almost swaggering carelessness which is Italy's +best gift to an Englishman. He had crossed the dividing line, and +the values of life, though ostensibly and verbally the same, were +dynamically different. Alas, however, the verbal and the ostensible, +the accursed mechanical ideal gains day by day over the spontaneous +life-dynamic, so that Italy becomes as idea-bound and as automatic as +England: just a business proposition. + +Coming to the station, he went inside. There he saw a money-changing +window which was open, so he planked down a five-pound note and got +two-hundred-and-ten lire. Here was a start. At a bookstall he saw a +man buy a big timetable with a large railway map in it. He immediately +bought the same. Then he retired to a corner to get his whereabouts. + +In the morning he must move: where? He looked on the map. The map seemed +to offer two alternatives, Milan and Genoa. He chose Milan, because of +its musical associations and its cathedral. Milano then. Strolling and +still strolling, he found the boards announcing Arrivals and Departures. +As far as he could make out, the train for Milan left at 9:00 in the +morning. + +So much achieved, he left the big desolating caravanserai of the +station. Soldiers were camped in every corner, lying in heaps asleep. +In their grey-green uniform, he was surprised at their sturdy limbs and +uniformly short stature. For the first time, he saw the cock-feathers +of the Bersaglieri. There seemed a new life-quality everywhere. Many +worlds, not one world. But alas, the one world triumphing more and +more over the many worlds, the big oneness swallowing up the many +small diversities in its insatiable gnawing appetite, leaving a dreary +sameness throughout the world, that means at last complete sterility. + +Aaron, however, was too new to the strangeness, he had no eye for the +horrible sameness that was spreading like a disease over Italy from +England and the north. He plunged into the space in front of the +station, and took a new, wide boulevard. To his surprise he ran towards +a big and over-animated statue that stood resolutely with its back to +the magnificent snow-domes of the wild Alps. Wolves in the street +could not have startled him more than those magnificent fierce-gleaming +mountains of snow at the street-end, beyond the statue. He stood and +wondered, and never thought to look who the gentleman was. Then he +turned right round, and began to walk home. + +Luncheon was at one o'clock. It was half-past twelve when he rang at +the lodge gates. He climbed through the leaves of the little park, on a +side-path, rather reluctantly towards the house. In the hall Lady Franks +was discussing with Arthur a fat Pekinese who did not seem very well. +She was sure the servants did not obey her orders concerning the +Pekinese bitch. Arthur, who was more than indifferent, assured her they +did. But she seemed to think that the whole of the male human race was +in league against the miserable specimen of a she-dog. She almost cried, +thinking her Queenie _might_ by some chance meet with, perhaps, a harsh +word or look. Queenie apparently fattened on the secret detestation of +the male human species. + +“I can't bear to think that a dumb creature might be ill-treated,” she +said to Aaron. “Thank goodness the Italians are better than they used to +be.” + +“Are they better than they used to be?” + +“Oh, much. They have learnt it from us.” + +She then enquired if her guest had slept, and if he were rested from +his journey. Aaron, into whose face the faint snow-wind and the sun had +brought a glow, replied that he had slept well and enjoyed the morning, +thank you. Whereupon Lady Franks knitted her brows and said Sir William +had had such a bad night. He had not been able to sleep, and had got +up and walked about the room. The least excitement, and she dreaded a +break-down. He must have absolute calm and restfulness. + +“There's one for you and your jawing last night, Aaron, my boy!” said +our hero to himself. + +“I thought Sir William seemed so full of life and energy,” he said, +aloud. + +“Ah, did you! No, he WANTS to be. But he can't do it. He's very much +upset this morning. I have been very anxious about him.” + +“I am sorry to hear that.” + +Lady Franks departed to some duty. Aaron sat alone before the fire. +It was a huge fireplace, like a dark chamber shut in by tall, +finely-wrought iron gates. Behind these iron gates of curly iron the +logs burned and flickered like leopards slumbering and lifting their +heads within their cage. Aaron wondered who was the keeper of the savage +element, who it was that would open the iron grille and throw on another +log, like meat to the lions. To be sure the fire was only to be looked +at: like wild beasts in the Zoo. For the house was warm from roof to +floor. It was strange to see the blue air of sunlight outside, the +yellow-edged leaves falling in the wind, the red flowers shaking. + +The gong sounded softly through the house. The Colonel came in heartily +from the garden, but did not speak to Aaron. The Major and his wife +came pallid down the stairs. Lady Franks appeared, talking +domestic-secretarial business with the wife of Arthur. Arthur, +well-nourished and half at home, called down the stairs. And then Sir +William descended, old and frail now in the morning, shaken: still he +approached Aaron heartily, and asked him how he did, and how he had +spent his morning. The old man who had made a fortune: how he expected +homage: and how he got it! Homage, like most things, is just a +convention and a social trick. Aaron found himself paying homage, too, +to the old man who had made a fortune. But also, exacting a certain +deference in return, from the old man who had made a fortune. Getting +it, too. On what grounds? Youth, maybe. But mostly, scorn for fortunes +and fortune-making. Did he scorn fortunes and fortune-making? Not he, +otherwise whence this homage for the old man with much money? Aaron, +like everybody else, was rather paralysed by a million sterling, +personified in one old man. Paralysed, fascinated, overcome. All those +three. Only having no final control over his own make-up, he could not +drive himself into the money-making or even into the money-having habit. +And he had just wit enough to threaten Sir William's golden king with +his own ivory queen and knights of wilful life. And Sir William quaked. + +“Well, and how have you spent your morning?” asked the host. + +“I went first to look at the garden.” + +“Ah, not much to see now. They have been beautiful with flowers, +once. But for two and a half years the house has been a hospital for +officers--and even tents in the park and garden--as many as two hundred +wounded and sick at a time. We are only just returning to civil life. +And flowers need time. Yes--yes--British officers--for two and a half +years. But did you go up, now, to the belvedere?” + +“To the top--where the vines are? I never expected the mountains.” + +“You never expected the mountains? Pray, why not? They are always +there!” + +“But I was never there before. I never knew they were there, round the +town. I didn't expect it like that.” + +“Ah! So you found our city impressive?” + +“Very! Ah, very! A new world to me. I feel I've come out of myself.” + +“Yes, it is a wonderful sight--a wonderful sight-- But you have not been +INTO the town?” + +“Yes. I saw the men being shaved, and all the soldiers at the station: +and a statue, and mountains behind it. Oh, I've had a full morning.” + +“A full morning! That is good, that is good!” The old man looked again +at the younger man, and seemed to get life from him, to live in him +vicariously. + +“Come,” said the hostess. “Luncheon.” + +Aaron sat again on his hostess' left hand. The Colonel was more affable +now it was meal-time. Sir William was again in a good humour, chaffing +the young ladies with an old man's gallantry. But now he insisted on +drawing Aaron into the play. And Aaron did not want to be drawn. He did +not one bit want to chaffer gallantries with the young women. Between +him and Sir William there was a curious rivalry--unconscious on both +sides. The old knight had devoted an energetic, adventurous, almost an +artistic nature to the making of his fortune and the developing of later +philanthropies. He had no children. Aaron was devoting a similar nature +to anything but fortune-making and philanthropy. The one held life to +be a storing-up of produce and a conservation of energy: the other held +life to be a sheer spending of energy and a storing-up of nothing but +experience. There they were, in opposition, the old man and the young. +Sir William kept calling Aaron into the chaffer at the other end of +the table: and Aaron kept on refusing to join. He hated long distance +answers, anyhow. And in his mood of the moment he hated the young women. +He had a conversation with Arthur about statues: concerning which Aaron +knew nothing, and Arthur less than nothing. Then Lady Franks turned the +conversation to the soldiers at the station, and said how Sir William +had equipped rest-huts for the Italian privates, near the station: but +that such was the jealousy and spite of the Italian Red Cross--or +some such body, locally--that Sir William's huts had been left +empty--standing unused--while the men had slept on the stone floor of +the station, night after night, in icy winter. There was evidently much +bitter feeling as a result of Sir William's philanthropy. Apparently +even the honey of lavish charity had turned to gall in the Italian +mouth: at least the official mouth. Which gall had been spat back at +the charitable, much to his pain. It is in truth a difficult world, +particularly when you have another race to deal with. After which came +the beef-olives. + +“Oh,” said Lady Franks, “I had such a dreadful dream last night, such a +dreadful dream. It upset me so much. I have not been able to get over it +all day.” + +“What was it?” said Aaron. “Tell it, and break it.” + +“Why,” said his hostess, “I dreamed I was asleep in my room--just as I +actually was--and that it was night, yet with a terrible sort of light, +like the dead light before dawn, so that one could see. And my maid +Giuseppina came running into my room, saying: 'Signora! Signora! Si +alza! Subito! Signora! Vengono su!'--and I said, 'Chi? Chi sono chi +vengono? Chi?'--'I Novaresi! I Novaresi vengono su. Vengono qui!'--I +got out of bed and went to the window. And there they were, in the dead +light, rushing up to the house, through the trees. It was so awful, I +haven't been able to forget it all day.” + +“Tell me what the words are in English,” said Aaron. + +“Why,” she said, “get up, get up--the Novaresi, the people of Novara +are coming up--vengono su--they are coming up--the Novara +people--work-people. I can't forget it. It was so real, I can't believe +it didn't actually happen.” + +“Ah,” said Aaron. “It will never happen. I know, that whatever one +foresees, and FEELS has happened, never happens in real life. It sort of +works itself off through the imagining of it.” + +“Well, it was almost more real to me than real life,” said his hostess. + +“Then it will never happen in real life,” he said. + +Luncheon passed, and coffee. The party began to disperse--Lady Franks to +answer more letters, with the aid of Arthur's wife--some to sleep, some +to walk. Aaron escaped once more through the big gates. This time he +turned his back on the town and the mountains, and climbed up the hill +into the country. So he went between the banks and the bushes, watching +for unknown plants and shrubs, hearing the birds, feeling the influence +of a new soil. At the top of the hill he saw over into vineyards, and a +new strange valley with a winding river, and jumbled, entangled hills. +Strange wild country so near the town. It seemed to keep an almost +virgin wildness--yet he saw the white houses dotted here and there. + +Just below him was a peasant house: and on a little loggia in the sun +two peasants in white shirtsleeves and black Sunday suits were sitting +drinking wine, and talking, talking. Peasant youths in black hats, their +sweethearts in dark stuff dresses, wearing no hat, but a black silk or +a white silk scarf, passed slowly along the little road just below the +ridge. None looked up to see Aaron sitting there alone. From some hidden +place somebody was playing an accordion, a jerky sound in the still +afternoon. And away beyond lay the unchanging, mysterious valley, and +the infolding, mysterious hills of Italy. + +Returning back again another way, he lost himself at the foot of the +hill in new and deserted suburb streets--unfinished streets of seemingly +unfinished houses. Then a sort of boulevard where bourgeois families +were taking the Sunday afternoon walk: stout papas, stout, pallid mamas +in rather cheap black fur, little girls very much dressed, and long lads +in short socks and round sailor caps, ribbons fluttering. Alien they +felt, alien, alien, as a bourgeois crowd always does, but particularly +a foreign, Sunday-best bourgeois crowd. Aaron wandered and wandered, +finding the tram terminus and trying blank, unfinished street after +street. He had a great disinclination to ask his way. + +At last he recognised the bank and the little stream of water that ran +along the street side. So he was back in time for tea. A hospital nurse +was there, and two other strange women. Arthur played the part of host. +Sir William came in from a walk with the dogs, but retired to his room +without taking tea. + +And so the evening fell. Aaron sat in the hall at some distance from the +fire, which burned behind its wrought iron gates. He was tired now with +all his impressions, and dispirited. He thought of his wife and children +at home: of the church-bells ringing so loudly across the field beyond +his garden end: of the dark-clad people trailing unevenly across the two +paths, one to the left, one to the right, forking their way towards the +houses of the town, to church or to chapel: mostly to chapel. At this +hour he himself would be dressed in his best clothes, tying his bow, +ready to go out to the public house. And his wife would be resenting his +holiday departure, whilst she was left fastened to the children. + +Rather tired and dispirited in this alien place, he wondered if he +wished himself back. But the moment he actually _realised_ himself +at home, and felt the tension of barrenness which it meant, felt the +curious and deadly opposition of his wife's will against his own nature, +the almost nauseating ache which it amounted to, he pulled himself +together and rejoiced again in his new surroundings. Her will, her will, +her terrible, implacable, cunning will! What was there in the female +will so diabolical, he asked himself, that it could press like a flat +sheet of iron against a man all the time? The female will! He realised +now that he had a horror of it. It was flat and inflexible as a sheet +of iron. But also it was cunning as a snake that could sing treacherous +songs. + +Of two people at a deadlock, he always reminded himself, there is not +one only wholly at fault. Both must be at fault. Having a detached and +logical soul, he never let himself forget this truth. Take Lottie! He +had loved her. He had never loved any other woman. If he had had his +other affairs--it was out of spite or defiance or curiosity. They meant +nothing. He and Lottie had loved one another. And the love had developed +almost at once into a kind of combat. Lottie had been the only child of +headstrong, well-to-do parents. He also had been the only child of his +widowed mother. Well then, both he and Lottie had been brought up +to consider themselves the first in whatsoever company they found +themselves. During the early months of the marriage he had, of course, +continued the spoiling of the young wife. But this never altered the +fact that, by his very nature, he considered himself as first and almost +as single in any relationship. First and single he felt, and as such he +bore himself. It had taken him years to realise that Lottie also felt +herself first and single: under all her whimsicalness and fretfulness +was a conviction as firm as steel: that she, as woman, was the centre of +creation, the man was but an adjunct. She, as woman, and particularly +as mother, was the first great source of life and being, and also of +culture. The man was but the instrument and the finisher. She was the +source and the substance. + +Sure enough, Lottie had never formulated this belief inside herself. But +it was formulated for her in the whole world. It is the substantial +and professed belief of the whole white world. She did but inevitably +represent what the whole world around her asserted: the life-centrality +of woman. Woman, the life-bearer, the life-source. + +Nearly all men agree to the assertion. Practically all men, even while +demanding their selfish rights as superior males, tacitly agree to the +fact of the sacred life-bearing priority of woman. Tacitly, they yield +the worship to that which is female. Tacitly, they conspire to agree +that all that is productive, all that is fine and sensitive and most +essentially noble, is woman. This, in their productive and religious +souls, they believe. And however much they may react against the belief, +loathing their women, running to prostitutes, or beer or _anything_, +out of reaction against this great and ignominious dogma of the sacred +priority of women, still they do but profane the god they worship. +Profaning woman, they still inversely worship her. + +But in Aaron was planted another seed. He did not know it. He started +off on the good old tack of worshipping his woman while his heart was +honest, and profaning her in his fits of temper and revolt. But he made +a bad show. Born in him was a spirit which could not worship woman: +no, and would not. Could not and would not. It was not in him. In early +days, he tried to pretend it was in him. But through his plaintive and +homage-rendering love of a young husband was always, for the woman, +discernible the arrogance of self-unyielding male. He never yielded +himself: never. All his mad loving was only an effort. Afterwards, he +was as devilishly unyielded as ever. And it was an instinct in her, that +her man must yield to her, so that she should envelop him yielding, +in her all-beneficent love. She was quite sure that her love was +all-beneficent. Of this no shadow of doubt. She was quite sure that +the highest her man could ever know or ever reach, was to be perfectly +enveloped in her all-beneficent love. This was her idea of marriage. +She held it not as an idea, but as a profound impulse and instinct: an +instinct developed in her by the age in which she lived. All that was +deepest and most sacred in he feeling centred in this belief. + +And he outraged her! Oh, from the first day and the first night, she +felt he outraged her. True, for some time she had been taken in by his +manifest love. But though you can deceive the conscious mind, you can +never deceive the deep, unconscious instinct. She could never understand +whence arose in her, almost from the first days of marriage with him, +her terrible paroxysms of hatred for him. She was in love with him: ah, +heaven, how maddeningly she was in love with him: a certain unseizable +beauty that was his, and which fascinated her as a snake a bird. But in +revulsion, how she hated him! How she abhorred him! How she despised and +shuddered at him! He seemed a horrible thing to her. + +And then again, oh, God, the agony of her desire for him. The agony of +her long, long desire for him. He was a passionate lover. He gave +her, ostensibly, all she asked for. He withheld from her nothing, no +experience, no degree of intimacy. She was his initiate, or he hers. + +And yet, oh, horror for a woman, he withheld everything from her. +He withheld the very centre of himself. For a long time, she never +realised. She was dazed and maddened only. But as months of married +experience passed into years of married torment, she began to +understand. It was that, after their most tremendous, and, it seemed to +her, heaven-rending passion--yea, when for her every veil seemed +rent and a terrible and sacred creative darkness covered the +earth--then--after all this wonder and miracle--in crept a poisonous +grey snake of disillusionment, a poisonous grey snake of disillusion +that bit her to madness, so that she really was a mad woman, demented. + +Why? Why? He never gave himself. He never came to her, _really_. He +withheld himself. Yes, in those supreme and sacred times which for her +were the whole culmination of life and being, the ecstasy of unspeakable +passional conjunction, he was not really hers. He was withheld. He +withheld the central core of himself, like the devil and hell-fiend he +was. He cheated and made play with her tremendous passional soul, her +sacred sex passion, most sacred of all things for a woman. All the time, +some central part of him stood apart from her, aside, looking on. + +Oh, agony and horror for a passionate, fierce-hearted woman! She who +loved him. She who loved him to madness. She who would have died for +him. She who did die with him, many terrible and magnificent connubial +deaths, in his arms, her husband. + +Her husband! How bitter the word grew to her! Her husband! and him never +once given, given wholly to her! Her husband--and in all the frenzied +finality of desire, she never _fully_ possessed him, not once. No, not +once. As time went on, she learned it for inevitable. Not once! + +And then, how she hated him! Cheated, foiled, betrayed, forced to love +him or to hate him: never able to be at peace near him nor away from +him: poor Lottie, no wonder she was as a mad woman. She was strictly +as a woman demented, after the birth of her second child. For all +her instinct, all her impulse, all her desire, and above all, all her +_will_, was to possess her man in very fulness once: just once: and once +and for all. Once, just once: and it would be once and for all. + +But never! Never! Not once! Never! Not for one single solitary second! +Was it not enough to send a woman mad! Was it not enough to make her +demented! Yes, and mad she was. She made his life a hell for him. She +bit him to the bone with her frenzy of rage, chagrin, and agony. She +drove him mad, too: mad, so that he beat her: mad so that he longed +to kill her. But even in his greatest rages it was the same: he +never finally lost himself: he remained, somewhere in the centre, in +possession of himself. She sometimes wished he would kill her: or that +she would kill him. Neither event happened. + +And neither of them understood what was happening. How should they? They +were both dazed, horrified, and mortified. He took to leaving her alone +as much as was possible. But when he _had_ to come home, there was +her terrible will, like a flat, cold snake coiled round his soul and +squeezing him to death. Yes, she did not relent. She was a good wife and +mother. All her duties she fulfilled. But she was not one to yield. _He_ +must yield. That was written in eternal letters, on the iron tablet of +her will. _He_ must yield. She the woman, the mother of his children, +how should she ever even think to yield? It was unthinkable. He, the +man, the weak, the false, the treacherous, the half-hearted, it was he +who must yield. Was not hers the divine will and the divine right? Ha, +she would be less than woman if she ever capitulated, abandoned her +divine responsibility as woman! No, _he_ must yield. + +So, he was unfaithful to her. Piling reproach after reproach upon +himself, he added adultery to his brutality. And this was the beginning +of the end. She was more than maddened: but he began to grow silent, +unresponsive, as if he did not hear her. He was unfaithful to her: +and oh, in such a low way. Such shame, such shame! But he only smiled +carelessly now, and asked her what she wanted. She had asked for all she +got. That he reiterated. And that was all he would do. + +Terrible was, that she found even his smile of insolent indifference +half-beautiful. Oh, bitter chain to bear! But she summoned up all +her strange woman's will. She fought against his fascination, the +fascination he exerted over her. With fearful efforts of will she fought +against it, and mastered it. And then, suddenly, horror and agony of +it, up it would rush in her again, her unbearable desire for him, the +longing for his contact, his quality of beauty. + +That was a cross hard to bear. Yet even that she bore. And schooled +herself into a fretful, petulant manner of indifference. Her odd, +whimsical petulance hid a will which he, and he alone, knew to be +stronger than steel, strong as a diabolical, cold, grey snake that +presses and presses and cannot-relax: nay, cannot relax. She became the +same as he. Even in her moments of most passionate desire for him, the +cold and snake-like tension of her will never relaxed, and the cold, +snake-like eye of her intention never closed. + +So, till it reached a deadlock. Each will was wound tense, and so fixed. +Fixed! There was neither any relaxing or any increase of pressure. +Fixed. Hard like a numbness, a grip that was solidifying and turning to +stone. + +He realised, somehow, that at this terrible passive game of fixed +tension she would beat him. Her fixed female soul, her wound-up female +will would solidify into stone--whereas his must break. In him +something must break. It was a cold and fatal deadlock, profitless. A +life-automatism of fixed tension that suddenly, in him, did break. His +will flew loose in a recoil: a recoil away from her. He left her, as +inevitably as a broken spring flies out from its hold. + +Not that he was broken. He would not do her even that credit. He had +only flown loose from the old centre-fixture. His will was still entire +and unabated. Only he did not know: he did not understand. He swung +wildly about from place to place, as if he were broken. + +Then suddenly, on this Sunday evening in the strange country, he +realised something about himself. He realised that he had never intended +to yield himself fully to her or to anything: that he did not intend +ever to yield himself up entirely to her or to anything: that his very +being pivoted on the fact of his isolate self-responsibility, aloneness. +His intrinsic and central aloneness was the very centre of his being. +Break it, and he broke his being. Break this central aloneness, and he +broke everything. It was the great temptation, to yield himself: and +it was the final sacrilege. Anyhow, it was something which, from his +profoundest soul, he did not intend to do. By the innermost isolation +and singleness of his own soul he would abide though the skies fell on +top of one another, and seven heavens collapsed. + +Vaguely he realised this. And vaguely he realised that this had been the +root cause of his strife with Lottie: Lottie, the only person who had +mattered at all to him in all the world: save perhaps his mother. And +his mother had not mattered, no, not one-half nor one-fifth what Lottie +had mattered. So it was: there was, for him, only her significant in the +universe. And between him and her matters were as they were. + +He coldly and terribly hated her, for a moment. Then no more. There was +no solution. It was a situation without a solution. But at any rate, it +was now a defined situation. He could rest in peace. + +Thoughts something in this manner ran through Aaron's subconscious mind +as he sat still in the strange house. He could not have fired it all +off at any listener, as these pages are fired off at any chance reader. +Nevertheless there it was, risen to half consciousness in him. All +his life he had _hated_ knowing what he felt. He had wilfully, if not +consciously, kept a gulf between his passional soul and his open +mind. In his mind was pinned up a nice description of himself, and a +description of Lottie, sort of authentic passports to be used in the +conscious world. These authentic passports, self-describing: nose short, +mouth normal, etc.; he had insisted that they should do all the duty +of the man himself. This ready-made and very banal idea of himself as a +really quite nice individual: eyes blue, nose short, mouth normal, chin +normal; this he had insisted was really himself. It was his conscious +mask. + +Now at last, after years of struggle, he seemed suddenly to have dropped +his mask on the floor, and broken it. His authentic self-describing +passport, his complete and satisfactory idea of himself suddenly became +a rag of paper, ridiculous. What on earth did it matter if he was nice +or not, if his chin was normal or abnormal. + +His mask, his idea of himself dropped and was broken to bits. There he +sat now maskless and invisible. That was how he strictly felt: invisible +and undefined, rather like Wells' _Invisible Man_. He had no longer a +mask to present to people: he was present and invisible: they _could_ +not really think anything about him, because they could not really +see him. What did they see when they looked at him? Lady Franks, for +example. He neither knew nor cared. He only knew he was invisible to +himself and everybody, and that all thinking about what he was like was +only a silly game of Mrs. Mackenzie's Dead. + +So there. The old Aaron Sisson was as if painfully transmuted, as the +Invisible Man when he underwent his transmutations. Now he was gone, and +no longer to be seen. His visibility lost for ever. + +And then what? Sitting there as an invisible presence, the preconceived +world melted also and was gone. Lady Franks, Sir William, all the +guests, they talked and maneuvered with their visible personalities, +manipulating the masks of themselves. And underneath there was something +invisible and dying--something fading, wilting: the essential plasm of +themselves: their invisible being. + +Well now, and what next? Having in some curious manner tumbled from the +tree of modern knowledge, and cracked and rolled out from the shell of +the preconceived idea of himself like some dark, night-lustrous chestnut +from the green ostensibility of the burr, he lay as it were exposed but +invisible on the floor, knowing, but making no conceptions: knowing, +but having no idea. Now that he was finally unmasked and exposed, +the accepted idea of himself cracked and rolled aside like a broken +chestnut-burr, the mask split and shattered, he was at last quiet and +free. He had dreaded exposure: and behold, we cannot be exposed, for we +are invisible. We cannot be exposed to the looks of others, for our very +being is night-lustrous and unseeable. Like the Invisible Man, we are +only revealed through our clothes and our masks. + +In his own powerful but subconscious fashion Aaron realized this. He was +a musician. And hence even his deepest _ideas_: were not word-ideas, his +very thoughts were not composed of words and ideal concepts. They +too, his thoughts and his ideas, were dark and invisible, as electric +vibrations are invisible no matter how many words they may purport. If +I, as a word-user, must translate his deep conscious vibrations into +finite words, that is my own business. I do but make a translation of +the man. He would speak in music. I speak with words. + +The inaudible music of his conscious soul conveyed his meaning in him +quite as clearly as I convey it in words: probably much more clearly. +But in his own mode only: and it was in his own mode only he realised +what I must put into words. These words are my own affair. His mind was +music. + +Don't grumble at me then, gentle reader, and swear at me that this +damned fellow wasn't half clever enough to think all these smart things, +and realise all these fine-drawn-out subtleties. You are quite right, he +wasn't, yet it all resolved itself in him as I say, and it is for you to +prove that it didn't. + +In his now silent, maskless state of wordless comprehension, he knew +that he had never wanted to surrender himself utterly to Lottie: nor to +his mother: nor to anybody. The last extreme of self-abandon in love was +for him an act of false behaviour. His own nature inside him fated +him not to take this last false step, over the edge of the abyss of +selflessness. Even if he wanted to, he could not. He might struggle on +the edge of the precipice like an assassin struggling with his own soul, +but he could not conquer. For, according to all the current prejudice +and impulse in one direction, he too had believed that the final +achievement, the consummation of human life, was this flinging oneself +over the precipice, down the bottomless pit of love. Now he realised +that love, even in its intensest, was only an attribute of the human +soul: one of its incomprehensible gestures. And to fling down the whole +soul in one gesture of finality in love was as much a criminal suicide +as to jump off a church-tower or a mountain-peak. Let a man give himself +as much as he liked in love, to seven thousand extremities, he must +never give himself _away_. The more generous and the more passionate a +soul, the more it _gives_ itself. But the more absolute remains the law, +that it shall never give itself away. Give thyself, but give thyself not +away. That is the lesson written at the end of the long strange lane of +love. + +The _idee fixe_ of today is that every individual shall not only give +himself, but shall achieve the last glory of giving himself away. And +since this takes two--you can't even make a present of yourself unless +you've got somebody to receive the present; since this last extra-divine +act takes two people to perform it, you've got to take into count not +only your giver but your receiver. Who is going to be the giver and who +the receiver. + +Why, of course, in our long-drawn-out Christian day, man is given and +woman is recipient. Man is the gift, woman the receiver. This is the +sacrament we live by; the holy Communion we live for. That man gives +himself to woman in an utter and sacred abandon, all, all, all himself +given, and taken. Woman, eternal woman, she is the communicant. She +receives the sacramental body and spirit of the man. And when she's got +it, according to her passionate and all-too-sacred desire, completely, +when she possesses her man at last finally and ultimately, without +blemish or reservation in the perfection of the sacrament: then, also, +poor woman, the blood and the body of which she has partaken become +insipid or nauseous to her, she is driven mad by the endless meal of the +marriage sacrament, poisoned by the sacred communion which was her goal +and her soul's ambition. + +We have pushed a process into a goal. The aim of any process is not +the perpetuation of that process, but the completion thereof. Love is a +process of the incomprehensible human soul: love also incomprehensible, +but still only a process. The process should work to a completion, not +to some horror of intensification and extremity wherein the soul and +body ultimately perish. The completion of the process of love is the +arrival at a state of simple, pure self-possession, for man and woman. +Only that. Which isn't exciting enough for us sensationalists. We prefer +abysses and maudlin self-abandon and self-sacrifice, the degeneration +into a sort of slime and merge. + +Perhaps, truly, the process of love is never accomplished. But it moves +in great stages, and at the end of each stage a true goal, where the +soul possesses itself in simple and generous singleness. Without this, +love is a disease. + +So Aaron, crossing a certain border-line and finding himself alone +completely, accepted his loneliness or singleness as a fulfilment, a +state of fulfilment. The long fight with Lottie had driven him at last +to himself, so that he was quiet as a thing which has its root deep in +life, and has lost its anxiety. As for considering the lily, it is not +a matter of consideration. The lily toils and spins hard enough, in her +own way. But without that strain and that anxiety with which we try +to weave ourselves a life. The lily is life-rooted, life-central. She +_cannot_ worry. She is life itself, a little, delicate fountain playing +creatively, for as long or as short a time as may be, and unable to +be anxious. She may be sad or sorry, if the north wind blows. But even +then, anxious she cannot be. Whether her fountain play or cease to play, +from out the cold, damp earth, she cannot be anxious. She may only be +glad or sorry, and continue her way. She is perfectly herself, whatever +befall! even if frosts cut her off. Happy lily, never to be saddled with +an _idee fixe_, never to be in the grip of a monomania for happiness or +love or fulfilment. It is not _laisser aller_. It is life-rootedness. It +is being by oneself, life-living, like the much-mooted lily. One toils, +one spins, one strives: just as the lily does. But like her, taking +one's own life-way amidst everything, and taking one's own life-way +alone. Love too. But there also, taking one's way alone, happily alone +in all the wonders of communion, swept up on the winds, but never swept +away from one's very self. Two eagles in mid-air, maybe, like Whitman's +Dalliance of Eagles. Two eagles in mid-air, grappling, whirling, coming +to their intensification of love-oneness there in mid-air. In mid-air +the love consummation. But all the time each lifted on its own wings: +each bearing itself up on its own wings at every moment of the mid-air +love consummation. That is the splendid love-way. + + + ............... + + +The party was festive at dinner-time, the women in their finest dresses, +new flowers on the table, the best wine going. It was Sunday evening. +Aaron too was dressed--and Lady Franks, in black lace and pearls, was +almost gay. There were quails for dinner. The Colonel was quite happy. +An air of conviviality gathered round the table during the course of the +meal. + +“I hope,” said Aaron, “that we shall have some music tonight.” + +“I want so much to hear your flute,” said his hostess. + +“And I your piano,” he said. + +“I am very weak--very out of practise. I tremble at the thought of +playing before a musician. But you must not be too critical.” + +“Oh,” said Aaron, “I am not a man to be afraid of.” + +“Well, we will see,” said Lady Franks. “But I am afraid of music +itself.” + +“Yes,” said Aaron. “I think it is risky.” + +“Risky! I don't see that! Music risky? Bach? Beethoven! No, I don't +agree. On the contrary, I think it is most elevating--most morally +inspiring. No, I tremble before it because it is so wonderful and +elevating.” + +“I often find it makes me feel diabolical,” said he. + +“That is your misfortune, I am sure,” said Lady Franks. “Please do take +another--but perhaps you don't like mushrooms?” + +Aaron quite liked mushrooms, and helped himself to the _entree_. + +“But perhaps,” said she, “you are too modern. You don't care for Bach or +Beethoven or Chopin--dear Chopin.” + +“I find them all quite as modern as I am.” + +“Is that so! Yes. For myself I am quite old-fashioned--though I can +appreciate Strauss and Stravinsky as well, some things. But my old +things--ah, I don't think the moderns are so fine. They are not so deep. +They haven't fathomed life so deeply.” Lady Franks sighed faintly. + +“They don't care for depths,” said Aaron. + +“No, they haven't the capacity. But I like big, deep music. Oh, I love +orchestra. But my instrument is the piano. I like the great +masters, Bach, Beethoven. They have such faith. You were talking of +faith--believing that things would work out well for you in the end. +Beethoven inspires that in me, too.” + +“He makes you feel that all will be well with you at last?” + +“Yes, he does. He makes me feel faith in my PERSONAL destiny. And I do +feel that there is something in one's special fate. I feel that I myself +have a special kind of fate, that will always look after me.” + +“And you can trust to it?” + +“Yes, I can. It ALWAYS turns out right. I think something has gone +wrong--and then, it always turns out right. Why when we were in +London--when we were at lunch one morning it suddenly struck me, haven't +I left my fur cloak somewhere? It was rather cold, so I had taken it +with me, and then never put it on. And I hadn't brought it home. I had +left it somewhere. But whether in a taxi, or in a shop, or in a little +show of pictures I had been to, I couldn't remember. I COULD NOT +remember. And I thought to myself: have I lost my cloak? I went round +to everywhere I could think of: no-trace of it. But I didn't give it +up. Something prompted me not to give it up: quite distinctly, I felt +something telling me that I should get it back. So I called at Scotland +Yard and gave the information. Well, two days later I had a notice from +Scotland Yard, so I went. And there was my cloak. I had it back. And +that has happened to me almost every time. I almost always get my things +back. And I always feel that something looks after me, do you know: +almost takes care of me.” + +“But do you mean when you lose things--or in your life?” + +“I mean when I lose things--or when I want to get something I want--I am +very nearly ALWAYS successful. And I always feel there is some sort of +higher power which does it for me.” + +“Finds your cloak for you.” + +“Yes. Wasn't it extraordinary? I felt when I saw my cloak in Scotland +Yard: There, I KNEW I should recover you. And I always feel, as I say, +that there is some higher power which helps me. Do you feel the same?” + +“No, not that way, worse luck. I lost a batch of music a month ago which +didn't belong to me--and which I couldn't replace. But I never could +recover it: though I'm sure nobody wanted it.” + +“How very unfortunate! Whereas my fur cloak was just the thing that gets +stolen most.” + +“I wished some power would trace my music: but apparently we aren't all +gifted alike with guardian angels.” + +“Apparently not. And that is how I regard it: almost as a gift, you +know, that my fairy godmother gave me in my cradle.” + +“For always recovering your property?” + +“Yes--and succeeding in my undertakings.” + +“I'm afraid I had no fairy godmother.” + +“Well--I think I had. And very glad I am of it.” + +“Why, yes,” said Aaron, looking at his hostess. + +So the dinner sailed merrily on. + +“But does Beethoven make you feel,” said Aaron as an afterthought, “in +the same way--that you will always find the things you have lost?” + +“Yes--he makes me feel the same faith: that what I lose will be +returned to me. Just as I found my cloak. And that if I enter into an +undertaking, it will be successful.” + +“And your life has been always successful?” + +“Yes--almost always. We have succeeded with almost everything.” + +“Why, yes,” said Aaron, looking at her again. + +But even so, he could see a good deal of hard wornness under her +satisfaction. She had had her suffering, sure enough. But none the +less, she was in the main satisfied. She sat there, a good hostess, and +expected the homage due to her success. And of course she got it. Aaron +himself did his little share of shoe-licking, and swallowed the taste of +boot-polish with a grimace, knowing what he was about. + +The dinner wound gaily to an end. The ladies retired. Sir William left +his seat of honour at the end of the table and came and sat next to +Aaron, summoning the other three men to cluster near. + +“Now, Colonel,” said the host, “send round the bottle.” + +With a flourish of the elbow and shoulder, the Colonel sent on the port, +actually port, in those bleak, post-war days! + +“Well, Mr. Sisson,” said Sir William, “we will drink to your kind +Providence: providing, of course, that we shall give no offence by so +doing.” + +“No, sir; no, sir! The Providence belonged to Mr. Lilly. Mr. Sisson put +his money on kindly fortune, I believe,” said Arthur, who rosy and fresh +with wine, looked as if he would make a marvelous _bonne bouchee_ for a +finely-discriminating cannibal. + +“Ah, yes, indeed! A much more ingratiating lady to lift our glasses to. +Mr. Sisson's kindly fortune. _Fortuna gentil-issima_! Well, Mr. Sisson, +and may your Lady Fortune ever smile on you.” + +Sir William lifted his glass with an odd little smirk, some touch of a +strange, prim old satyr lurking in his oddly inclined head. Nay, more +than satyr: that curious, rather terrible iron demon that has fought +with the world and wrung wealth from it, and which knows all about it. +The devilish spirit of iron itself, and iron machines. So, with his +strange, old smile showing his teeth rather terribly, the old knight +glowered sightlessly over his glass at Aaron. Then he drank: the +strange, careful, old-man's gesture in drinking. + +“But,” said Aaron, “if Fortune is a female---” + +“Fortune! Fortune! Why, Fortune is a lady. What do you say, Major?” + +“She has all the airs of one, Sir William,” said the Major, with the +wistful grimness of his age and culture. And the young fellow stared +like a crucified cyclops from his one eye: the black shutter being over +the other. + +“And all the graces,” capped Sir William, delighted with himself. + +“Oh, quite!” said the Major. “For some, all the airs, and for others, +all the graces.” + +“Faint heart ne'er won fair lady, my boy,” said Sir William. “Not that +your heart is faint. On the contrary--as we know, and your country +knows. But with Lady Fortune you need another kind of stout heart--oh, +quite another kind.” + +“I believe it, sir: and the kind of stout heart which I am afraid I +haven't got,” said the Major. + +“What!” said the old man. “Show the white feather before you've tackled +the lady! Fill the Major's glass, Colonel. I am quite sure we will none +of us ever say die.” + +“Not likely. Not if we know it,” said the Colonel, stretching himself +heartily inside his tunic. He was becoming ruddier than the cherry. +All he cared about at the moment was his gay little port glass. But +the Major's young cheek was hollow and sallow, his one eye terribly +pathetic. + +“And you, Mr. Sisson,” said Sir William, “mean to carry all before you +by taking no thought for the morrow. Well, now, we can only wish you +success.” + +“I don't want to carry all before me,” said Aaron. “I should be sorry. I +want to walk past most of it.” + +“Can you tell us where to? I am intrigued, as Sybil says, to know where +you will walk to. Come now. Enlighten us.” + +“Nowhere, I suppose.” + +“But is that satisfactory? Can you find it satisfactory?” + +“Is it even true?” said the Major. “Isn't it quite as positive an act to +walk away from a situation as to walk towards it?” + +“My dear boy, you can't merely walk away from a situation. Believe that. +If you walk away from Rome, you walk into the Maremma, or into the Alban +Hills, or into the sea--but you walk into something. Now if I am going +to walk away from Rome, I prefer to choose my direction, and therefore +my destination.” + +“But you can't,” said the Major. + +“What can't you?” + +“Choose. Either your direction or your destination.” The Major was +obstinate. + +“Really!” said Sir William. “I have not found it so. I have not found +it so. I have had to keep myself hard at work, all my life, choosing +between this or that.” + +“And we,” said the Major, “have no choice, except between this or +nothing.” + +“Really! I am afraid,” said Sir William, “I am afraid I am too old--or +too young--which shall I say?--to understand.” + +“Too young, sir,” said Arthur sweetly. “The child was always father to +the man, I believe.” + +“I confess the Major makes me feel childish,” said the old man. “The +choice between this or nothing is a puzzler to me. Can you help me out, +Mr. Sisson? What do you make of this this-or-nothing business? I can +understand neck-or-nothing---” + +“I prefer the NOTHING part of it to the THIS part of it,” said Aaron, +grinning. + +“Colonel,” said the old man, “throw a little light on this nothingness.” + +“No, Sir William,” said the Colonel. “I am all right as I am.” + +“As a matter of fact, so are we all, perfectly A-one,” said Arthur. + +Aaron broke into a laugh. + +“That's the top and bottom of it,” he laughed, flushed with wine, and +handsome. We're all as right as ninepence. Only it's rather nice to +talk.” + +“There!” said Sir William. “We're all as right as ninepence! We're all +as right ninepence. So there well leave it, before the Major has time to +say he is twopence short.” Laughing his strange old soundless laugh, Sir +William rose and made a little bow. “Come up and join the ladies in a +minute or two,” he said. Arthur opened the door for him and he left the +room. + +The four men were silent for a moment--then the Colonel whipped up the +decanter and filled his glass. Then he stood up and clinked glasses with +Aaron, like a real old sport. + +“Luck to you,” he said. + +“Thanks,” said Aaron. + +“You're going in the morning?” said Arthur. + +“Yes,” said Aaron. + +“What train?” said Arthur. + +“Eight-forty.” + +“Oh--then we shan't see you again. Well--best of luck.” + +“Best of luck--” echoed the Colonel. + +“Same to you,” said Aaron, and they all peered over their glasses and +quite loved one another for a rosy minute. + +“I should like to know, though,” said the hollow-cheeked young Major +with the black flap over his eye, “whether you do really mean you are +all right--that it is all right with you--or whether you only say so to +get away from the responsibility.” + +“I mean I don't really care--I don't a damn--let the devil take it all.” + +“The devil doesn't want it, either,” said the Major. + +“Then let him leave it. I don't care one single little curse about it +all.” + +“Be damned. What is there to care about?” said the Colonel. + +“Ay, what?” said Aaron. + +“It's all the same, whether you care or don't care. So I say it's much +easier not to care,” said Arthur. + +“Of course it is,” said the Colonel gaily. + +“And I think so, too,” said Aaron. + +“Right you are! We're all as right as ninepence--what? Good old sport! +Here's yours!” cried the Colonel. + +“We shall have to be going up,” said Arthur, wise in his generation. + +As they went into the hall, Arthur suddenly put one arm round Aaron's +waist, and one arm round the Colonel's, and the three did a sudden +little barn-dance towards the stairs. Arthur was feeling himself quite +let loose again, back in his old regimental mess. + +Approaching the foot of the stairs, he let go again. He was in that rosy +condition when united-we-stand. But unfortunately it is a complicated +job to climb the stairs in unison. The whole lot tends to fall +backwards. Arthur, therefore, rosy, plump, looking so good to eat, stood +still a moment in order to find his own neatly-slippered feet. Having +found them, he proceeded to put them carefully one before the other, and +to his enchantment found that this procedure was carrying him magically +up the stairs. The Colonel, like a drowning man, clutched feebly for the +straw of the great stair-rail--and missed it. He would have gone under, +but that Aaron's hand gripped his arm. So, orientating once more like +a fragile tendril, he reached again for the banister rail, and got it. +After which, lifting his feet as if they were little packets of sand +tied to his trouser buttons, he manipulated his way upwards. Aaron was +in that pleasant state when he saw what everybody else was doing and was +unconscious of what he did himself. Whilst tall, gaunt, erect, like a +murdered Hamlet resurrected in khaki, with the terrible black shutter +over his eye, the young Major came last. + +Arthur was making a stern fight for his composure. His whole future +depended on it. But do what he would, he could not get the flushed, +pleased, mess-happy look off his face. The Colonel, oh, awful man, did +a sort of plump roly-poly-cake-walk, like a fat boy, right to the +very door of that santum-sanctorum, the library. Aaron was inwardly +convulsed. Even the Major laughed. + +But Arthur stiffened himself militarily and cleared his throat. All four +started to compose themselves, like actors going on the stage, outside +that library door. And then Arthur softly, almost wistfully, opened and +held the door for the others to pass. The Colonel slunk meekly in, and +sat in a chair in the background. The Major stalked in expressionless, +and hovered towards the sofa where his wife sat. + +There was a rather cold-water-down-your-back feeling in the library. +The ladies had been waiting for coffee. Sir William was waiting, too. +Therefore in a little tension, half silent, the coffee was handed round. +Lady Franks was discussing something with Arthur's wife. Arthur's +wife was in a cream lace dress, and looking what is called lovely. +The Major's wife was in amethyst chiffon with dark-red roses, and +was looking blindingly beautiful. The Colonel was looking into his +coffee-cup as wistfully as if it contained the illusion of tawny port. +The Major was looking into space, as if there and there alone, etc. +Arthur was looking for something which Lady Franks had asked for, and +which he was much too flushed to find. Sir William was looking at Aaron, +and preparing for another _coeur a coeur_. + +“Well,” he said, “I doubt if you will care for Milan. It is one of the +least Italian of all the towns, in my opinion. Venice, of course, is a +thing apart. I cannot stand, myself, that miserable specimen the modern +Roman. He has most of the vices of the old Romans and none of the +virtues. The most congenial town, perhaps, for a stranger, is Florence. +But it has a very bad climate.” + +Lady Franks rose significantly and left the room, accompanied by +Arthur's wife. Aaron knew, silently, that he was summoned to follow. +His hostess had her eye on him this evening. But always postponing his +obedience to the cool commands of women, he remained talking with his +host in the library, and sipping _creme de menthe_! Came the ripple +of the pianoforte from the open doorway down at the further end of the +room. Lady Franks was playing, in the large drawing-room. And the ripple +of the music contained in it the hard insistence of the little woman's +will. Coldly, and decidedly, she intended there should be no more +unsettling conversations for the old Sir William. Aaron was to come +forthwith into the drawing room. Which Aaron plainly understood--and +so he didn't go. No, he didn't go, though the pianoforte rippled and +swelled in volume. No, and he didn't go even when Lady Franks left off +playing and came into the library again. There he sat, talking with Sir +William. Let us do credit to Lady Franks' will-power, and admit that the +talk was quite empty and distracted--none of the depths and skirmishes +of the previous occasions. None the less, the talk continued. Lady +Franks retired, discomfited, to her piano again. She would never break +in upon her lord. + +So now Aaron relented. He became more and more distracted. Sir William +wandered away like some restless, hunted soul. The Colonel still sat in +his chair, nursing his last drop of _creme de menthe_ resentfully. He +did not care for the green toffee-stuff. Arthur was busy. The Major +lay sprawled in the last stages of everything on the sofa, holding +his wife's hand. And the music came pathetically through the open +folding-doors. Of course, she played with feeling--it went without +saying. Aaron's soul felt rather tired. But she had a touch of +discrimination also. + +He rose and went to the drawing-room. It was a large, vacant-seeming, +Empire sort of drawing-room, with yellow silk chairs along the walls and +yellow silk panels upon the walls, and a huge, vasty crystal chandelier +hanging from a faraway-above ceiling. Lady Franks sat at a large black +Bechstein piano at one end of this vacant yellow state-room. She sat, +a little plump elderly lady in black lace, for all the world like Queen +Victoria in Max Beerbohm's drawing of Alfred Tennyson reading to her +Victorian Majesty, with space before her. Arthur's wife was bending over +some music in a remote corner of the big room. + +Aaron seated himself on one of the chairs by the wall, to listen. +Certainly it was a beautiful instrument. And certainly, in her way, she +loved it. But Aaron remembered an anthem in which he had taken part as a +boy. + + + His eye is on the sparrow + So I know He watches me. + + +For a long time he had failed to catch the word _sparrow_, and had +heard: + + + His eye is on the spy-hole + So I know He watches me. + + +Which was just how it had all seemed to him, as a boy. + +Now, as ever, he felt the eye was on the spy-hole. There sat the woman +playing music. But her inward eye was on the spy-hole of her vital +affairs--her domestic arrangements, her control of her household, guests +and husband included. The other eye was left for the music, don't you +know. + +Sir William appeared hovering in the doorway, not at all liking the +defection of Mr. Aaron. Then he retreated. He seemed not to care for +music. The Major's wife hovered--felt it her duty to _aude_, or play +audience--and entered, seating herself in a breath of lilac and amethyst +again at the near distance. The Major, after a certain beating about the +bush, followed and sat wrapt in dim contemplation near his wife. Arthur +luckily was still busy with something. + +Aaron of course made proper musical remarks in the intervals--Arthur's +wife sorted out more pieces. Arthur appeared--and then the Colonel. The +Colonel tip-toed beautifully across the wide blank space of the Empire +room, and seated himself on a chair, rather in the distance, with his +back to the wall, facing Aaron. When Lady Franks finished her piece, +to everybody's amazement the Colonel clapped gaily to himself and said +Bravo! as if at a Cafe Chantant, looking round for his glass. But there +was no glass. So he crossed his neatly-khakied legs, and looked rapt +again. + +Lady Franks started with a _vivace_ Schumann piece. Everybody listened +in sanctified silence, trying to seem to like it. When suddenly our +Colonel began to spring and bounce in his chair, slinging his loose leg +with a kind of rapture up and down in the air, and capering upon his +posterior, doing a sitting-down jig to the Schumann _vivace_. Arthur, +who had seated himself at the farthest extremity of the room, winked +with wild bliss at Aaron. The Major tried to look as if he noticed +nothing, and only succeeded in looking agonised. His wife studied the +point of her silver shoe minutely, and peeped through her hair at the +performance. Aaron grimly chuckled, and loved the Colonel with real +tenderness. + +And the game went on while the _vivace_ lasted. Up and down bounced the +plump Colonel on his chair, kicking with his bright, black-patent toe +higher and higher, getting quite enthusiastic over his jig. Rosy +and unabashed, he was worthy of the great nation he belonged to. The +broad-seated Empire chair showed no signs of giving way. Let him enjoy +himself, away there across the yellow Sahara of this silk-panelled +salon. Aaron felt quite cheered up. + +“Well, now,” he thought to himself, “this man is in entire command of +a very important branch of the British Service in Italy. We are a great +race still.” + +But Lady Franks must have twigged. Her playing went rather stiff. She +came to the end of the _vivace_ movement, and abandoned her piece. + +“I always prefer Schumann in his _vivace_ moods,” said Aaron. + +“Do you?” said Lady Franks. “Oh, I don't know.” + +It was now the turn of Arthur's wife to sing. Arthur seemed to get +further away: if it was possible, for he was at the remotest remote end +of the room, near the gallery doors. The Colonel became quiet, pensive. +The Major's wife eyed the young woman in white lace, and seemed not +to care for lace. Arthur seemed to be trying to push himself backwards +through the wall. Lady Franks switched on more lights into the vast and +voluminous crystal chandelier which hung like some glory-cloud above the +room's centre. And Arthur's wife sang sweet little French songs, and _Ye +Banks and Braes_, and _Caro mio ben_, which goes without saying: and so +on. She had quite a nice voice and was quite adequately trained. Which +is enough said. Aaron had all his nerves on edge. + +Then he had to play the flute. Arthur strolled upstairs with him, +arm-in-arm, where he went to fetch his instrument. + +“I find music in the home rather a strain, you know,” said Arthur. + +“Cruel strain. I quite agree,” said Aaron. + +“I don't mind it so much in the theatre--or even a concert--where +there are a lot of other people to take the edge off-- But after a good +dinner--” + +“It's medicine,” said Aaron. + +“Well, you know, it really is, to me. It affects my inside.” Aaron +laughed. And then, in the yellow drawing-room, blew into his pipe and +played. He knew so well that Arthur, the Major, the Major's wife, the +Colonel, and Sir William thought it merely an intolerable bore. However, +he played. His hostess even accompanied him in a Mozart bit. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. XX SETTEMBRE + + +Aaron was awakened in the morning by the soft entrance of the butler +with the tray: it was just seven o'clock. Lady Franks' household was +punctual as the sun itself. + +But our hero roused himself with a wrench. The very act of lifting +himself from the pillow was like a fight this morning. Why? He +recognized his own wrench, the pain with which he struggled under the +necessity to move. Why shouldn't he want to move? Why not? Because he +didn't want the day in front--the plunge into a strange country, towards +nowhere, with no aim in view. True, he said that ultimately he wanted to +join Lilly. But this was hardly more than a sop, an excuse for his own +irrational behaviour. He was breaking loose from one connection after +another; and what for? Why break every tie? Snap, snap, snap went the +bonds and ligatures which bound him to the life that had formed him, the +people he had loved or liked. He found all his affections snapping off, +all the ties which united him with his own people coming asunder. And +why? In God's name, why? What was there instead? + +There was nothingness. There was just himself, and blank nothingness. +He had perhaps a faint sense of Lilly ahead of him; an impulse in that +direction, or else merely an illusion. He could not persuade himself +that he was seeking for love, for any kind of unison or communion. He +knew well enough that the thought of any loving, any sort of real coming +together between himself and anybody or anything, was just objectionable +to him. No--he was not moving _towards_ anything: he was moving almost +violently away from everything. And that was what he wanted. Only +that. Only let him _not_ run into any sort of embrace with anything or +anybody--this was what he asked. Let no new connection be made between +himself and anything on earth. Let all old connections break. This was +his craving. + +Yet he struggled under it this morning as under the lid of a tomb. The +terrible sudden weight of inertia! He knew the tray stood ready by the +bed: he knew the automobile would be at the door at eight o'clock, for +Lady Franks had said so, and he half divined that the servant had also +said so: yet there he lay, in a kind of paralysis in this bed. He +seemed for the moment to have lost his will. Why go forward into more +nothingness, away from all that he knew, all he was accustomed to and +all he belonged to? + +However, with a click he sat up. And the very instant he had poured his +coffee from the little silver coffee-pot into his delicate cup, he was +ready for anything and everything. The sense of silent adventure took +him, the exhilarated feeling that he was fulfilling his own +inward destiny. Pleasant to taste was the coffee, the bread, the +honey--delicious. + +The man brought his clothes, and again informed him that the automobile +would be at the door at eight o'clock: or at least so he made out. + +“I can walk,” said Aaron. + +“Milady ha comandato l'automobile,” said the man softly. + +It was evident that if Milady had ordered it, so it must be. + +So Aaron left the still-sleeping house, and got into the soft and +luxurious car. As he dropped through the park he wondered that Sir +William and Lady Franks should be so kind to him: a complete stranger. +But so it was. There he sat in their car. He wondered, also, as he ran +over the bridge and into the city, whether this soft-running automobile +would ever rouse the socialistic bile of the work-people. For the first +time in his life, as he sat among the snug cushions, he realised what +it might be to be rich and uneasy: uneasy, even if not afraid, lurking +there inside an expensive car.--Well, it wasn't much of a sensation +anyhow: and riches were stuffy, like wadded upholstery on everything. He +was glad to get out into the fresh air of the common crowd. He was glad +to be in the bleak, not-very-busy station. He was glad to be part of +common life. For the very atmosphere of riches seems to be stuffed and +wadded, never any real reaction. It was terrible, as if one's very body, +shoulders and arms, were upholstered and made cushiony. Ugh, but he was +glad to shake off himself the atmosphere of wealth and motor-cars, to +get out of it all. It was like getting out of quilted clothes. + +“Well,” thought Aaron, “if this is all it amounts to, to be rich, you +can have riches. They talk about money being power. But the only sort of +power it has over me is to bring on a kind of numbness, which I fairly +hate. No wonder rich people don't seem to be really alive.” + +The relief of escaping quite took away his self-conscious embarrassment +at the station. He carried his own bags, bought a third-class ticket, +and got into the train for Milan without caring one straw for the +comments or the looks of the porters. + +It began to rain. The rain ran across the great plain of north Italy. +Aaron sat in his wood-seated carriage and smoked his pipe in silence, +looking at the thick, short Lombards opposite him without heeding +them. He paid hardly any outward attention to his surroundings, but sat +involved in himself. + +In Milan he had been advised to go to the Hotel Britannia, because it +was not expensive, and English people went there. So he took a carriage, +drove round the green space in front of Milan station, and away into the +town. The streets were busy, but only half-heartedly so. + +It must be confessed that every new move he made was rather an effort. +Even he himself wondered why he was struggling with foreign porters and +foreign cabmen, being talked at and not understanding a word. But there +he was. So he went on with it. + +The hotel was small and congenial. The hotel porter answered in English. +Aaron was given a little room with a tiny balcony, looking on to a quiet +street. So, he had a home of his own once more. He washed, and then +counted his money. Thirty-seven pounds he had: and no more. He stood on +the balcony and looked at the people going by below. Life seems to be +moving so quick, when one looks down on it from above. + +Across the road was a large stone house with its green shutters all +closed. But from the flagpole under the eaves, over the central window +of the uppermost floor--the house was four storeys high--waved the +Italian flag in the melancholy damp air. Aaron looked at it--the red, +white and green tricolour, with the white cross of Savoy in the centre. +It hung damp and still. And there seemed a curious vacancy in the +city--something empty and depressing in the great human centre. Not that +there was really a lack of people. But the spirit of the town seemed +depressed and empty. It was a national holiday. The Italian flag was +hanging from almost every housefront. + +It was about three o'clock in the afternoon. Aaron sat in the restaurant +of the hotel drinking tea, for he was rather tired, and looking through +the thin curtains at the little square outside, where people passed: +little groups of dark, aimless-seeming men, a little bit poorer +looking--perhaps rather shorter in stature--but very much like the +people in any other town. Yet the feeling of the city was so different +from that of London. There seemed a curious emptiness. The rain had +ceased, but the pavements were still wet. There was a tension. + +Suddenly there was a noise of two shots, fired in rapid succession. +Aaron turned startled to look into the quiet piazza. And to his +amazement, the pavements were empty, not a soul was in sight. Two +minutes before the place was busy with passers-by, and a newspaper man +selling the Corriere, and little carriages rattling through. Now, as if +by magic, nobody, nothing. It was as if they had all melted into thin +air. + +The waiter, too, was peeping behind the curtain. A carriage came +trotting into the square--an odd man took his way alone--the traffic +began to stir once more, and people reappeared as suddenly as they had +disappeared. Then the waiter ran hastily and furtively out and craned +his neck, peering round the square. He spoke with two youths--rather +loutish youths. Then he returned to his duty in the hotel restaurant. + +“What was it? What were the shots?” Aaron asked him. + +“Oh--somebody shooting at a dog,” said the man negligently. + +“At a dog!” said Aaron, with round eyes. + +He finished his tea, and went out into the town. His hotel was not far +from the cathedral square. Passing through the arcade, he came in sight +of the famous cathedral with its numerous spines pricking into the +afternoon air. He was not as impressed as he should have been. And yet +there was something in the northern city--this big square with all the +trams threading through, the little yellow Continental trams: and the +spiny bulk of the great cathedral, like a grey-purple sea-urchin with +many spines, on the one side, the ornamental grass-plots and flower beds +on the other: the big shops going all along the further strands, all +round: and the endless restless nervous drift of a north Italian crowd, +so nervous, so twitchy; nervous and twitchy as the slipping past of +the little yellow tram-cars; it all affected him with a sense of +strangeness, nervousness, and approaching winter. It struck him the +people were afraid of themselves: afraid of their own souls, and that +which was in their own souls. + +Turning up the broad steps of the cathedral, he entered the famous +building. The sky had cleared, and the freshened light shone coloured in +living tablets round the wonderful, towering, rose-hearted dusk of the +great church. At some altars lights flickered uneasily. At some unseen +side altar mass was going on, and a strange ragged music fluttered +out on the incense-dusk of the great and lofty interior, which was all +shadow, all shadow, hung round with jewel tablets of light. Particularly +beautiful the great east bay, above the great altar. And all the time, +over the big-patterned marble floor, the faint click and rustle of feet +coming and going, coming and going, like shallow uneasy water rustled +back and forth in a trough. A white dog trotted pale through the +under-dusk, over the pale, big-patterned floor. Aaron came to the side +altar where mass was going on, candles ruddily wavering. There was a +small cluster of kneeling women--a ragged handful of on-looking men--and +people wandering up and wandering away, young women with neatly dressed +black hair, and shawls, but without hats; fine young women in very high +heels; young men with nothing to do; ragged men with nothing to do. +All strayed faintly clicking over the slabbed floor, and glanced at the +flickering altar where the white-surpliced boys were curtseying and +the white-and-gold priest bowing, his hands over his breast, in the +candle-light. All strayed, glanced, lingered, and strayed away again, as +if the spectacle were not sufficiently holding. The bell chimed for the +elevation of the Host. But the thin trickle of people trickled the +same, uneasily, over the slabbed floor of the vastly-upreaching +shadow-foliaged cathedral. + +The smell of incense in his nostrils, Aaron went out again by a side +door, and began to walk along the pavements of the cathedral square, +looking at the shops. Some were closed, and had little notices pinned on +them. Some were open, and seemed half-stocked with half-elegant things. +Men were carrying newspapers. In the cafes a few men were seated +drinking vermouth. In the doorway of the restaurants waiters stood +inert, looking out on the streets. The curious heart-eating _ennui_ of +the big town on a holiday came over our hero. He felt he must get out, +whatever happened. He could not bear it. + +So he went back to his hotel and up to his room. It was still only five +o'clock. And he did not know what to do with himself. He lay down on +the bed, and looked at the painting on his bedroom ceiling. It was a +terrible business in reckitt's blue and browny gold, with awful heraldic +beasts, rather worm-wriggly, displayed in a blue field. + +As he lay thinking of nothing and feeling nothing except a certain +weariness, or dreariness, or tension, or God-knows-what, he heard a loud +hoarse noise of humanity in the distance, something frightening. Rising, +he went on to his little balcony. It was a sort of procession, or march +of men, here and there a red flag fluttering from a man's fist. There +had been a big meeting, and this was the issue. The procession was +irregular, but powerful, men four abreast. They emerged irregularly from +the small piazza to the street, calling and vociferating. They stopped +before a shop and clotted into a crowd, shouting, becoming vicious. Over +the shop-door hung a tricolour, a national flag. The shop was closed, +but the men began to knock at the door. They were all workmen, some +in railway men's caps, mostly in black felt hats. Some wore red cotton +neck-ties. They lifted their faces to the national flag, and as they +shouted and gesticulated Aaron could see their strong teeth in their +jaws. There was something frightening in their lean, strong Italian +jaws, something inhuman and possessed-looking in their foreign, +southern-shaped faces, so much more formed and demon-looking than +northern faces. They had a demon-like set purpose, and the noise of +their voices was like a jarring of steel weapons. Aaron wondered what +they wanted. There were no women--all men--a strange male, slashing +sound. Vicious it was--the head of the procession swirling like a little +pool, the thick wedge of the procession beyond, flecked with red flags. + +A window opened above the shop, and a frowsty-looking man, yellow-pale, +was quickly and nervously hauling in the national flag. There were +shouts of derision and mockery--a great overtone of acrid derision--the +flag and its owner ignominiously disappeared. And the procession moved +on. Almost every shop had a flag flying. And every one of these flags +now disappeared, quickly or slowly, sooner or later, in obedience to the +command of the vicious, derisive crowd, that marched and clotted slowly +down the street, having its own way. + +Only one flag remained flying--the big tricolour that floated from the +top storey of the house opposite Aaron's hotel. The ground floor of this +house consisted of shop-premises--now closed. There was no sign of any +occupant. The flag floated inert aloft. + +The whole crowd had come to a stop immediately below the hotel, and +all were now looking up at the green and white and red tricolour which +stirred damply in the early evening light, from under the broad eaves of +the house opposite. Aaron looked at the long flag, which drooped almost +unmoved from the eaves-shadow, and he half expected it to furl itself +up of its own accord, in obedience to the will of the masses. Then he +looked down at the packed black shoulders of the mob below, and at the +curious clustering pattern of a sea of black hats. He could hardly see +anything but hats and shoulders, uneasily moving like boiling pitch away +beneath him. But the shouts began to come up hotter and hotter. There +had been a great ringing of a door-bell and battering on the shop-door. +The crowd--the swollen head of the procession--talked and shouted, +occupying the centre of the street, but leaving the pavement clear. +A woman in a white blouse appeared in the shop-door. She came out and +looked up at the flag and shook her head and gesticulated with her +hands. It was evidently not her flag--she had nothing to do with it. The +leaders again turned to the large house-door, and began to ring all +the bells and to knock with their knuckles. But no good--there was +no answer. They looked up again at the flag. Voices rose ragged and +ironical. The woman explained something again. Apparently there was +nobody at home in the upper floors--all entrance was locked--there was +no caretaker. Nobody owned the flag. There it hung under the broad eaves +of the strong stone house, and didn't even know that it was guilty. +The woman went back into her shop and drew down the iron shutter from +inside. + +The crowd, nonplussed, now began to argue and shout and whistle. The +voices rose in pitch and derision. Steam was getting up. There hung the +flag. The procession crowded forward and filled the street in a mass +below. All the rest of the street was empty and shut up. And still hung +the showy rag, red and white and green, up aloft. + +Suddenly there was a lull--then shouts, half-encouraging, half-derisive. +And Aaron saw a smallish-black figure of a youth, fair-haired, not more +than seventeen years old, clinging like a monkey to the front of the +house, and by the help of the heavy drain-pipe and the stone-work +ornamentation climbing up to the stone ledge that ran under ground-floor +windows, up like a sudden cat on to the projecting footing. He did not +stop there, but continued his race like some frantic lizard running up +the great wall-front, working away from the noise below, as if in sheer +fright. It was one unending wriggling movement, sheer up the front of +the impassive, heavy stone house. + +The flag hung from a pole under one of the windows of the top +storey--the third floor. Up went the wriggling figure of the possessed +youth. The cries of the crowd below were now wild, ragged ejaculations +of excitement and encouragement. The youth seemed to be lifted up, +almost magically on the intense upreaching excitement of the massed men +below. He passed the ledge of the first floor, like a lizard he wriggled +up and passed the ledge or coping of the second floor, and there he was, +like an upward-climbing shadow, scrambling on to the coping of the third +floor. The crowd was for a second electrically still as the boy rose +there erect, cleaving to the wall with the tips of his fingers. + +But he did not hesitate for one breath. He was on his feet and running +along the narrow coping that went across the house under the third floor +windows, running there on that narrow footing away above the street, +straight to the flag. He had got it--he had clutched it in his hand, a +handful of it. Exactly like a great flame rose the simultaneous yell of +the crowd as the boy jerked and got the flag loose. He had torn it +down. A tremendous prolonged yell, touched with a snarl of triumph, and +searing like a puff of flame, sounded as the boy remained for one moment +with the flag in his hand looking down at the crowd below. His face was +odd and elated and still. Then with the slightest gesture he threw the +flag from him, and Aaron watched the gaudy remnant falling towards the +many faces, whilst the noise of yelling rose up unheard. + +There was a great clutch and hiss in the crowd. The boy still stood +unmoved, holding by one hand behind him, looking down from above, from +his dangerous elevation, in a sort of abstraction. + +And the next thing Aaron was conscious of was the sound of trumpets. A +sudden startling challenge of trumpets, and out of nowhere a sudden rush +of grey-green carabinieri battering the crowd wildly with truncheons. It +was so sudden that Aaron _heard_ nothing any more. He only saw. + +In utmost amazement he saw the greeny-grey uniformed carabinieri rushing +thick and wild and indiscriminate on the crowd: a sudden new excited +crowd in uniforms attacking the black crowd, beating them wildly with +truncheons. There was a seething moment in the street below. And almost +instantaneously the original crowd burst into a terror of frenzy. The +mob broke as if something had exploded inside it. A few black-hatted men +fought furiously to get themselves free of the hated soldiers; in the +confusion bunches of men staggered, reeled, fell, and were struggling +among the legs of their comrades and of the carabinieri. But the bulk of +the crowd just burst and fled--in every direction. Like drops of water +they seemed to fly up at the very walls themselves. They darted into +any entry, any doorway. They sprang up the walls and clambered into the +ground-floor windows. They sprang up the walls on to window-ledges, and +then jumped down again, and ran--clambering, wriggling, darting, running +in every direction; some cut, blood on their faces, terror or frenzy +of flight in their hearts. Not so much terror as the frenzy of running +away. In a breath the street was empty. + +And all the time, there above on the stone coping stood the long-faced, +fair-haired boy, while four stout carabinieri in the street below stood +with uplifted revolvers and covered him, shouting that if he moved they +would shoot. So there he stood, still looking down, still holding with +his left hand behind him, covered by the four revolvers. He was not so +much afraid as twitchily self-conscious because of his false position. + +Meanwhile down below the crowd had dispersed--melted momentaneously. The +carabinieri were busy arresting the men who had fallen and been trodden +underfoot, or who had foolishly let themselves be taken; perhaps half a +dozen men, half a dozen prisoners; less rather than more. The sergeant +ordered these to be secured between soldiers. And last of all the youth +up above, still covered by the revolvers, was ordered to come down. He +turned quite quietly, and quite humbly, cautiously picked his way along +the coping towards the drain-pipe. He reached this pipe and began, in +humiliation, to climb down. It was a real climb down. + +Once in the street he was surrounded by the grey uniforms. The soldiers +formed up. The sergeant gave the order. And away they marched, the +dejected youth a prisoner between them. + +Then were heard a few scattered yells of derision and protest, a few +shouts of anger and derision against the carabinieri. There were once +more gangs of men and groups of youths along the street. They sent up an +occasional shout. But always over their shoulders, and pretending it was +not they who shouted. They were all cowed and hang-dog once more, and +made not the slightest effort to save the youth. Nevertheless, they +prowled and watched, ready for the next time. + +So, away went the prisoner and the grey-green soldiers, and the street +was left to the little gangs and groups of hangdog, discontented men, +all thoroughly out of countenance. The scene was ended. + +Aaron looked round, dazed. And then for the first time he noticed, on +the next balcony to his own, two young men: young gentlemen, he would +have said. The one was tall and handsome and well-coloured, might be +Italian. But the other with his pale thin face and his rimless monocle +in his eye, he was surely an Englishman. He was surely one of the +young officers shattered by the war. A look of strange, arch, bird-like +pleasure was on his face at this moment: if one could imagine the +gleaming smile of a white owl over the events that had just passed, this +was the impression produced on Aaron by the face of the young man with +the monocle. The other youth, the ruddy, handsome one, had knitted his +brows in mock distress, and was glancing with a look of shrewd curiosity +at Aaron, and with a look of almost self-satisfied excitement first to +one end of the street, then to the other. + +“But imagine, Angus, it's all over!” he said, laying his hand on the arm +of the monocled young man, and making great eyes--not without a shrewd +glance in Aaron's direction. + +“Did you see him fall!” replied Angus, with another strange gleam. + +“Yes. But was he HURT--?” + +“I don't know. I should think so. He fell right back out of that on to +those stones!” + +“But how perfectly AWFUL! Did you ever see anything like it?” + +“No. It's one of the funniest things I ever did see. I saw nothing quite +like it, even in the war--” + +Here Aaron withdrew into his room. His mind and soul were in a whirl. He +sat down in his chair, and did not move again for a great while. When +he did move, he took his flute and played he knew not what. But strange, +strange his soul passed into his instrument. Or passed half into his +instrument. There was a big residue left, to go bitter, or to ferment +into gold old wine of wisdom. + +He did not notice the dinner gong, and only the arrival of the +chamber-maid, to put the wash-table in order, sent him down to the +restaurant. The first thing he saw, as he entered, was the two young +Englishmen seated at a table in a corner just behind him. Their hair was +brushed straight back from their foreheads, making the sweep of the head +bright and impeccable, and leaving both the young faces clear as if in +cameo. Angus had laid his monocle on the table, and was looking +round the room with wide, light-blue eyes, looking hard, like some +bird-creature, and seeming to see nothing. He had evidently been very +ill: was still very ill. His cheeks and even his jaw seemed shrunken, +almost withered. He forgot his dinner: or he did not care for it. +Probably the latter. + +“What do you think, Francis,” he said, “of making a plan to see Florence +and Sienna and Orvieto on the way down, instead of going straight +to Rome?” He spoke in precise, particularly-enunciated words, in a +public-school manner, but with a strong twang of South Wales. + +“Why, Angus,” came the graceful voice of Francis, “I thought we had +settled to go straight through via Pisa.” Francis was graceful in +everything--in his tall, elegant figure, in the poses of his handsome +head, in the modulation of his voice. + +“Yes, but I see we can go either way--either Pisa or Florence. And I +thought it might be nice to look at Florence and Sienna and Orvieto. +I believe they're very lovely,” came the soft, precise voice of Angus, +ending in a touch of odd emotion on the words “very lovely,” as if it +were a new experience to him to be using them. + +“I'm SURE they're marvellous. I'm quite sure they're marvellously +beautiful,” said Francis, in his assured, elegant way. “Well, then, +Angus--suppose we do that, then?--When shall we start?” + +Angus was the nervous insister. Francis was quite occupied with his own +thoughts and calculations and curiosity. For he was very curious, not +to say inquisitive. And at the present moment he had a new subject to +ponder. + +This new subject was Aaron, who sat with his back to our new couple, and +who, with his fine sharp ears, caught every word that they said. Aaron's +back was broad enough, and his shoulders square, and his head rather +small and fairish and well-shaped--and Francis was intrigued. He wanted +to know, was the man English. He _looked_ so English--yet he might +be--he might perhaps be Danish, Scandinavian, or Dutch. Therefore, the +elegant young man watched and listened with all his ears. + +The waiter who had brought Aaron his soup now came very free and easy, +to ask for further orders. + +“What would you like to drink? Wine? Chianti? Or white wine? Or +beer?”--The old-fashioned “Sir” was dropped. It is too old-fashioned +now, since the war. + +“What SHOULD I drink?” said Aaron, whose acquaintance with wines was not +very large. + +“Half-litre of Chianti: that is very good,” said the waiter, with the +air of a man who knew only too well how to bring up his betters, and +train them in the way they should go. + +“All right,” said Aaron. + +The welcome sound of these two magic words, All Right! was what the +waiter most desired. “All right! Yes! All Right!” This is the pith, the +marrow, the sum and essence of the English language to a southerner. Of +course it is not _all right_. It is _Or-rye_--and one word at that. The +blow that would be given to most foreign waiters, if they were forced +to realize that the famous _orye_ was really composed of two words, and +spelt _all right_, would be too cruel, perhaps. + +“Half litre Chianti. Orye,” said the waiter. And we'll let him say it. + +“ENGLISH!” whispered Francis melodramatically in the ear of Angus. “I +THOUGHT so. The flautist.” + +Angus put in his monocle, and stared at the oblivious shoulders of +Aaron, without apparently seeing anything. “Yes. Obviously English,” + said Angus, pursing like a bird. + +“Oh, but I heard him,” whispered Francis emphatically. “Quite,” said +Angus. “But quite inoffensive.” + +“Oh, but Angus, my dear--he's the FLAUTIST. Don't you remember? The +divine bit of Scriabin. At least I believe it was Scriabin.--But +PERFECTLY DIVINE!!! I adore the flute above all things--” And Francis +placed his hand on Angus' arm, and rolled his eyes--Lay this to the +credit of a bottle of Lacrimae Cristi, if you like. + +“Yes. So do I,” said Angus, again looking archly through the monocle, +and seeing nothing. “I wonder what he's doing here.” + +“Don't you think we might ASK him?” said Francis, in a vehement whisper. +“After all, we are the only three English people in the place.” + +“For the moment, apparently we are,” said Angus. “But the English are +all over the place wherever you go, like bits of orange peel in the +street. Don't forget that, Francesco.” + +“No, Angus, I don't. The point is, his flute is PERFECTLY DIVINE--and he +seems quite attractive in himself. Don't you think so?” + +“Oh, quite,” said Angus, whose observations had got no further than the +black cloth of the back of Aaron's jacket. That there was a man inside +he had not yet paused to consider. + +“Quite a musician,” said Francis. + +“The hired sort,” said Angus, “most probably.” + +“But he PLAYS--he plays most marvellously. THAT you can't get away from, +Angus.” + +“I quite agree,” said Angus. + +“Well, then? Don't you think we might hear him again? Don't you think we +might get him to play for us?--But I should love it more than anything.” + +“Yes, I should, too,” said Angus. “You might ask him to coffee and a +liqueur.” + +“I should like to--most awfully. But do you think I might?” + +“Oh, yes. He won't mind being offered a coffee and liqueur. We can give +him something decent--Where's the waiter?” Angus lifted his pinched, +ugly bare face and looked round with weird command for the waiter. The +waiter, having not much to do, and feeling ready to draw these two weird +young birds, allowed himself to be summoned. + +“Where's the wine list? What liqueurs have you got?” demanded Angus +abruptly. + +The waiter rattled off a list, beginning with Strega and ending with +cherry brandy. + +“Grand Marnier,” said Angus. “And leave the bottle.” + +Then he looked with arch triumph at Francis, like a wicked bird. Francis +bit his finger moodily, and glowered with handsome, dark-blue uncertain +eyes at Mr. Aaron, who was just surveying the _Frutte_, which consisted +of two rather old pomegranates and various pale yellow apples, with a +sprinkling of withered dried figs. At the moment, they all looked like a +_Natura Morta_ arrangement. + +“But do you think I might--?” said Francis moodily. Angus pursed his +lips with a reckless brightness. + +“Why not? I see no reason why you shouldn't,” he said. Whereupon Francis +cleared his throat, disposed of his serviette, and rose to his feet, +slowly but gracefully. Then he composed himself, and took on the air he +wished to assume at the moment. It was a nice degage air, half naive and +half enthusiastic. Then he crossed to Aaron's table, and stood on one +lounging hip, gracefully, and bent forward in a confidential manner, and +said: + +“Do excuse me. But I MUST ask you if it was you we heard playing the +flute so perfectly wonderfully, just before dinner.” + +The voice was confidential and ingratiating. Aaron, relieved from the +world's stress and seeing life anew in the rosy glow of half a litre of +good old Chianti--the war was so near but gone by--looked up at the dark +blue, ingenuous, well-adapted eyes of our friend Francis, and smiling, +said: + +“Yes, I saw you on the balcony as well.” + +“Oh, did you notice us?” plunged Francis. “But wasn't it an +extraordinary affair?” + +“Very,” said Aaron. “I couldn't make it out, could you?” + +“Oh,” cried Francis. “I never try. It's all much too new and complicated +for me.--But perhaps you know Italy?” + +“No, I don't,” said Aaron. + +“Neither do we. And we feel rather stunned. We had only just +arrived--and then--Oh!” Francis put up his hand to his comely brow and +rolled his eyes. “I feel perfectly overwhelmed with it still.” + +He here allowed himself to sink friendlily into the vacant chair +opposite Aaron's. + +“Yes, I thought it was a bit exciting,” said Aaron. “I wonder what will +become of him--” + +“--Of the one who climbed for the flag, you mean? No!--But wasn't it +perfectly marvellous! Oh, incredible, quite incredible!--And then your +flute to finish it all! Oh! I felt it only wanted that.--I haven't got +over it yet. But your playing was MARVELLOUS, really marvellous. Do you +know, I can't forget it. You are a professional musician, of course.” + +“If you mean I play for a living,” said Aaron. “I have played in +orchestras in London.” + +“Of course! Of course! I knew you must be a professional. But don't you +give private recitals, too?” + +“No, I never have.” + +“Oh!” cried Francis, catching his breath. “I can't believe it. But you +play MARVELLOUSLY! Oh, I just loved it, it simply swept me away, after +that scene in the street. It seemed to sum it all up, you know.” + +“Did it,” said Aaron, rather grimly. + +“But won't you come and have coffee with us at our table?” said Francis. +“We should like it most awfully if you would.” + +“Yes, thank you,” said Aaron, half-rising. + +“But you haven't had your dessert,” said Francis, laying a fatherly +detaining hand on the arm of the other man. Aaron looked at the +detaining hand. + +“The dessert isn't much to stop for,” he said. “I can take with me what +I want.” And he picked out a handful of dried figs. + +The two went across to Angus' table. + +“We're going to take coffee together,” said Francis complacently, +playing the host with a suave assurance that was rather amusing and +charming in him. + +“Yes. I'm very glad,” said Angus. Let us give the show away: he was +being wilfully nice. But he _was_ quite glad; to be able to be so nice. +Anything to have a bit of life going: especially a bit of pleased life. +He looked at Aaron's comely, wine-warmed face with gratification. + +“Have a Grand Marnier,” he said. “I don't know how bad it is. Everything +is bad now. They lay it down to the war as well. It used to be quite +a decent drink. What the war had got to do with bad liqueurs, I don't +know.” + +Aaron sat down in a chair at their table. + +“But let us introduce ourselves,” said Francis. “I am Francis--or really +Franz Dekker--And this is Angus Guest, my friend.” + +“And my name is Aaron Sisson.” + +“What! What did you say?” said Francis, leaning forward. He, too, had +sharp ears. + +“Aaron Sisson.” + +“Aaron Sisson! Oh, but how amusing! What a nice name!” + +“No better than yours, is it?” + +“Mine! Franz Dekker! Oh, much more amusing, _I_ think,” said Francis +archly. + +“Oh, well, it's a matter of opinion. You're the double decker, not me.” + +“The double decker!” said Francis archly. “Why, what do you mean!--” + He rolled his eyes significantly. “But may I introduce my friend Angus +Guest.” + +“You've introduced me already, Francesco,” said Angus. + +“So sorry,” said Francis. + +“Guest!” said Aaron. + +Francis suddenly began to laugh. + +“May he not be Guest?” he asked, fatherly. + +“Very likely,” said Aaron. “Not that I was ever good at guessing.” + +Francis tilted his eyebrows. Fortunately the waiter arrived with the +coffee. + +“Tell me,” said Francis, “will you have your coffee black, or with +milk?” He was determined to restore a tone of sobriety. + +The coffee was sipped in sober solemnity. + +“Is music your line as well, then?” asked Aaron. + +“No, we're painters. We're going to work in Rome.” + +“To earn your living?” + +“Not yet.” + +The amount of discretion, modesty, and reserve which Francis put into +these two syllables gave Aaron to think that he had two real young +swells to deal with. + +“No,” continued Francis. “I was only JUST down from Oxford when the +war came--and Angus had been about ten months at the Slade--But I have +always painted.--So now we are going to work, really hard, in Rome, to +make up for lost time.--Oh, one has lost so much time, in the war. And +such PRECIOUS time! I don't know if ever one will even be able to make +it up again.” Francis tilted his handsome eyebrows and put his head on +one side with a wise-distressed look. + +“No,” said Angus. “One will never be able to make it up. What is +more, one will never be able to start again where one left off. We're +shattered old men, now, in one sense. And in another sense, we're just +pre-war babies.” + +The speech was uttered with an odd abruptness and didacticism which made +Aaron open his eyes. Angus had that peculiar manner: he seemed to be +haranguing himself in the circle of his own thoughts, not addressing +himself to his listener. + +So his listener listened on the outside edge of the young fellow's +crowded thoughts. Francis put on a distressed air, and let his attention +wander. Angus pursed his lips and his eyes were stretched wide with a +kind of pleasure, like a wicked owl which has just joyfully hooted an +ill omen. + +“Tell me,” said Francis to Aaron. “Where were YOU all the time during +the war?” + +“I was doing my job,” said Aaron. Which led to his explaining his +origins. + +“Really! So your music is quite new! But how interesting!” cried +Francis. + +Aaron explained further. + +“And so the war hardly affected you? But what did you FEEL about it, +privately?” + +“I didn't feel much. I didn't know what to feel. Other folks did such a +lot of feeling, I thought I'd better keep my mouth shut.” + +“Yes, quite!” said Angus. “Everybody had such a lot of feelings on +somebody else's behalf, that nobody ever had time to realise what they +felt themselves. I know I was like that. The feelings all came on to me +from the outside: like flies settling on meat. Before I knew where I +was I was eaten up with a swarm of feelings, and I found myself in the +trenches. God knows what for. And ever since then I've been trying to +get out of my swarm of feelings, which buzz in and out of me and have +nothing to do with me. I realised it in hospital. It's exactly like +trying to get out of a swarm of nasty dirty flies. And every one you +kill makes you sick, but doesn't make the swarm any less.” + +Again Angus pursed and bridled and looked like a pleased, wicked white +owl. Then he polished his monocle on a very choice silk handkerchief, +and fixed it unseeing in his left eye. + +But Francis was not interested in his friend's experiences. For Francis +had had a job in the War Office--whereas Angus was a war-hero with +shattered nerves. And let him depreciate his own experiences as much as +he liked, the young man with the monocle kept tight hold on his prestige +as a war hero. Only for himself, though. He by no means insisted that +anyone else should be war-bitten. + +Francis was one of those men who, like women, can set up the sympathetic +flow and make a fellow give himself away without realising what he is +doing. So there sat our friend Aaron, amusingly unbosoming himself +of all his history and experiences, drawn out by the arch, subtle +attentiveness of the handsome Francis. Angus listened, too, with pleased +amusedness on his pale, emaciated face, pursing his shrunken jaw. And +Aaron sipped various glasses of the liqueur, and told all his tale as if +it was a comedy. A comedy it seemed, too, at that hour. And a comedy no +doubt it was. But mixed, like most things in this life. Mixed. + +It was quite late before this seance broke up: and the waiter itching to +get rid of the fellows. + +“Well, now,” said Francis, as he rose from the table and settled his +elegant waist, resting on one hip, as usual. “We shall see you in the +morning, I hope. You say you are going to Venice. Why? Have you some +engagement in Venice?” + +“No,” said Aaron. “I only was going to look for a friend--Rawdon Lilly.” + +“Rawdon Lilly! Why, is he in Venice? Oh, I've heard SUCH a lot about +him. I should like so much to meet him. But I heard he was in Germany--” + +“I don't know where he is.” + +“Angus! Didn't we hear that Lilly was in Germany?” + +“Yes, in Munich, being psychoanalysed, I believe it was.” + +Aaron looked rather blank. + +“But have you anything to take you to Venice? It's such a bad climate in +the winter. Why not come with us to Florence?” said Francis. + +Aaron wavered. He really did not know what to do. + +“Think about it,” said Francis, laying his hand on Aaron's arm. “Think +about it tonight. And we'll meet in the morning. At what time?” + +“Any time,” said Aaron. + +“Well, say eleven. We'll meet in the lounge here at eleven. Will that +suit you? All right, then. It's so awfully nice meeting you. That +marvellous flute.--And think about Florence. But do come. Don't +disappoint us.” + +The two young men went elegantly upstairs. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. A RAILWAY JOURNEY + + +The next day but one, the three set off for Florence. Aaron had made +an excursion from Milan with the two young heroes, and dined with them +subsequently at the most expensive restaurant in the town. Then they +had all gone home--and had sat in the young men's bedroom drinking +tea, whilst Aaron played the flute. Francis was really musical, and +enchanted. Angus enjoyed the novelty, and the moderate patronage he +was able to confer. And Aaron felt amused and pleased, and hoped he was +paying for his treat. + +So behold them setting off for Florence in the early morning. Angus and +Francis had first-class tickets: Aaron took a third-class. + +“Come and have lunch with us on the train,” said Angus. “I'll order +three places, and we can lunch together.” + +“Oh, I can buy a bit of food at the station,” said Aaron. + +“No, come and lunch with us. It will be much nicer. And we shall enjoy +it as well,” said Angus. + +“Of course! Ever so much nicer! Of course!” cried Francis. “Yes, why +not, indeed! Why should you hesitate?” + +“All right, then,” said Aaron, not without some feeling of constraint. + +So they separated. The young men settled themselves amidst the red plush +and crochet-work, looking, with their hair plastered smoothly back, +quite as first class as you could wish, creating quite the right +impression on the porters and the travelling Italians. Aaron went to his +third-class, further up the train. + +“Well, then, _au revoir_, till luncheon,” cried Francis. + +The train was fairly full in the third and second classes. However, +Aaron got his seat, and the porter brought on his bags, after disposing +of the young men's luggage. Aaron gave the tip uneasily. He always hated +tipping--it seemed humiliating both ways. And the airy aplomb of the +two young cavaliers, as they settled down among the red plush and the +obsequiousness, and said “Well, then, _au revoir_ till luncheon,” was +peculiarly unsettling: though they did not intend it so. + +“The porter thinks I'm their servant--their valet,” said Aaron to +himself, and a curious half-amused, half-contemptuous look flickered on +his face. It annoyed him. The falsity occasioned by the difference in +the price of the tickets was really humiliating. Aaron had lived long +enough to know that as far as manhood and intellect went--nay, even +education--he was not the inferior of the two young “gentlemen.” He knew +quite well that, as far as intrinsic nature went, they did not imagine +him an inferior: rather the contrary. They had rather an exaggerated +respect for him and his life-power, and even his origin. And yet--they +had the inestimable cash advantage--and they were going to keep it. They +knew it was nothing more than an artificial cash superiority. But they +gripped it all the more intensely. They were the upper middle classes. +They were Eton and Oxford. And they were going to hang on to their +privileges. In these days, it is a fool who abdicates before he's forced +to. And therefore: + +“Well, then--_au revoir_ till luncheon.” + +They were being so awfully nice. And inwardly they were not +condescending. But socially, they just had to be. The world is made like +that. It wasn't their own private fault. It was no fault at all. It was +just the mode in which they were educated, the style of their living. +And as we know, _le style, c'est l'homme_. + +Angus came of very wealthy iron people near Merthyr. Already he had a +very fair income of his own. As soon as the law-business concerning his +father's and his grandfather's will was settled, he would be well off. +And he knew it, and valued himself accordingly. Francis was the son of a +highly-esteemed barrister and politician of Sydney, and in his day would +inherit his father's lately-won baronetcy. But Francis had not very much +money: and was much more class-flexible than Angus. Angus had been born +in a house with a park, and of awful, hard-willed, money-bound people. +Francis came of a much more adventurous, loose, excitable family, he had +the colonial newness and adaptability. He knew, for his own part, that +class superiority was just a trick, nowadays. Still, it was a trick that +paid. And a trick he was going to play as long as it did pay. + +While Aaron sat, a little pale at the gills, immobile, ruminating these +matters, a not very pleasant look about his nose-end, he heard a voice: + +“Oh, there you ARE! I thought I'd better come and see, so that we can +fetch you at lunch time.--You've got a seat? Are you quite comfortable? +Is there anything I could get you? Why, you're in a non-smoker!--But +that doesn't matter, everybody will smoke. Are you sure you have +everything? Oh, but wait just one moment--” + +It was Francis, long and elegant, with his straight shoulders and his +coat buttoned to show his waist, and his face so well-formed and so +modern. So modern, altogether. His voice was pleasantly modulated, and +never hurried. He now looked as if a thought had struck him. He put a +finger to his brow, and hastened back to his own carriage. In a minute, +he returned with a new London literary magazine. + +“Something to read--I shall have to FLY--See you at lunch,” and he had +turned and elegantly hastened, but not too fast, back to his carriage. +The porter was holding the door for him. So Francis looked pleasantly +hurried, but by no means rushed. Oh, dear, no. He took his time. It was +not for him to bolt and scramble like a mere Italian. + +The people in Aaron's carriage had watched the apparition of the elegant +youth intently. For them, he was a being from another sphere--no doubt +a young milordo with power wealth, and glamorous life behind him. Which +was just what Francis intended to convey. So handsome--so very, very +impressive in all his elegant calm showiness. He made such a _bella +figura_. It was just what the Italians loved. Those in the first class +regions thought he might even be an Italian, he was so attractive. + +The train in motion, the many Italian eyes in the carriage studied +Aaron. He, too, was good-looking. But by no means as fascinating as +the young milordo. Not half as sympathetic. No good at all at playing a +role. Probably a servant of the young signori. + +Aaron stared out of the window, and played the one single British role +left to him, that of ignoring his neighbours, isolating himself in +their midst, and minding his own business. Upon this insular trick our +greatness and our predominance depends--such as it is. Yes, they might +look at him. They might think him a servant or what they liked. But he +was inaccessible to them. He isolated himself upon himself, and there +remained. + +It was a lovely day, a lovely, lovely day of early autumn. Over the +great plain of Lombardy a magnificent blue sky glowed like mid-summer, +the sun shone strong. The great plain, with its great stripes of +cultivation--without hedges or boundaries---how beautiful it was! +Sometimes he saw oxen ploughing. Sometimes. Oh, so beautiful, teams +of eight, or ten, even of twelve pale, great soft oxen in procession, +ploughing the dark velvety earth, a driver with a great whip at their +head, a man far behind holding the plough-shafts. Beautiful the soft, +soft plunging motion of oxen moving forwards. Beautiful the strange, +snaky lifting of the muzzles, the swaying of the sharp horns. And the +soft, soft crawling motion of a team of oxen, so invisible, almost, yet +so inevitable. Now and again straight canals of water flashed blue. Now +and again the great lines of grey-silvery poplars rose and made avenues +or lovely grey airy quadrangles across the plain. Their top boughs were +spangled with gold and green leaf. Sometimes the vine-leaves were gold +and red, a patterning. And the great square farm-homesteads, white, +red-roofed, with their out-buildings, stood naked amid the lands, +without screen or softening. There was something big and exposed about +it all. No more the cosy English ambushed life, no longer the cosy +littleness of the landscape. A bigness--and nothing to shelter the +unshrinking spirit. It was all exposed, exposed to the sweep of plain, +to the high, strong sky, and to human gaze. A kind of boldness, an +indifference. Aaron was impressed and fascinated. He looked with +new interest at the Italians in the carriage with him--for this same +boldness and indifference and exposed gesture. And he found it in them, +too. And again it fascinated him. It seemed so much bigger, as if the +walls of life had fallen. Nay, the walls of English life will have to +fall. + +Sitting there in the third-class carriage, he became happy again. The +_presence_ of his fellow-passengers was not so hampering as in England. +In England, everybody seems held tight and gripped, nothing is left +free. Every passenger seems like a parcel holding his string as fast as +he can about him, lest one corner of the wrapper should come undone +and reveal what is inside. And every other passenger is forced, by +the public will, to hold himself as tight-bound also. Which in the end +becomes a sort of self-conscious madness. + +But here, in the third class carriage, there was no tight string round +every man. They were not all trussed with self-conscious string as tight +as capons. They had a sufficient amount of callousness and indifference +and natural equanimity. True, one of them spat continually on the floor, +in large spits. And another sat with his boots all unlaced and his +collar off, and various important buttons undone. They did not seem to +care if bits of themselves did show, through the gaps in the wrapping. +Aaron winced--but he preferred it to English tightness. He was pleased, +he was happy with the Italians. He thought how generous and natural they +were. + +So the towns passed by, and the hours, and he seemed at last to have got +outside himself and his old conditions. It seemed like a great escape. +There was magic again in life--real magic. Was it illusion, or was it +genuine? He thought it was genuine, and opened his soul a if there was +no danger. + +Lunch-time came. Francis summoned Aaron down the rocking tram. The +three men had a table to themselves, and all felt they were enjoying +themselves very much indeed. Of course Francis and Angus made a great +impression again. But in the dining car were mostly middle-class, +well-to-do Italians. And these did not look upon our two young heroes as +two young wonders. No, rather with some criticism, and some class-envy. +But they were impressed. Oh, they were impressed! How should they not +be, when our young gentlemen had such an air! Aaron was conscious all +the time that the fellow-diners were being properly impressed by +the flower of civilisation and the salt of the earth, namely, young, +well-to-do Englishmen. And he had a faint premonition, based on +experience perhaps, that fellow-passengers in the end never forgive the +man who has “impressed” them. Mankind loves being impressed. It asks to +be impressed. It almost forces those whom it can force to play a role +and to make an impression. And afterwards, never forgives. + +When the train ran into Bologna Station, they were still in the +restaurant car. Nor did they go at once to their seats. Angus had paid +the bill. There was three-quarters-of-an-hour's wait in Bologna. + +“You may as well come down and sit with us,” said Francis. “We've got +nobody in our carriage, so why shouldn't we all stay together during the +wait. You kept your own seat, I suppose.” + +No, he had forgotten. So when he went to look for it, it was occupied +by a stout man who was just taking off his collar and wrapping a white +kerchief round his neck. The third class carriages were packed. For +those were early days after the war, while men still had pre-war +notions and were poor. Ten months would steal imperceptibly by, and the +mysterious revolution would be effected. Then, the second class and the +first class would be packed, indescribably packed, crowded, on all +great trains: and the third class carriages, lo and behold, would be +comparatively empty. Oh, marvellous days of bankruptcy, when nobody will +condescend to travel third! + +However, these were still modest, sombre months immediately after the +peace. So a large man with a fat neck and a white kerchief, and his +collar over his knee, sat in Aaron's seat. Aaron looked at the man, +and at his own luggage overhead. The fat man saw him looking and stared +back: then stared also at the luggage overhead: and with his almost +invisible north-Italian gesture said much plainer than words would have +said it: “Go to hell. I'm here and I'm going to stop here.” + +There was something insolent and unbearable about the look--and about +the rocky fixity of the large man. He sat as if he had insolently taken +root in his seat. Aaron flushed slightly. Francis and Angus strolled +along the train, outside, for the corridor was already blocked with the +mad Bologna rush, and the baggage belonging. They joined Aaron as he +stood on the platform. + +“But where is YOUR SEAT?” cried Francis, peering into the packed and +jammed compartments of the third class. + +“That man's sitting in it.” + +“Which?” cried Francis, indignant. + +“The fat one there--with the collar on his knee.” + +“But it was your seat--!” + +Francis' gorge rose in indignation. He mounted into the corridor. And in +the doorway of the compartment he bridled like an angry horse rearing, +bridling his head. Poising himself on one hip, he stared fixedly at the +man with the collar on his knee, then at the baggage aloft. He looked +down at the fat man as a bird looks down from the eaves of a house. But +the man looked back with a solid, rock-like impudence, before which an +Englishman quails: a jeering, immovable insolence, with a sneer round +the nose and a solid-seated posterior. + +“But,” said Francis in English--none of them had any Italian yet. “But,” + said Francis, turning round to Aaron, “that was YOUR SEAT?” and he flung +his long fore-finger in the direction of the fat man's thighs. + +“Yes!” said Aaron. + +“And he's TAKEN it--!” cried Francis in indignation. + +“And knows it, too,” said Aaron. + +“But--!” and Francis looked round imperiously, as if to summon his +bodyguard. But bodyguards are no longer forthcoming, and train-guards +are far from satisfactory. The fat man sat on, with a sneer-grin, +very faint but very effective, round his nose, and a solidly-planted +posterior. He quite enjoyed the pantomime of the young foreigners. The +other passengers said something to him, and he answered laconic. Then +they all had the faint sneer-grin round their noses. A woman in the +corner grinned jeeringly straight in Francis' face. His charm failed +entirely this time: and as for his commandingness, that was ineffectual +indeed. Rage came up in him. + +“Oh well--something must be done,” said he decisively. “But didn't you +put something in the seat to RESERVE it?” + +“Only that _New Statesman_--but he's moved it.” + +The man still sat with the invisible sneer-grin on his face, and that +peculiar and immovable plant of his Italian posterior. + +“Mais--cette place etait RESERVEE--” said Francis, moving to the direct +attack. + +The man turned aside and ignored him utterly--then said something to the +men opposite, and they all began to show their teeth in a grin. + +Francis was not so easily foiled. He touched the man on the arm. The man +looked round threateningly, as if he had been struck. + +“Cette place est reservee--par ce Monsieur--” said Francis with hauteur, +though still in an explanatory tone, and pointing to Aaron. + +The Italian looked him, not in the eyes, but between the eyes, and +sneered full in his face. Then he looked with contempt at Aaron. And +then he said, in Italian, that there was room for such snobs in the +first class, and that they had not any right to come occupying the place +of honest men in the third. + +“Gia! Gia!” barked the other passengers in the carriage. + +“Loro possono andare prima classa--PRIMA CLASSA!” said the woman in the +corner, in a very high voice, as if talking to deaf people, and pointing +to Aaron's luggage, then along the train to the first class carriages. + +“C'e posto la,” said one of the men, shrugging his shoulders. + +There was a jeering quality in the hard insolence which made Francis go +very red and Augus very white. Angus stared like a death's-head behind +his monocle, with death-blue eyes. + +“Oh, never mind. Come along to the first class. I'll pay the difference. +We shall be much better all together. Get the luggage down, Francis. +It wouldn't be possible to travel with this lot, even if he gave up the +seat. There's plenty of room in our carriage--and I'll pay the extra,” + said Angus. + +He knew there was one solution--and only one--Money. + +But Francis bit his finger. He felt almost beside himself--and quite +powerless. For he knew the guard of the train would jeer too. It is +not so easy to interfere with honest third-class Bolognesi in Bologna +station, even if they _have_ taken another man's seat. Powerless, +his brow knitted, and looking just like Mephistopheles with his high +forehead and slightly arched nose, Mephistopheles in a rage, he hauled +down Aaron's bag and handed it to Angus. So they transferred themselves +to the first-class carriage, while the fat man and his party in the +third-class watched in jeering, triumphant silence. Solid, planted, +immovable, in static triumph. + +So Aaron sat with the others amid the red plush, whilst the train +began its long slow climb of the Apennines, stinking sulphurous through +tunnels innumerable. Wonderful the steep slopes, the great chestnut +woods, and then the great distances glimpsed between the heights, +Firenzuola away and beneath, Turneresque hills far off, built of +heaven-bloom, not of earth. It was cold at the summit-station, ice and +snow in the air, fierce. Our travellers shrank into the carriage again, +and wrapped themselves round. + +Then the train began its long slither downhill, still through a whole +necklace of tunnels, which fortunately no longer stank. So down and +down, till the plain appears in sight once more, the Arno valley. But +then began the inevitable hitch that always happens in Italian travel. +The train began to hesitate--to falter to a halt, whistling shrilly +as if in protest: whistling pip-pip-pip in expostulation as it stood +forlorn among the fields: then stealing forward again and stealthily +making pace, gathering speed, till it had got up a regular spurt: then +suddenly the brakes came on with a jerk, more faltering to a halt, +more whistling and pip-pip-pipping, as the engine stood jingling with +impatience: after which another creak and splash, and another choking +off. So on till they landed in Prato station: and there they sat. A +fellow passenger told them, there was an hour to wait here: an hour. +Something had happened up the line. + +“Then I propose we make tea,” said Angus, beaming. + +“Why not! Of course. Let us make tea. And I will look for water.” + +So Aaron and Francis went to the restaurant bar and filled the little +pan at the tap. Angus got down the red picnic case, of which he was so +fond, and spread out the various arrangements on the floor of the coupe. +He soon had the spirit-lamp burning, the water heating. Francis proposed +that he and Aaron should dash into Prato and see what could be bought, +whilst the tea was in preparation. So off they went, leaving Angus like +a busy old wizard manipulating his arrangements on the floor of the +carriage, his monocle beaming with bliss. The one fat fellow--passenger +with a lurid striped rug over his knees watched with acute interest. +Everybody who passed the doorway stood to contemplate the scene with +pleasure. Officials came and studied the situation with appreciation. +Then Francis and Aaron returned with a large supply of roast chestnuts, +piping hot, and hard dried plums, and good dried figs, and rather stale +rusks. They found the water just boiling, Angus just throwing in the +tea-egg, and the fellow-passenger just poking his nose right in, he was +so thrilled. + +Nothing pleased Angus so much as thus pitching camp in the midst of +civilisation. The scrubby newspaper packets of chestnuts, plums, figs +and rusks were spread out: Francis flew for salt to the man at the +bar, and came back with a little paper of rock-salt: the brown tea was +dispensed in the silver-fitted glasses from the immortal luncheon-case: +and the picnic was in full swing. Angus, being in the height of his +happiness, now sat on the seat cross-legged, with his feet under him, in +the authentic Buddha fashion, and on his face the queer rapt alert look, +half a smile, also somewhat Buddhistic, holding his glass of brown +tea in his hand. He was as rapt and immobile as if he really were in +a mystic state. Yet it was only his delight in the tea-party. The +fellow-passenger peered at the tea, and said in broken French, was it +good. In equally fragmentary French Francis said very good, and offered +the fat passenger some. He, however, held up his hand in protest, as if +to say not for any money would he swallow the hot-watery stuff. And he +pulled out a flask of wine. But a handful of chestnuts he accepted. + +The train-conductor, ticket-collector, and the heavy green soldier who +protected them, swung open the door and stared attentively. The fellow +passenger addressed himself to these new-comers, and they all began to +smile good-naturedly. Then the fellow-passenger--he was stout and fifty +and had a brilliant striped rug always over his knees--pointed out the +Buddha-like position of Angus, and the three in-starers smiled again. +And so the fellow-passenger thought he must try too. So he put aside his +rug, and lifted his feet from the floor, and took his toes in his hands, +and tried to bring his legs up and his feet under him. But his knees +were fat, his trousers in the direst extreme of peril, and he could no +more manage it than if he had tried to swallow himself. So he desisted +suddenly, rather scared, whilst the three bunched and official heads in +the doorway laughed and jested at him, showing their teeth and teasing +him. But on our gypsy party they turned their eyes with admiration. They +loved the novelty and the fun. And on the thin, elegant Angus in his new +London clothes, they looked really puzzled, as he sat there immobile, +gleaming through his monocle like some Buddha going wicked, perched +cross-legged and ecstatic on the red velvet seat. They marvelled that +the lower half of him could so double up, like a foot-rule. So they +stared till they had seen enough. When they suddenly said “Buon +'appetito,” withdrew their heads and shoulders, slammed the door, and +departed. + +Then the train set off also--and shortly after six arrived in Florence. +It was debated what should Aaron do in Florence. The young men had +engaged a room at Bertolini's hotel, on the Lungarno. Bertolini's was +not expensive--but Aaron knew that his friends would not long endure +hotel life. However, he went along with the other two, trusting to find +a cheaper place on the morrow. + +It was growing quite dark as they drove to the hotel, but still was +light enough to show the river rustling, the Ponte Vecchio spanning its +little storeys across the flood, on its low, heavy piers: and some sort +of magic of the darkening, varied houses facing, on the other side of +the stream. Of course they were all enchanted. + +“I knew,” said Francis, “we should love it.” + +Aaron was told he could have a little back room and pension terms for +fifteen lire a day, if he stayed at least fifteen days. The exchange +was then at forty-five. So fifteen lire meant just six-shillings-and-six +pence a day, without extras. Extras meant wine, tea, butter, and light. +It was decided he should look for something cheaper next day. + +By the tone of the young men, he now gathered that they would prefer it +if he took himself off to a cheaper place. They wished to be on their +own. + +“Well, then,” said Francis, “you will be in to lunch here, won't you? +Then we'll see you at lunch.” + +It was as if both the young men had drawn in their feelers now. They +were afraid of finding the new man an incubus. They wanted to wash their +hands of him. Aaron's brow darkened. + + + “Perhaps it was right your love to dissemble + But why did you kick me down stairs?...” + + +Then morning found him out early, before his friends had arisen. It was +sunny again. The magic of Florence at once overcame him, and he forgot +the bore of limited means and hotel costs. He went straight out of the +hotel door, across the road, and leaned on the river parapet. There ran +the Arno: not such a flood after all, but a green stream with shoals of +pebbles in its course. Across, and in the delicate shadow of the early +sun, stood the opposite Lungarno, the old flat houses, pink, or white, +or grey stone, with their green shutters, some closed, some opened. It +had a flowery effect, the skyline irregular against the morning light. +To the right the delicate Trinita bridge, to the left, the old bridge +with its little shops over the river. Beyond, towards the sun, glimpses +of green, sky-bloomed country: Tuscany. + +There was a noise and clatter of traffic: boys pushing hand-barrows over +the cobble-stones, slow bullocks stepping side by side, and shouldering +one another affectionately, drawing a load of country produce, then +horses in great brilliant scarlet cloths, like vivid palls, slowly +pulling the long narrow carts of the district: and men hu-huing!--and +people calling: all the sharp, clattering morning noise of Florence. + +“Oh, Angus! Do come and look! OH, so lovely!” + +Glancing up, he saw the elegant figure of Francis, in fine coloured-silk +pyjamas, perched on a small upper balcony, turning away from the river +towards the bedroom again, his hand lifted to his lips, as if to catch +there his cry of delight. The whole pose was classic and effective: and +very amusing. How the Italians would love it! + +Aaron slipped back across the road, and walked away under the houses +towards the Ponte Vecchio. He passed the bridge--and passed the +Uffizi--watching the green hills opposite, and San Miniato. Then he +noticed the over-dramatic group of statuary in the Piazza Mentana--male +and physical and melodramatic--and then the corner house. It was a big +old Florentine house, with many green shutters and wide eaves. There was +a notice plate by the door--“Pension Nardini.” + +He came to a full stop. He stared at the notice-plate, stared at the +glass door, and turning round, stared at the over-pathetic dead soldier +on the arm of his over-heroic pistol-firing comrade; _Mentana_--and +the date! Aaron wondered what and where Mentana was. Then at last +he summoned his energy, opened the glass door, and mounted the first +stairs. + +He waited some time before anybody appeared. Then a maid-servant. + +“Can I have a room?” said Aaron. + +The bewildered, wild-eyed servant maid opened a door and showed him into +a heavily-gilt, heavily-plush drawing-room with a great deal of frantic +grandeur about it. There he sat and cooled his heels for half an hour. +Arrived at length a stout young lady--handsome, with big dark-blue +Italian eyes--but anaemic and too stout. + +“Oh!” she said as she entered, not knowing what else to say. + +“Good-morning,” said Aaron awkwardly. + +“Oh, good-morning! English! Yes! Oh, I am so sorry to keep you, you +know, to make you wait so long. I was upstairs, you know, with a lady. +Will you sit?” + +“Can I have a room?” said Aaron. + +“A room! Yes, you can.” + +“What terms?” + +“Terms! Oh! Why, ten francs a day, you know, pension--if you stay--How +long will you stay?” + +“At least a month, I expect.” + +“A month! Oh yes. Yes, ten francs a day.” + +“For everything?” + +“Everything. Yes, everything. Coffee, bread, honey or jam in the +morning: lunch at half-past twelve; tea in the drawing-room, half-past +four: dinner at half-past seven: all very nice. And a warm room with the +sun--Would you like to see?” + +So Aaron was led up the big, rambling old house to the top floor--then +along a long old corridor--and at last into a big bedroom with two +beds and a red tiled floor--a little dreary, as ever--but the sun just +beginning to come in, and a lovely view on to the river, towards the +Ponte Vecchio, and at the hills with their pines and villas and verdure +opposite. + +Here he would settle. The signorina would send a man for his bags, at +half past two in the afternoon. + +At luncheon Aaron found the two friends, and told them of his move. + +“How very nice for you! Ten francs a day--but that is nothing. I am so +pleased you've found something. And when will you be moving in?” said +Francis. + +“At half-past two.” + +“Oh, so soon. Yes, just as well.--But we shall see you from time to +time, of course. What did you say the address was? Oh, yes--just near +the awful statue. Very well. We can look you up any time--and you will +find us here. Leave a message if we should happen not to be in--we've +got lots of engagements--” + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. FLORENCE + + +The very afternoon after Aaron's arrival in Florence the sky became +dark, the wind cold, and rain began steadily to fall. He sat in his big, +bleak room above the river, and watched the pale green water fused with +yellow, the many-threaded streams fuse into one, as swiftly the surface +flood came down from the hills. Across, the dark green hills looked +darker in the wet, the umbrella pines held up in vain above the villas. +But away below, on the Lungarno, traffic rattled as ever. + +Aaron went down at five o'clock to tea, and found himself alone next a +group of women, mostly Swedes or Danish or Dutch, drinking a peculiar +brown herb-brew which tasted like nothing else on earth, and eating two +thick bits of darkish bread smeared with a brown smear which hoped +it was jam, but hoped in vain. Unhappily he sat in the gilt and red, +massively ornate room, while the foreign women eyed him. Oh, bitter to +be a male under such circumstances. + +He escaped as soon as possible back to his far-off regions, lonely and +cheerless, away above. But he rather liked the far-off remoteness in +the big old Florentine house: he did not mind the peculiar dark, uncosy +dreariness. It was not really dreary: only indifferent. Indifferent +to comfort, indifferent to all homeliness and cosiness. The over-big +furniture trying to be impressive, but never to be pretty or bright +or cheerful. There it stood, ugly and apart. And there let it +stand.--Neither did he mind the lack of fire, the cold sombreness of his +big bedroom. At home, in England, the bright grate and the ruddy fire, +the thick hearth-rug and the man's arm-chair, these had been inevitable. +And now he was glad to get away from it all. He was glad not to have a +cosy hearth, and his own arm-chair. He was glad to feel the cold, and to +breathe the unwarmed air. He preferred the Italian way of no fires, no +heating. If the day was cold, he was willing to be cold too. If it was +dark, he was willing to be dark. The cosy brightness of a real home--it +had stifled him till he felt his lungs would burst. The horrors of real +domesticity. No, the Italian brutal way was better. + +So he put his overcoat over his knee, and studied some music he had +bought in Milan: some Pergolesi and the Scarlatti he liked, and some +Corelli. He preferred frail, sensitive, abstract music, with not much +feeling in it, but a certain limpidity and purity. Night fell as he sat +reading the scores. He would have liked to try certain pieces on his +flute. But his flute was too sensitive, it winced from the new strange +surroundings, and would not blossom. + +Dinner sounded at last--at eight o'clock, or something after. He had to +learn to expect the meals always forty minutes late. Down he went, down +the long, dark, lonely corridors and staircases. The dining room was +right downstairs. But he had a little table to himself near the door, +the elderly women were at some little distance. The only other men were +Agostmo, the unshapely waiter, and an Italian duke, with wife and child +and nurse, the family sitting all together at a table halfway down the +room, and utterly pre-occupied with a little yellow dog. + +However, the food was good enough, and sufficient, and the waiter and +the maid-servant cheerful and bustling. Everything felt happy-go-lucky +and informal, there was no particular atmosphere. Nobody put on any +airs, because nobody in the Nardini took any notice if they did. The +little ducal dog yapped, the ducal son shouted, the waiter dropped half +a dozen spoons, the old women knitted during the waits, and all went +off so badly that it was quite pleasant. Yes, Aaron preferred it to +Bertolini's, which was trying to be efficient and correct: though not +making any strenuous effort. Still, Bertolini's was much more up to +the scratch, there was the tension of proper standards. Whereas here at +Nardini's, nothing mattered very much. + +It was November. When he got up to his far-off room again, Aaron felt +almost as if he were in a castle with the drawbridge drawn up. Through +the open window came the sound of the swelling Arno, as it rushed and +rustled along over its gravel-shoals. Lights spangled the opposite side. +Traffic sounded deep below. The room was not really cold, for the summer +sun so soaks into these thick old buildings, that it takes a month or +two of winter to soak it out.--The rain still fell. + +In the morning it was still November, and the dawn came slowly. And +through the open window was the sound of the river's rushing. But the +traffic started before dawn, with a bang and a rattle of carts, and +a bang and jingle of tram-cars over the not-distant bridge. Oh, noisy +Florence! At half-past seven Aaron rang for his coffee: and got it at a +few minutes past eight. The signorina had told him to take his coffee in +bed. + +Rain was still falling. But towards nine o'clock it lifted, and he +decided to go out. A wet, wet world. Carriages going by, with huge wet +shiny umbrellas, black and with many points, erected to cover the driver +and the tail of the horse and the box-seat. The hood of the carriage +covered the fare. Clatter-clatter through the rain. Peasants with long +wagons and slow oxen, and pale-green huge umbrellas erected for the +driver to walk beneath. Men tripping along in cloaks, shawls, umbrellas, +anything, quite unconcerned. A man loading gravel in the river-bed, in +spite of the wet. And innumerable bells ringing: but innumerable bells. +The great soft trembling of the cathedral bell felt in all the air. + +Anyhow it was a new world. Aaron went along close to the tall thick +houses, following his nose. And suddenly he caught sight of the long +slim neck of the Palazzo Vecchio up above, in the air. And in another +minute he was passing between massive buildings, out into the Piazza +della Signoria. There he stood still and looked round him in real +surprise, and real joy. The flat empty square with its stone paving was +all wet. The great buildings rose dark. The dark, sheer front of the +Palazzo Vecchio went up like a cliff, to the battlements, and the slim +tower soared dark and hawk-like, crested, high above. And at the foot +of the cliff stood the great naked David, white and stripped in the wet, +white against the dark, warm-dark cliff of the building--and near, the +heavy naked men of Bandinelli. + +The first thing he had seen, as he turned into the square, was the back +of one of these Bandinelli statues: a great naked man of marble, with a +heavy back and strong naked flanks over which the water was trickling. +And then to come immediately upon the David, so much whiter, glistening +skin-white in the wet, standing a little forward, and shrinking. + +He may be ugly, too naturalistic, too big, and anything else you like. +But the David in the Piazza della Signoria, there under the dark great +palace, in the position Michelangelo chose for him, there, standing +forward stripped and exposed and eternally half-shrinking, half--wishing +to expose himself, he is the genius of Florence. The adolescent, the +white, self-conscious, physical adolescent: enormous, in keeping with +the stark, grim, enormous palace, which is dark and bare as he is white +and bare. And behind, the big, lumpy Bandinelli men are in keeping too. +They may be ugly--but they are there in their place, and they have their +own lumpy reality. And this morning in the rain, standing unbroken, with +the water trickling down their flanks and along the inner side of their +great thighs, they were real enough, representing the undaunted physical +nature of the heavier Florentines. + +Aaron looked and looked at the three great naked men. David so much +white, and standing forward, self-conscious: then at the great splendid +front of the Palazzo Vecchio: and at the fountain splashing water +upon its wet, wet figures; and the distant equestrian statue; and the +stone-flagged space of the grim square. And he felt that here he was in +one of the world's living centres, here, in the Piazza della Signoria. +The sense of having arrived--of having reached a perfect centre of the +human world: this he had. + +And so, satisfied, he turned round to look at the bronze Perseus which +rose just above him. Benvenuto Cellini's dark hero looked female, with +his plump hips and his waist, female and rather insignificant: graceful, +and rather vulgar. The clownish Bandinellis were somehow more to the +point.--Then all the statuary in the Loggia! But that is a mistake. It +looks too much like the yard of a monumental mason. + +The great, naked men in the rain, under the dark-grey November sky, in +the dark, strong inviolable square! The wonderful hawk-head of the old +palace. The physical, self-conscious adolescent, Michelangelo's David, +shrinking and exposing himself, with his white, slack limbs! Florence, +passionate, fearless Florence had spoken herself out.--Aaron was +fascinated by the Piazza della Signoria. He never went into the town, +nor returned from it to his lodging, without contriving to pass through +the square. And he never passed through it without satisfaction. Here +men had been at their intensest, most naked pitch, here, at the end of +the old world and the beginning of the new. Since then, always rather +puling and apologetic. + +Aaron felt a new self, a new life-urge rising inside himself. Florence +seemed to start a new man in him. It was a town of men. On Friday +morning, so early, he heard the traffic. Early, he watched the rather +low, two-wheeled traps of the peasants spanking recklessly over the +bridge, coming in to town. And then, when he went out, he found the +Piazza della Signoria packed with men: but all, all men. And all +farmers, land-owners and land-workers. The curious, fine-nosed Tuscan +farmers, with their half-sardonic, amber-coloured eyes. Their curious +individuality, their clothes worn so easy and reckless, their hats with +the personal twist. Their curious full oval cheeks, their tendency to be +too fat, to have a belly and heavy limbs. Their close-sitting dark hair. +And above all, their sharp, almost acrid, mocking expression, the silent +curl of the nose, the eternal challenge, the rock-bottom unbelief, +and the subtle fearlessness. The dangerous, subtle, never-dying +fearlessness, and the acrid unbelief. But men! Men! A town of men, in +spite of everything. The one manly quality, undying, acrid fearlessness. +The eternal challenge of the un-quenched human soul. Perhaps too acrid +and challenging today, when there is nothing left to challenge. But +men--who existed without apology and without justification. Men who +would neither justify themselves nor apologize for themselves. Just men. +The rarest thing left in our sweet Christendom. + +Altogether Aaron was pleased with himself, for being in Florence. Those +were early days after the war, when as yet very few foreigners had +returned, and the place had the native sombreness and intensity. So that +our friend did not mind being alone. + +The third day, however, Francis called on him. There was a tap at the +bedroom door, and the young man entered, all eyes of curiosity. + +“Oh, there you ARE!” he cried, flinging his hand and twisting his waist +and then laying his hand on his breast. “Such a LONG way up to you! But +miles--! Well, how are you? Are you quite all right here? You are? +I'm so glad--we've been so rushed, seeing people that we haven't had a +MINUTE. But not a MINUTE! People! People! People! Isn't it amazing how +many there are, and how many one knows, and gets to know! But amazing! +Endless acquaintances!--Oh, and such quaint people here! so ODD! So MORE +than odd! Oh, extraordinary--!” Francis chuckled to himself over the +extraordinariness. Then he seated himself gracefully at Aaron's table. +“Oh, MUSIC! What? Corelli! So interesting! So very CLEVER, these people, +weren't they!--Corelli and the younger Scarlatti and all that crowd.” + Here he closed the score again. “But now--LOOK! Do you want to know +anybody here, or don't you? I've told them about you, and of course +they're dying to meet you and hear you play. But I thought it best not +to mention anything about--about your being hard-up, and all that. I +said you were just here on a visit. You see with this kind of people I'm +sure it's much the best not to let them start off by thinking you will +need them at all--or that you MIGHT need them. Why give yourself away, +anyhow? Just meet them and take them for what they're worth--and then +you can see. If they like to give you an engagement to play at some +show or other--well, you can decide when the time comes whether you +will accept. Much better that these kind of people shouldn't get it into +their heads at once that they can hire your services. It doesn't do. +They haven't enough discrimination for that. Much best make rather +a favour of it, than sort of ask them to hire you.--Don't you agree? +Perhaps I'm wrong.” + +Aaron sat and listened and wondered at the wisdom and the genuine +kindness of the young _beau_. And more still, he wondered at the +profound social disillusionment. This handsome collie dog was something +of a social wolf, half showing his fangs at the moment. But with genuine +kindheartedness for another wolf. Aaron was touched. + +“Yes, I think that's the best way,” he said. + +“You do! Yes, so do I. Oh, they are such queer people! Why is it, do +you think, that English people abroad go so very QUEER--so +ultra-English--INCREDIBLE!--and at the same time so perfectly +impossible? But impossible! Pathological, I assure you.--And as for +their sexual behaviour--oh, dear, don't mention it. I assure you it +doesn't bear mention.--And all quite flagrant, quite unabashed--under +the cover of this fanatical Englishness. But I couldn't begin to TELL +you all the things. It's just incredible.” + +Aaron wondered how on earth Francis had been able to discover and bear +witness to so much that was incredible, in a bare two days. But a little +gossip, and an addition of lurid imagination will carry you anywhere. + +“Well now,” said Francis. “What are you doing today?” + +Aaron was not doing anything in particular. + +“Then will you come and have dinner with us--?” + +Francis fixed up the time and the place--a small restaurant at the other +end of the town. Then he leaned out of the window. + +“Fascinating place! Oh, fascinating place!” he said, soliloquy. “And +you've got a superb view. Almost better than ours, I think.--Well then, +half-past seven. We're meeting a few other people, mostly residents or +people staying some time. We're not inviting them. Just dropping in, +you know--a little restaurant. We shall see you then! Well then, _a +rivederci_ till this evening.--So glad you like Florence! I'm simply +loving it--revelling. And the pictures!--Oh--” + +The party that evening consisted all of men: Francis and Angus, and a +writer, James Argyle, and little Algy Constable, and tiny Louis Mee, and +deaf Walter Rosen. They all snapped and rattled at one another, and +were rather spiteful but rather amusing. Francis and Angus had to leave +early. They had another appointment. And James Argyle got quite tipsy, +and said to Aaron: + +“But, my boy, don't let yourself be led astray by the talk of such +people as Algy. Beware of them, my boy, if you've a soul to save. If +you've a soul to save!” And he swallowed the remains of his litre. + +Algy's nose trembled a little, and his eyes blinked. “And if you've +a soul to LOSE,” he said, “I would warn you very earnestly against +Argyle.” Whereupon Algy shut one eye and opened the other so wide, that +Aaron was almost scared. “Quite right, my boy. Ha! Ha! Never a truer +thing said! Ha-ha-ha.” Argyle laughed his Mephistophelian tipsy laugh. +“They'll teach you to save. Never was such a lot of ripe old savers! +Save their old trouser-buttons! Go to them if you want to learn to +save. Oh, yes, I advise it seriously. You'll lose nothing--not even a +reputation.--You may lose a SOUL, of course. But that's a detail, among +such a hoard of banknotes and trouser-buttons. Ha-ha! What's a soul, to +them--?” + +“What is it to you, is perhaps the more pertinent question,” said Algy, +flapping his eyelids like some crazy owl. “It is you who specialise in +the matter of soul, and we who are in need of enlightenment--” + +“Yes, very true, you ARE! You ARE in need of enlightenment. A set of +benighted wise virgins. Ha-ha-ha! That's good, that--benighted wise +virgins! What--” Argyle put his red face near to Aaron's, and made a +_moue_, narrowing his eyes quizzically as he peered up from under his +level grey eyebrows. “Sit in the dark to save the lamp-oil--And all no +good to them.--When the bridegroom cometh--! Ha-ha! Good that! Good, +my boy!--The bridegroom--” he giggled to himself. “What about the +bridegroom, Algy, my boy? Eh? What about him? Better trim your wick, old +man, if it's not too late--” + +“We were talking of souls, not wicks, Argyle,” said Algy. + +“Same thing. Upon my soul it all amounts to the same thing. Where's the +soul in a man that hasn't got a bedfellow--eh?--answer me that! Can't be +done you know. Might as well ask a virgin chicken to lay you an egg.” + +“Then there ought to be a good deal of it about,” said Algy. + +“Of what? Of soul? There ought to be a good deal of soul about?--Ah, +because there's a good deal of--, you mean.--Ah, I wish it were so. I +wish it were so. But, believe me, there's far more damned chastity in +the world, than anything else. Even in this town.--Call it chastity, if +you like. I see nothing in it but sterility. It takes a rat to praise +long tails. Impotence set up the praise of chastity--believe me +or not--but that's the bottom of it. The virtue is made out of the +necessity.--Ha-ha-ha!--Like them! Like them! Ha-ha! Saving their souls! +Why they'd save the waste matter of their bodies if they could. Grieves +them to part with it.--Ha! ha!--ha!” + +There was a pause. Argyle was in his cups, which left no more to be +said. Algy, quivering and angry, looked disconcertingly round the +room as if he were quite calm and collected. The deaf Jewish Rosen was +smiling down his nose and saying: “What was that last? I didn't catch +that last,” cupping his ear with his hand in the frantic hope that +someone would answer. No one paid any heed. + +“I shall be going,” said Algy, looking round. Then to Aaron he said, +“You play the flute, I hear. May we hear you some time?” + +“Yes,” said Aaron, non-committal. + +“Well, look here--come to tea tomorrow. I shall have some friends, and +Del Torre will play the piano. Come to tea tomorrow, will you?” + +“Thank you, I will.” + +“And perhaps you'll bring your flute along.” + +“Don't you do any such thing, my boy. Make them entertain YOU, for +once.--They're always squeezing an entertainment out of somebody--” + and Argyle desperately emptied the remains of Algy's wine into his +own glass: whilst Algy stood as if listening to something far off, and +blinking terribly. + +“Anyhow,” he said at length, “you'll come, won't you? And bring the +flute if you feel like it.” + +“Don't you take that flute, my boy,” persisted Argyle. “Don't think of +such a thing. If they want a concert, let them buy their tickets and go +to the Teatro Diana. Or to Marchesa del Torre's Saturday morning. She +can afford to treat them.” Algy looked at Argyle, and blinked. “Well,” + he said. “I hope you'll get home all right, Argyle.” + +“Thank you for your courtesy, Algy. Won't you lend me your arm?” + +As Algy was small and frail, somewhat shaky, and as Argyle was a finely +built, heavy man of fifty or more, the slap was unkind. + +“Afraid I can't tonight. Good-night--” + +Algy departed, so did little Mee, who had sat with a little delighted +disapproval on his tiny, bird-like face, without saying anything. And +even the Jew Rosen put away his deaf-machine and began awkwardly to take +his leave. His long nose was smiling to itself complacently at all the +things Argyle had been saying. + +When he, too, had gone, Argyle arched his brows at Aaron, saying: + +“Oh, my dear fellow, what a lot they are!--Little Mee--looking like an +innocent little boy. He's over seventy if he's a day. Well over seventy. +Well, you don't believe me. Ask his mother--ask his mother. She's +ninety-five. Old lady of ninety-five--” Argyle even laughed himself at +his own preposterousness. + +“And then Algy--Algy's not a fool, you know. Oh, he can be most +entertaining, most witty, and amusing. But he's out of place here. He +should be in Kensington, dandling round the ladies' drawing rooms and +making his _mots_. They're rich, you know, the pair of them. Little Mee +used to boast that he lived on eleven-and-three-pence a week. Had to, +poor chap. But then what does a white mouse like that need? Makes a +heavy meal on a cheese-paring. Luck, you know--but of course he's +come into money as well. Rich as Croesus, and still lives on +nineteen-and-two-pence a week. Though it's nearly double, of course, +what it used to be. No wonder he looks anxious. They disapprove of +me--oh, quite right, quite right from their own point of view. Where +would their money be otherwise? It wouldn't last long if I laid hands +on it--” he made a devilish quizzing face. “But you know, they get on +my nerves. Little old maids, you know, little old maids. I'm sure I'm +surprised at their patience with me.--But when people are patient +with you, you want to spit gall at them. Don't you? Ha-ha-ha! Poor old +Algy.--Did I lay it on him tonight, or did I miss him?” + +“I think you got him,” said Aaron. + +“He'll never forgive me. Depend on it, he'll never forgive me. Ha-ha! I +like to be unforgiven. It adds ZEST to one's intercourse with people, to +know that they'll never forgive one. Ha-ha-ha! Little old maids, who do +their knitting with their tongues. Poor old Algy--he drops his stitches +now. Ha-ha-ha!--Must be eighty, I should say.” + +Aaron laughed. He had never met a man like Argyle before--and he could +not help being charmed. The other man had a certain wicked whimsicality +that was very attractive, when levelled against someone else, and not +against oneself. He must have been very handsome in his day, with his +natural dignity, and his clean-shaven strong square face. But now his +face was all red and softened and inflamed, his eyes had gone small and +wicked under his bushy grey brows. Still he had a presence. And his grey +hair, almost gone white, was still handsome. + +“And what are you going to do in Florence?” asked Argyle. + +Aaron explained. + +“Well,” said Argyle. “Make what you can out of them, and then go. Go +before they have time to do the dirty on you. If they think you want +anything from them, they'll treat you like a dog, like a dog. Oh, +they're very frightened of anybody who wants anything of them: +frightened to death. I see nothing of them.--Live by myself--see nobody. +Can't stand it, you know: their silly little teaparties--simply can't +stand it. No, I live alone--and shall die alone.--At least, I sincerely +hope so. I should be sorry to have any of them hanging round.” + +The restaurant was empty, the pale, malarial waiter--he had of course +contracted malaria during the war--was looking purple round the eyes. +But Argyle callously sat on. Aaron therefore rose to his feet. + +“Oh, I'm coming, I'm coming,” said Argyle. + +He got unsteadily to his feet. The waiter helped him on with his coat: +and he put a disreputable-looking little curly hat on his head. Then he +took his stick. + +“Don't look at my appearance, my dear fellow,” said Argyle. “I am frayed +at the wrists--look here!” He showed the cuffs of his overcoat, just +frayed through. “I've got a trunkful of clothes in London, if only +somebody would bring it out to me.--Ready then! _Avanti!_” + +And so they passed out into the still rainy street. Argyle lived in the +very centre of the town: in the Cathedral Square. Aaron left him at his +hotel door. + +“But come and see me,” said Argyle. “Call for me at twelve o'clock--or +just before twelve--and let us have luncheon together. What! Is that +all right?--Yes, come just before twelve.--When?--Tomorrow? Tomorrow +morning? Will you come tomorrow?” + +Aaron said he would on Monday. + +“Monday, eh! You say Monday! Very well then. Don't you forget now. Don't +you forget. For I've a memory like a vice. _I_ shan't forget.--Just +before twelve then. And come right up. I'm right under the roof. In +Paradise, as the porter always says. _Siamo nel paradiso_. But he's +a _cretin_. As near Paradise as I care for, for it's devilish hot in +summer, and damned cold in winter. Don't you forget now--Monday, twelve +o'clock.” + +And Argyle pinched Aaron's arm fast, then went unsteadily up the steps +to his hotel door. + +The next day at Algy's there was a crowd Algy had a very pleasant flat +indeed, kept more scrupulously neat and finicking than ever any woman's +flat was kept. So today, with its bowls of flowers and its pictures and +books and old furniture, and Algy, very nicely dressed, fluttering and +blinking and making really a charming host, it was all very delightful +to the little mob of visitors. They were a curious lot, it is true: +everybody rather exceptional. Which though it may be startling, is so +very much better fun than everybody all alike. Aaron talked to an old, +old Italian elegant in side-curls, who peeled off his grey gloves and +studied his formalities with a delightful Mid-Victorian dash, and told +stories about a _plaint_ which Lady Surry had against Lord Marsh, and +was quite incomprehensible. Out rolled the English words, like plums out +of a burst bag, and all completely unintelligible. But the old _beau_ +was supremely satisfied. He loved talking English, and holding his +listeners spell-bound. + +Next to Aaron on the sofa sat the Marchesa del Torre, an American woman +from the Southern States, who had lived most of her life in Europe. She +was about forty years of age, handsome, well-dressed, and quiet in the +buzz of the tea-party. It was evident she was one of Algy's lionesses. +Now she sat by Aaron, eating nothing, but taking a cup of tea and +keeping still. She seemed sad--or not well perhaps. Her eyes were +heavy. But she was very carefully made up, and very well dressed, though +simply: and sitting there, full-bosomed, rather sad, remote-seeming, she +suggested to Aaron a modern Cleopatra brooding, Anthony-less. + +Her husband, the Marchese, was a little intense Italian in a colonel's +grey uniform, cavalry, leather gaiters. He had blue eyes, his hair was +cut very short, his head looked hard and rather military: he would have +been taken for an Austrian officer, or even a German, had it not been +for the peculiar Italian sprightliness and touch of grimace in his +mobile countenance. He was rather like a gnome--not ugly, but odd. + +Now he came and stood opposite to Signor di Lanti, and quizzed him +in Italian. But it was evident, in quizzing the old buck, the little +Marchese was hovering near his wife, in ear-shot. Algy came up with +cigarettes, and she at once began to smoke, with that peculiar heavy +intensity of a nervous woman. + +Aaron did not say anything--did not know what to say. He was peculiarly +conscious of the woman sitting next to him, her arm near his. She smoked +heavily, in silence, as if abstracted, a sort of cloud on her level, +dark brows. Her hair was dark, but a softish brown, not black, and her +skin was fair. Her bosom would be white.--Why Aaron should have had this +thought, he could not for the life of him say. + +Manfredi, her husband, rolled his blue eyes and grimaced as he laughed +at old Lanti. But it was obvious that his attention was diverted +sideways, towards his wife. Aaron, who was tired of nursing a tea-cup, +placed in on a table and resumed his seat in silence. But suddenly the +little Marchese whipped out his cigarette-case, and making a little bow, +presented it to Aaron, saying: + +“Won't you smoke?” + +“Thank you,” said Aaron. + +“Turkish that side--Virginia there--you see.” + +“Thank you, Turkish,” said Aaron. + +The little officer in his dove-grey and yellow uniform snapped his box +shut again, and presented a light. + +“You are new in Florence?” he said, as he presented the match. + +“Four days,” said Aaron. + +“And I hear you are musical.” + +“I play the flute--no more.” + +“Ah, yes--but then you play it as an artist, not as an accomplishment.” + +“But how do you know?” laughed Aaron. + +“I was told so--and I believe it.” + +“That's nice of you, anyhow--But you are a musician too.” + +“Yes--we are both musicians--my wife and I.” + +Manfredi looked at his wife. She flicked the ash off her cigarette. + +“What sort?” said Aaron. + +“Why, how do you mean, what sort? We are dilettanti, I suppose.” + +“No--what is your instrument? The piano?” + +“Yes--the pianoforte. And my wife sings. But we are very much out of +practice. I have been at the war four years, and we have had our home +in Paris. My wife was in Paris, she did not wish to stay in Italy alone. +And so--you see--everything goes--” + +“But you will begin again?” + +“Yes. We have begun already. We have music on Saturday mornings. Next +Saturday a string quartette, and violin solos by a young Florentine +woman--a friend--very good indeed, daughter of our Professor Tortoli, +who composes--as you may know--” + +“Yes,” said Aaron. + +“Would you care to come and hear--?” + +“Awfully nice if you would--” suddenly said the wife, quite simply, as +if she had merely been tired, and not talking before. + +“I should like to very much--” + +“Do come then.” + +While they were making the arrangements, Algy came up in his blandest +manner. + +“Now Marchesa--might we hope for a song?” + +“No--I don't sing any more,” came the slow, contralto reply. + +“Oh, but you can't mean you say that deliberately--” + +“Yes, quite deliberately--” She threw away her cigarette and opened her +little gold case to take another. + +“But what can have brought you to such a disastrous decision?” + +“I can't say,” she replied, with a little laugh. “The war, probably.” + +“Oh, but don't let the war deprive us of this, as of everything else.” + +“Can't be helped,” she said. “I have no choice in the matter. The bird +has flown--” She spoke with a certain heavy languor. + +“You mean the bird of your voice? Oh, but that is quite impossible. One +can hear it calling out of the leaves every time you speak.” + +“I'm afraid you can't get him to do any more than call out of the +leaves.” + +“But--but--pardon me--is it because you don't intend there should be any +more song? Is that your intention?” + +“That I couldn't say,” said the Marchesa, smoking, smoking. + +“Yes,” said Manfredi. “At the present time it is because she WILL +not--not because she cannot. It is her will, as you say.” + +“Dear me! Dear me!” said Algy. “But this is really another disaster +added to the war list.--But--but--will none of us ever be able to +persuade you?” He smiled half cajoling, half pathetic, with a prodigious +flapping of his eyes. + +“I don't know,” said she. “That will be as it must be.” + +“Then can't we say it must be SONG once more?” + +To this sally she merely laughed, and pressed out her half-smoked +cigarette. + +“How very disappointing! How very cruel of--of fate--and the +war--and--and all the sum total of evils,” said Algy. + +“Perhaps--” here the little and piquant host turned to Aaron. + +“Perhaps Mr. Sisson, your flute might call out the bird of song. As +thrushes call each other into challenge, you know. Don't you think that +is very probable?” + +“I have no idea,” said Aaron. + +“But you, Marchesa. Won't you give us hope that it might be so?” + +“I've no idea, either,” said she. “But I should very much like to hear +Mr. Sisson's flute. It's an instrument I like extremely.” + +“There now. You see you may work the miracle, Mr. Sisson. Won't you play +to us?” + +“I'm afraid I didn't bring my flute along,” said Aaron “I didn't want to +arrive with a little bag.” + +“Quite!” said Algy. “What a pity it wouldn't go in your pocket.” + +“Not music and all,” said Aaron. + +“Dear me! What a _comble_ of disappointment. I never felt so strongly, +Marchesa, that the old life and the old world had collapsed.--Really--I +shall soon have to try to give up being cheerful at all.” + +“Don't do that,” said the Marchesa. “It isn't worth the effort.” + +“Ah! I'm glad you find it so. Then I have hope.” + +She merely smiled, indifferent. + +The teaparty began to break up--Aaron found himself going down the +stairs with the Marchesa and her husband. They descended all three in +silence, husband and wife in front. Once outside the door, the husband +asked: + +“How shall we go home, dear? Tram or carriage--?” It was evident he was +economical. + +“Walk,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at Aaron. “We are all going +the same way, I believe.” + +Aaron said where he lived. They were just across the river. And so all +three proceeded to walk through the town. + +“You are sure it won't be too much for you--too far?” said the little +officer, taking his wife's arm solicitously. She was taller than he. But +he was a spirited fellow. + +“No, I feel like walking.” + +“So long as you don't have to pay for it afterwards.” + +Aaron gathered that she was not well. Yet she did not look ill--unless +it were nerves. She had that peculiar heavy remote quality of +pre-occupation and neurosis. + +The streets of Florence were very full this Sunday evening, almost +impassable, crowded particularly with gangs of grey-green soldiers. The +three made their way brokenly, and with difficulty. The Italian was in a +constant state of returning salutes. The grey-green, sturdy, unsoldierly +soldiers looked at the woman as she passed. + +“I am sure you had better take a carriage,” said Manfredi. + +“No--I don't mind it.” + +“Do you feel at home in Florence?” Aaron asked her. + +“Yes--as much as anywhere. Oh, yes--quite at home.” + +“Do you like it as well as anywhere?” he asked. + +“Yes--for a time. Paris for the most part.” + +“Never America?” + +“No, never America. I came when I was quite a little girl to +Europe--Madrid--Constantinople--Paris. I hardly knew America at all.” + +Aaron remembered that Francis had told him, the Marchesa's father had +been ambassador to Paris. + +“So you feel you have no country of your own?” + +“I have Italy. I am Italian now, you know.” + +Aaron wondered why she spoke so muted, so numbed. Manfredi seemed really +attached to her--and she to him. They were so simple with one another. + +They came towards the bridge where they should part. + +“Won't you come and have a cocktail?” she said. + +“Now?” said Aaron. + +“Yes. This is the right time for a cocktail. What time is it, Manfredi?” + +“Half past six. Do come and have one with us,” said the Italian. “We +always take one about this time.” + +Aaron continued with them over the bridge. They had the first floor of +an old palazzo opposite, a little way up the hill. A man-servant opened +the door. + +“If only it will be warm,” she said. “The apartment is almost impossible +to keep warm. We will sit in the little room.” + +Aaron found himself in a quite warm room with shaded lights and a +mixture of old Italian stiffness and deep soft modern comfort. The +Marchesa went away to take off her wraps, and the Marchese chatted with +Aaron. The little officer was amiable and kind, and it was evident he +liked his guest. + +“Would you like to see the room where we have music?” he said. “It is +a fine room for the purpose--we used before the war to have music +every Saturday morning, from ten to twelve: and all friends might come. +Usually we had fifteen or twenty people. Now we are starting again. I +myself enjoy it so much. I am afraid my wife isn't so enthusiastic as +she used to be. I wish something would rouse her up, you know. The war +seemed to take her life away. Here in Florence are so many amateurs. +Very good indeed. We can have very good chamber-music indeed. I hope it +will cheer her up and make her quite herself again. I was away for such +long periods, at the front.--And it was not good for her to be alone.--I +am hoping now all will be better.” + +So saying, the little, odd officer switched on the lights of the +long salon. It was a handsome room in the Italian mode of the Empire +period--beautiful old faded tapestry panels--reddish--and some ormolu +furniture--and other things mixed in--rather conglomerate, but pleasing, +all the more pleasing. It was big, not too empty, and seemed to belong +to human life, not to show and shut-upedness. The host was happy showing +it. + +“Of course the flat in Paris is more luxurious than this,” he said. “But +I prefer this. I prefer it here.” There was a certain wistfulness as he +looked round, then began to switch off the lights. + +They returned to the little salotta. The Marchesa was seated in a low +chair. She wore a very thin white blouse, that showed her arms and her +throat. She was a full-breasted, soft-skinned woman, though not stout. + +“Make the cocktails then, Manfredi,” she said. “Do you find this room +very cold?” she asked of Aaron. + +“Not a bit cold,” he said. + +“The stove goes all the time,” she said, “but without much effect.” + +“You wear such thin clothes,” he said. + +“Ah, no, the stove should give heat enough. Do sit down. Will you smoke? +There are cigarettes--and cigars, if you prefer them.” + +“No, I've got my own, thanks.” + +She took her own cigarette from her gold case. + +“It is a fine room, for music, the big room,” said he. + +“Yes, quite. Would you like to play for us some time, do you think?” + +“Do you want me to? I mean does it interest you?” + +“What--the flute?” + +“No--music altogether--” + +“Music altogether--! Well! I used to love it. Now--I'm not sure. +Manfredi lives for it, almost.” + +“For that and nothing else?” asked Aaron. + +“No, no! No, no! Other things as well.” + +“But you don't like it much any more?” + +“I don't know. Perhaps I don't. I'm not sure.” + +“You don't look forward to the Saturday mornings?” he asked. + +“Perhaps I don't--but for Manfredi's sake, of course, I do. But for his +sake more than my own, I admit. And I think he knows it.” + +“A crowd of people in one's house--” said Aaron. + +“Yes, the people. But it's not only that. It's the music itself--I think +I can't stand it any more. I don't know.” + +“Too emotional? Too much feeling for you?” + +“Yes, perhaps. But no. What I can't stand is chords, you know: +harmonies. A number of sounds all sounding together. It just makes me +ill. It makes me feel so sick.” + +“What--do you want discords?--dissonances?” + +“No--they are nearly as bad. No, it's just when any number of musical +notes, different notes, come together, harmonies or discords. Even a +single chord struck on the piano. It makes me feel sick. I just feel as +if I should retch. Isn't it strange? Of course, I don't tell Manfredi. +It would be too cruel to him. It would cut his life in two.” + +“But then why do you have the music--the Saturdays--then?” + +“Oh, I just keep out of the way as much as possible. I'm sure you feel +there is something wrong with me, that I take it as I do,” she added, as +if anxious: but half ironical. + +“No--I was just wondering--I believe I feel something the same myself. I +know orchestra makes me blind with hate or I don't know what. But I want +to throw bombs.” + +“There now. It does that to me, too. Only now it has fairly got me down, +and I feel nothing but helpless nausea. You know, like when you are +seasick.” + +Her dark-blue, heavy, haunted-looking eyes were resting on him as if +she hoped for something. He watched her face steadily, a curious +intelligence flickering on his own. + +“Yes,” he said. “I understand it. And I know, at the bottom, I'm like +that. But I keep myself from realising, don't you know? Else perhaps, +where should I be? Because I make my life and my living at it, as well.” + +“At music! Do you! But how bad for you. But perhaps the flute is +different. I have a feeling that it is. I can think of one single +pipe-note--yes, I can think of it quite, quite calmly. And I can't even +think of the piano, or of the violin with its tremolo, or of orchestra, +or of a string quartette--or even a military band--I can't think of +it without a shudder. I can only bear drum-and-fife. Isn't it crazy of +me--but from the other, from what we call music proper, I've endured too +much. But bring your flute one day. Bring it, will you? And let me hear +it quite alone. Quite, quite alone. I think it might do me an awful lot +of good. I do, really. I can imagine it.” She closed her eyes and her +strange, sing-song lapsing voice came to an end. She spoke almost like +one in a trance--or a sleep-walker. + +“I've got it now in my overcoat pocket,” he said, “if you like.” + +“Have you? Yes!” She was never hurried: always slow and resonant, so +that the echoes of her voice seemed to linger. “Yes--do get it. Do get +it. And play in the other room--quite--quite without accompaniment. +Do--and try me.” + +“And you will tell me what you feel?” + +“Yes.” + +Aaron went out to his overcoat. When he returned with his flute, which +he was screwing together, Manfredi had come with the tray and the three +cocktails. The Marchesa took her glass. + +“Listen, Manfredi,” she said. “Mr. Sisson is going to play, quite alone +in the sala. And I am going to sit here and listen.” + +“Very well,” said Manfredi. “Drink your cocktail first. Are you going to +play without music?” + +“Yes,” said Aaron. + +“I'll just put on the lights for you.” + +“No--leave it dark. Enough light will come in from here.” + +“Sure?” said Manfredi. + +“Yes.” + +The little soldier was an intruder at the moment. Both the others felt +it so. But they bore him no grudge. They knew it was they who were +exceptional, not he. Aaron swallowed his drink, and looked towards the +door. + +“Sit down, Manfredi. Sit still,” said the Marchesa. + +“Won't you let me try some accompaniment?” said the soldier. + +“No. I shall just play a little thing from memory,” said Aaron. + +“Sit down, dear. Sit down,” said the Marchesa to her husband. + +He seated himself obediently. The flash of bright yellow on the grey of +his uniform seemed to make him like a chaffinch or a gnome. + +Aaron retired to the other room, and waited awhile, to get back the +spell which connected him with the woman, and gave the two of them this +strange isolation, beyond the bounds of life, as it seemed. + +He caught it again. And there, in the darkness of the big room, he put +his flute to his lips, and began to play. It was a clear, sharp, lilted +run-and-fall of notes, not a tune in any sense of the word, and yet +a melody, a bright, quick sound of pure animation, a bright, quick, +animate noise, running and pausing. It was like a bird's singing, in +that it had no human emotion or passion or intention or meaning--a +ripple and poise of animate sound. But it was unlike a bird's singing, +in that the notes followed clear and single one after the other, in +their subtle gallop. A nightingale is rather like that--a wild sound. +To read all the human pathos into nightingales' singing is nonsense. +A wild, savage, non-human lurch and squander of sound, beautiful, but +entirely unaesthetic. + +What Aaron was playing was not of his own invention. It was a bit of +mediaeval phrasing written for the pipe and the viol. It made the piano +seem a ponderous, nerve-wracking steam-roller of noise, and the violin, +as we know it, a hateful wire-drawn nerve-torturer. + +After a little while, when he entered the smaller room again, the +Marchesa looked full into his face. + +“Good!” she said. “Good!” + +And a gleam almost of happiness seemed to light her up. She seemed like +one who had been kept in a horrible enchanted castle--for years and +years. Oh, a horrible enchanted castle, with wet walls of emotions and +ponderous chains of feelings and a ghastly atmosphere of must-be. She +felt she had seen through the opening door a crack of sunshine, and +thin, pure, light outside air, outside, beyond this dank and +beastly dungeon of feelings and moral necessity. Ugh!--she shuddered +convulsively at what had been. She looked at her little husband. Chains +of necessity all round him: a little jailor. Yet she was fond of him. +If only he would throw away the castle keys. He was a little gnome. What +did he clutch the castle-keys so tight for? + +Aaron looked at her. He knew that they understood one another, he and +she. Without any moral necessity or any other necessity. Outside--they +had got outside the castle of so-called human life. Outside the +horrible, stinking human castle Of life. A bit of true, limpid freedom. +Just a glimpse. + +“Charming!” said the Marchese. “Truly charming! But what was it you +played?” + +Aaron told him. + +“But truly delightful. I say, won't you play for us one of these +Saturdays? And won't you let me take the accompaniment? I should be +charmed, charmed if you would.” + +“All right,” said Aaron. + +“Do drink another cocktail,” said his hostess. + +He did so. And then he rose to leave. + +“Will you stay to dinner?” said the Marchesa. “We have two people +coming--two Italian relatives of my husband. But--” + +No, Aaron declined to stay to dinner. + +“Then won't you come on--let me see--on Wednesday? Do come on Wednesday. +We are alone. And do bring the flute. Come at half-past six, as today, +will you? Yes?” + +Aaron promised--and then he found himself in the street. It was +half-past seven. Instead of returning straight home, he crossed the +Ponte Vecchio and walked straight into the crowd. The night was fine +now. He had his overcoat over his arm, and in a sort of trance or +frenzy, whirled away by his evening's experience, and by the woman, he +strode swiftly forward, hardly heeding anything, but rushing blindly on +through all the crowd, carried away by his own feelings, as much as if +he had been alone, and all these many people merely trees. + +Leaving the Piazza Vittorio Emmanuele a gang of soldiers suddenly rushed +round him, buffeting him in one direction, whilst another gang, swinging +round the corner, threw him back helpless again into the midst of the +first gang. For some moments he struggled among the rude, brutal little +mob of grey-green coarse uniforms that smelt so strong of soldiers. +Then, irritated, he found himself free again, shaking himself and +passing on towards the cathedral. Irritated, he now put on his overcoat +and buttoned it to the throat, closing himself in, as it were, from the +brutal insolence of the Sunday night mob of men. Before, he had been +walking through them in a rush of naked feeling, all exposed to their +tender mercies. He now gathered himself together. + +As he was going home, suddenly, just as he was passing the Bargello, +he stopped. He stopped, and put his hand to his breast pocket. His +letter-case was gone. He had been robbed. It was as if lightning ran +through him at that moment, as if a fluid electricity rushed down his +limbs, through the sluice of his knees, and out at his feet, leaving +him standing there almost unconscious. For a moment unconscious and +superconscious he stood there. He had been robbed. They had put their +hand in his breast and robbed him. If they had stabbed him, it could +hardly have had a greater effect on him. + +And he had known it. He had known it. When the soldiers jostled him so +evilly they robbed him. And he knew it. He had known it as if it were +fate. Even as if it were fated beforehand. + +Feeling quite weak and faint, as if he had really been struck by some +evil electric fluid, he walked on. And as soon as he began to walk, he +began to reason. Perhaps his letter-case was in his other coat. Perhaps +he had not had it with him at all. Perhaps he was feeling all this, just +for nothing. Perhaps it was all folly. + +He hurried forward. He wanted to make sure. He wanted relief. It was +as if the power of evil had suddenly seized him and thrown him, and he +wanted to say it was not so, that he had imagined it all, conjured it +up. He did not want to admit the power of evil--particularly at that +moment. For surely a very ugly evil spirit had struck him, in the midst +of that gang of Italian soldiers. He knew it--it had pierced him. It had +_got_ him. + +But he wanted to say it was not so. Reaching the house, he hastened +upwards to his far-off, lonely room, through the dark corridors. Once +in his own apartment, he shut the door and switched on the light, a +sensation like fear at his heart. Then he searched his other pockets. He +looked everywhere. In vain. + +In vain, truly enough. For he _knew_ the thing was stolen. He had known +it all along. The soldiers had deliberately plotted, had deliberately +rushed him and taken his purse. They must have watched him previously. +They must have grinned, and jeered at him. + +He sat down in a chair, to recover from the shock. The pocket-book +contained four hundred francs, three one-pound notes, and various +letters and private effects. Well, these were lost. But it was not so +much the loss as the assault on his person that caused him to feel +so stricken. He felt the jeering, gibing blows they had given as they +jostled him. + +And now he sat, weak in every limb, and said to himself: “Yes--and if I +hadn't rushed along so full of feeling: if I hadn't exposed myself: if +I hadn't got worked up with the Marchesa, and then rushed all kindled +through the streets, without reserve, it would never have happened. I +gave myself away: and there was someone ready to snatch what I gave. I +gave myself away. It is my own fault. I should have been on my guard. +I should be always on my guard: always, always. With God and the devil +both, I should be on my guard. Godly or devilish, I should hold fast to +my reserve and keep on the watch. And if I don't, I deserve what I get.” + +But still he sat in his chair in his bedroom, dazed. One part of his +soul was saying emphatically: It serves you right. It is nothing but +right. It serves everybody right who rushes enkindled through the +street, and trusts implicitly in mankind and in the life-spirit, as if +mankind and the life-spirit were a playground for enkindled individuals. +It serves you right. You have paid about twelve pounds sterling for your +lesson. Fool, you might have known beforehand, and then you needn't have +paid at all. You can ill afford twelve pounds sterling, you fool. But +since paid you have, then mind, mind the lesson is learned. Never +again. Never expose yourself again. Never again absolute trust. It is +a blasphemy against life, is absolute trust. Has a wild creature ever +absolute trust? It minds itself. Sleeping or waking it is on its guard. +And so must you be, or you'll go under. Sleeping or waking, man or +woman, God or the devil, keep your guard over yourself. Keep your guard +over yourself, lest worse befall you. No man is robbed unless he incites +a robber. No man is murdered unless he attracts a murderer. Then be not +robbed: it lies within your own power. And be not murdered. Or if you +are, you deserve it. Keep your guard over yourself, now, always and +forever. Yes, against God quite as hard as against the devil. He's fully +as dangerous to you.... + +Thus thinking, not in his mind but in his soul, his active, living soul, +he gathered his equanimity once more, and accepted the fact. So he rose +and tidied himself for dinner. His face was now set, and still. His +heart also was still--and fearless. Because its sentinel was stationed. +Stationed, stationed for ever. + +And Aaron never forgot. After this, it became essential to him to feel +that the sentinel stood guard in his own heart. He felt a strange unease +the moment he was off his guard. Asleep or awake, in the midst of the +deepest passion or the suddenest love, or in the throes of greatest +excitement or bewilderment, somewhere, some corner of himself was awake +to the fact that the sentinel of the soul must not sleep, no, never, not +for one instant. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. HIGH UP OVER THE CATHEDRAL SQUARE + + +Aaron and Lilly sat in Argyle's little loggia, high up under the eaves +of the small hotel, a sort of long attic-terrace just under the roof, +where no one would have suspected it. It was level with the grey conical +roof of the Baptistery. Here sat Aaron and Lilly in the afternoon, in +the last of the lovely autumn sunshine. Below, the square was +already cold in shadow, the pink and white and green Baptistery rose +lantern-shaped as from some sea-shore, cool, cold and wan now the sun +was gone. Black figures, innumerable black figures, curious because they +were all on end, up on end--Aaron could not say why he expected them to +be horizontal--little black figures upon end, like fishes that swim on +their tails, wiggled endlessly across the piazza, little carriages on +natural all-fours rattled tinily across, the yellow little tram-cars, +like dogs slipped round the corner. The balcony was so high up, that +the sound was ineffectual. The upper space, above the houses, was +nearer than the under-currents of the noisy town. Sunlight, lovely full +sunlight, lingered warm and still on the balcony. It caught the facade +of the cathedral sideways, like the tips of a flower, and sideways lit +up the stem of Giotto's tower, like a lily stem, or a long, lovely pale +pink and white and green pistil of the lily of the cathedral. Florence, +the flowery town. Firenze--Fiorenze--the flowery town: the red lilies. +The Fiorentini, the flower-souled. Flowers with good roots in the mud +and muck, as should be: and fearless blossoms in air, like the cathedral +and the tower and the David. + +“I love it,” said Lilly. “I love this place, I love the cathedral and +the tower. I love its pinkness and its paleness. The Gothic souls find +fault with it, and say it is gimcrack and tawdry and cheap. But I love +it, it is delicate and rosy, and the dark stripes are as they should be, +like the tiger marks on a pink lily. It's a lily, not a rose; a pinky +white lily with dark tigery marks. And heavy, too, in its own substance: +earth-substance, risen from earth into the air: and never forgetting +the dark, black-fierce earth--I reckon here men for a moment were +themselves, as a plant in flower is for the moment completely itself. +Then it goes off. As Florence has gone off. No flowers now. But it HAS +flowered. And I don't see why a race should be like an aloe tree, flower +once and die. Why should it? Why not flower again? Why not?” + +“If it's going to, it will,” said Aaron. “Our deciding about it won't +alter it.” + +“The decision is part of the business.” + +Here they were interrupted by Argyle, who put his head through one of +the windows. He had flecks of lather on his reddened face. + +“Do you think you're wise now,” he said, “to sit in that sun?” + +“In November?” laughed Lilly. + +“Always fear the sun when there's an 'r' in the month,” said Argyle. +“Always fear it 'r' or no 'r,' _I_ say. I'm frightened of it. I've been +in the South, I know what it is. I tell you I'm frightened of it. But if +you think you can stand it--well--” + +“It won't last much longer, anyhow,” said Lilly. + +“Too long for me, my boy. I'm a shady bird, in all senses of the word, +in all senses of the word.--Now are you comfortable? What? Have another +cushion? A rug for your knees? You're quite sure now? Well, wait just +one moment till the waiter brings up a syphon, and you shall have a +whiskey and soda. Precious--oh, yes, very precious these days--like +drinking gold. Thirty-five lire a bottle, my boy!” Argyle pulled a long +face, and made a noise with his lips. “But I had this bottle given me, +and luckily you've come while there's a drop left. Very glad you have! +Very glad you have.” + +Here he poked a little table through the window, and put a bottle and +two glasses, one a tooth-glass, upon it. Then he withdrew again to +finish shaving. The waiter presently hobbled up with the syphon and +third glass. Argyle pushed his head through the window, that was only +a little higher than the balcony. He was soon neatly shaved, and was +brushing his hair. + +“Go ahead, my boys, go ahead with that whiskey!” he said. + +“We'll wait for you,” said Lilly. + +“No, no, don't think of it. However, if you will, I shall be one minute +only--one minute only. I'll put on the water for the tea now. Oh, damned +bad methylated spirit they sell now! And six francs a litre! Six francs +a litre! I don't know what I'm going to do, the air I breathe costs +money nowadays--Just one moment and I'll be with you! Just one moment--” + +In a very little while he came from the tiny attic bedroom, through +the tiniest cupboard of a sitting-room under the eaves, where his +books were, and where he had hung his old red India tapestries--or silk +embroideries--and he emerged there up above the world on the loggia. + +“Now then--_siamo nel paradiso_, eh? Paradisal enough for you, is it?” + +“The devil looking over Lincoln,” said Lilly laughing, glancing up into +Argyle's face. + +“The devil looking over Florence would feel sad,” said Argyle. “The +place is fast growing respectable--Oh, piety makes the devil chuckle. +But respectability, my boy, argues a serious diminution of spunk. And +when the spunk diminishes we-ell--it's enough to make the most sturdy +devil look sick. What? No doubt about it, no doubt whatever--There--!” + he had just finished settling his tie and buttoning his waistcoat. “How +do I look, eh? Presentable?--I've just had this suit turned. Clever +little tailor across the way there. But he charged me a hundred and +twenty francs.” Argyle pulled a face, and made the little trumping noise +with his lips. “However--not bad, is it?--He had to let in a bit at the +back of the waistcoat, and a gusset, my boy, a gusset--in the trousers +back. Seems I've grown in the arsal region. Well, well, might do +worse.--Is it all right?” + +Lilly eyed the suit. + +“Very nice. Very nice indeed. Such a good cloth! That makes all the +difference.” + +“Oh, my dear fellow, all the difference! This suit is eleven years +old--eleven years old. But beautiful English cloth--before the war, +before the war!” + +“It looks quite wonderfully expensive and smart now,” said Lilly. + +“Expensive and smart, eh! Ha-ha-ha! Well, it cost me a hundred and +twenty francs to have it turned, and I found that expensive enough. +Well, now, come--” here Argyle's voice took on a new gay cheer. “A +whiskey and soda, Lilly? Say when! Oh, nonsense, nonsense! You're going +to have double that. You're no lily of the valley here, remember. Not +with me. Not likely. _Siamo nel paradiso_, remember.” + +“But why should we drink your whiskey? Tea would do for us just as +well.” + +“Not likely! Not likely! When I have the pleasure of your company, my +boy, we drink a glass of something, unless I am utterly stripped. Say +when, Aaron.” + +“When,” said Aaron. + +Argyle at last seated himself heavily in a small chair. The sun had left +the loggia, but was glowing still on Giotto's tower and the top of the +cathedral facade, and on the remoter great red-tiled dome. + +“Look at my little red monthly rose,” said Argyle. “Wonderful little +fellow! I wouldn't have anything happen to him for the world. Oh, a +bacchic little chap. I made Pasquale wear a wreath of them on his hair. +Very becoming they were, very.--Oh, I've had a charming show of flowers. +Wonderful creatures sunflowers are.” They got up and put their heads +over the balcony, looking down on the square below. “Oh, great fun, +great fun.--Yes, I had a charming show of flowers, charming.--Zinnias, +petunias, ranunculus, sunflowers, white stocks--oh, charming. Look at +that bit of honeysuckle. You see the berries where his flowers were! +Delicious scent, I assure you.” + +Under the little balcony wall Argyle had put square red-tiled pots, all +round, and in these still bloomed a few pansies and asters, whilst in a +corner a monthly rose hung flowers like round blood-drops. Argyle was +as tidy and scrupulous in his tiny rooms and his balcony as if he were a +first-rate sea-man on a yacht. Lilly remarked on this. + +“Do you see signs of the old maid coming out in me? Oh, I don't doubt +it. I don't doubt it. We all end that way. Age makes old maids of us +all. And Tanny is all right, you say? Bring her to see me. Why didn't +she come today?” + +“You know you don't like people unless you expect them.” + +“Oh, but my dear fellow!--You and Tanny; you'd be welcome if you came +at my busiest moment. Of course you would. I'd be glad to see you if you +interrupted me at any crucial moment.--I am alone now till August. Then +we shall go away together somewhere. But you and Tanny; why, there's the +world, and there's Lilly: that's how I put it, my boy.” + +“All right, Argyle.--Hoflichkeiten.” + +“What? Gar keine Hoflichkeiten. Wahrhaftiger Kerl bin ich.--When am I +going to see Tanny? When are you coming to dine with me?” + +“After you've dined with us--say the day after tomorrow.” + +“Right you are. Delighted--. Let me look if that water's boiling.” + He got up and poked half himself inside the bedroom. “Not yet. Damned +filthy methylated spirit they sell.” + +“Look,” said Lilly. “There's Del Torre!” + +“Like some sort of midge, in that damned grey-and-yellow uniform. I +can't stand it, I tell you. I can't stand the sight of any more of these +uniforms. Like a blight on the human landscape. Like a blight. Like +green-flies on rose-trees, smother-flies. Europe's got the smother-fly +in these infernal shoddy militarists.” + +“Del Torre's coming out of it as soon as he can,” said Lilly. + +“I should think so, too.” + +“I like him myself--very much. Look, he's seen us! He wants to come up, +Argyle.” + +“What, in that uniform! I'll see him in his grandmother's crinoline +first.” + +“Don't be fanatical, it's bad taste. Let him come up a minute.” + +“Not for my sake. But for yours, he shall,” Argyle stood at the parapet +of the balcony and waved his arm. “Yes, come up,” he said, “come up, you +little mistkafer--what the Americans call a bug. Come up and be damned.” + +Of course Del Torre was too far off to hear this exhortation. Lilly also +waved to him--and watched him pass into the doorway far below. + +“I'll rinse one of these glasses for him,” said Argyle. + +The Marchese's step was heard on the stone stairs: then his knock. + +“Come in! Come in!” cried Argyle from the bedroom, where he was rinsing +the glass. The Marchese entered, grinning with his curious, half +courteous greeting. “Go through--go through,” cried Argyle. “Go on to +the loggia--and mind your head. Good heavens, mind your head in that +doorway.” + +The Marchese just missed the top of the doorway as he climbed the abrupt +steps on to the loggia.--There he greeted Lilly and Aaron with hearty +handshakes. + +“Very glad to see you--very glad, indeed!” he cried, grinning with +excited courtesy and pleasure, and covering Lilly's hand with both his +own gloved hands. “When did you come to Florence?” + +There was a little explanation. Argyle shoved the last chair--it was a +luggage stool--through the window. + +“All I can do for you in the way of a chair,” he said. + +“Ah, that is all right,” said the Marchese. “Well, it is very nice +up here--and very nice company. Of the very best, the very best in +Florence.” + +“The highest, anyhow,” said Argyle grimly, as he entered with the glass. +“Have a whiskey and soda, Del Torre. It's the bottom of the bottle, as +you see.” + +“The bottom of the bottle! Then I start with the tail-end, yes!” He +stretched his blue eyes so that the whites showed all round, and grinned +a wide, gnome-like grin. + +“You made that start long ago, my dear fellow. Don't play the _ingenue_ +with me, you know it won't work. Say when, my man, say when!” + +“Yes, when,” said Del Torre. “When did I make that start, then?” + +“At some unmentionably young age. Chickens such as you soon learn to +cheep.” + +“Chickens such as I soon learn to cheap,” repeated Del Torre, pleased +with the verbal play. “What is cheap, please? What is TO CHEAP?” + +“Cheep! Cheep!” squeaked Argyle, making a face at the little Italian, +who was perched on one strap of the luggage-stool. “It's what chickens +say when they're poking their little noses into new adventures--naughty +ones.” + +“Are chickens naughty? Oh! I thought they could only be good!” + +“Featherless chickens like yourself, my boy.” + +“Oh, as for featherless--then there is no saying what they will do.--” + And here the Marchese turned away from Argyle with the inevitable +question to Lilly: + +“Well, and how long will you stay in Florence?” + +Lilly did not know: but he was not leaving immediately. + +“Good! Then you will come and see us at once....” + +Argyle rose once more, and went to make the tea. He shoved a lump of +cake--or rather panetone, good currant loaf--through the window, with a +knife to cut it. + +“Help yourselves to the panetone,” he said. “Eat it up. The tea is +coming at once. You'll have to drink it in your glasses, there's only +one old cup.” + +The Marchese cut the cake, and offered pieces. The two men took and ate. + +“So you have already found Mr. Sisson!” said Del Torre to Lilly. + +“Ran straight into him in the Via Nazionale,” said Lilly. + +“Oh, one always runs into everybody in Florence. We are all already +acquainted: also with the flute. That is a great pleasure.” + +“So I think.--Does your wife like it, too?” + +“Very much, indeed! She is quite _eprise_. I, too, shall have to learn +to play it.” + +“And run the risk of spoiling the shape of your mouth--like Alcibiades.” + +“Is there a risk? Yes! Then I shan't play it. My mouth is too +beautiful.--But Mr. Sisson has not spoilt his mouth.” + +“Not yet,” said Lilly. “Give him time.” + +“Is he also afraid--like Alcibiades?” + +“Are you, Aaron?” said Lilly. + +“What?” + +“Afraid of spoiling your beauty by screwing your mouth to the flute?” + +“I look a fool, do I, when I'm playing?” said Aaron. + +“Only the least little bit in the world,” said Lilly. “The way you +prance your head, you know, like a horse.” + +“Ah, well,” said Aaron. “I've nothing to lose.” + +“And were you surprised, Lilly, to find your friend here?” asked Del +Torre. + +“I ought to have been. But I wasn't really.” + +“Then you expected him?” + +“No. It came naturally, though.--But why did you come, Aaron? What +exactly brought you?” + +“Accident,” said Aaron. + +“Ah, no! No! There is no such thing as accident,” said the Italian. “A +man is drawn by his fate, where he goes.” + +“You are right,” said Argyle, who came now with the teapot. “A man is +drawn--or driven. Driven, I've found it. Ah, my dear fellow, what is +life but a search for a friend? A search for a friend--that sums it up.” + +“Or a lover,” said the Marchese, grinning. + +“Same thing. Same thing. My hair is white--but that is the sum of my +whole experience. The search for a friend.” There was something at once +real and sentimental in Argyle's tone. + +“And never finding?” said Lilly, laughing. + +“Oh, what would you? Often finding. Often finding. And losing, of +course.--A life's history. Give me your glass. Miserable tea, but nobody +has sent me any from England--” + +“And you will go on till you die, Argyle?” said Lilly. “Always seeking a +friend--and always a new one?” + +“If I lose the friend I've got. Ah, my dear fellow, in that case I shall +go on seeking. I hope so, I assure you. Something will be very wrong +with me, if ever I sit friendless and make no search.” + +“But, Argyle, there is a time to leave off.” + +“To leave off what, to leave off what?” + +“Having friends: or a friend, rather: or seeking to have one.” + +“Oh, no! Not at all, my friend. Not at all! Only death can make an end +of that, my friend. Only death. And I should say, not even death. Not +even death ends a man's search for a friend. That is my belief. You may +hang me for it, but I shall never alter.” + +“Nay,” said Lilly. “There is a time to love, and a time to leave off +loving.” + +“All I can say to that is that my time to leave off hasn't come yet,” + said Argyle, with obstinate feeling. + +“Ah, yes, it has. It is only a habit and an idea you stick to.” + +“Indeed, it is no such thing. Indeed, it is no such thing. It is a +profound desire and necessity: and what is more, a belief.” + +“An obstinate persistency, you mean,” said Lilly. + +“Well, call it so if it pleases you. It is by no means so to me.” There +was a brief pause. The sun had left the cathedral dome and the tower, +the sky was full of light, the square swimming in shadow. + +“But can a man live,” said the Marchese, “without having something he +lives for: something he wishes for, or longs for, and tries that he may +get?” + +“Impossible! Completely impossible!” said Argyle. “Man is a seeker, and +except as such, he has no significance, no importance.” + +“He bores me with his seeking,” said Lilly. “He should learn to possess +himself--to be himself--and keep still.” + +“Ay, perhaps so,” said Aaron. “Only--” + +“But my dear boy, believe me, a man is never himself save in the supreme +state of love: or perhaps hate, too, which amounts to the same thing. +Never really himself.--Apart from this he is a tram-driver or a +money-shoveller or an idea-machine. Only in the state of love is he +really a man, and really himself. I say so, because I know,” said +Argyle. + +“Ah, yes. That is one side of the truth. It is quite true, also. But it +is just as true to say, that a man is never less himself, than in the +supreme state of love. Never less himself, than then.” + +“Maybe! Maybe! But what could be better? What could be better than to +lose oneself with someone you love, entirely, and so find yourself. Ah, +my dear fellow, that is my creed, that is my creed, and you can't shake +me in it. Never in that. Never in that.” + +“Yes, Argyle,” said Lilly. “I know you're an obstinate love-apostle.” + +“I am! I am! And I have certain standards, my boy, and certain ideals +which I never transgress. Never transgress. And never abandon.” + +“All right, then, you are an incurable love-maker.” + +“Pray God I am,” said Argyle. + +“Yes,” said the Marchese. “Perhaps we are all so. What else do you give? +Would you have us make money? Or do you give the centre of your spirit +to your work? How is it to be?” + +“I don't vitally care either about money or my work or--” Lilly +faltered. + +“Or what, then?” + +“Or anything. I don't really care about anything. Except that--” + +“You don't care about anything? But what is that for a life?” cried the +Marchese, with a hollow mockery. + +“What do YOU care for?” asked Lilly. + +“Me? I care for several things. I care for my wife. I care for love. And +I care to be loved. And I care for some pleasures. And I care for music. +And I care for Italy.” + +“You are well off for cares,” said Lilly. + +“And you seem to me so very poor,” said Del Torre. + +“I should say so--if he cares for nothing,” interjaculated Argyle. Then +he clapped Lilly on the shoulder with a laugh. “Ha! Ha! Ha!--But he only +says it to tease us,” he cried, shaking Lilly's shoulder. “He cares more +than we do for his own way of loving. Come along, don't try and take +us in. We are old birds, old birds,” said Argyle. But at that moment he +seemed a bit doddering. + +“A man can't live,” said the Italian, “without an object.” + +“Well--and that object?” said Lilly. + +“Well--it may be many things. Mostly it is two things.--love, and money. +But it may be many things: ambition, patriotism, science, art--many +things. But it is some objective. Something outside the self. Perhaps +many things outside the self.” + +“I have had only one objective all my life,” said Argyle. “And that was +love. For that I have spent my life.” + +“And the lives of a number of other people, too,” said Lilly. + +“Admitted. Oh, admitted. It takes two to make love: unless you're a +miserable--” + +“Don't you think,” said Aaron, turning to Lilly, “that however you try +to get away from it, if you're not after money, and can't fit yourself +into a job--you've got to, you've got to try and find something +else--somebody else--somebody. You can't really be alone.” + +“No matter how many mistakes you've made--you can't really be alone--?” + asked Lilly. + +“You can be alone for a minute. You can be alone just in that minute +when you've broken free, and you feel heart thankful to be alone, +because the other thing wasn't to be borne. But you can't keep on being +alone. No matter how many tunes you've broken free, and feel, thank God +to be alone (nothing on earth is so good as to breathe fresh air and be +alone), no matter how many times you've felt this--it wears off every +time, and you begin to look again--and you begin to roam round. And +even if you won't admit it to yourself, still you are seeking--seeking. +Aren't you? Aren't you yourself seeking?” + +“Oh, that's another matter,” put in Argyle. “Lilly is happily married +and on the shelf. With such a fine woman as Tanny I should think +so--RATHER! But his is an exceptional nature, and an exceptional case. +As for me, I made a hell of my marriage, and I swear it nearly sent me +to hell. But I didn't forswear love, when I forswore marriage and woman. +Not by ANY means.” + +“Are you not seeking any more, Lilly?” asked the Marchese. “Do you seek +nothing?” + +“We married men who haven't left our wives, are we supposed to seek +anything?” said Lilly. “Aren't we perfectly satisfied and in bliss with +the wonderful women who honour us as wives?” + +“Ah, yes, yes!” said the Marchese. “But now we are not speaking to the +world. Now we try to speak of that which we have in our centre of our +hearts.” + +“And what have we there?” said Lilly. + +“Well--shall I say? We have unrest. We have another need. We have +something that hurts and eats us, yes, eats us inside. Do I speak the +truth?” + +“Yes. But what is the something?” + +“I don't know. I don't know. But it is something in love, I think. It is +love itself which gnaws us inside, like a cancer,” said the Italian. + +“But why should it? Is that the nature of love?” said Lilly. + +“I don't know. Truly. I don't know.--But perhaps it is in the nature of +love--I don't know.--But I tell you, I love my wife--she is very dear +to me. I admire her, I trust her, I believe her. She is to me much more +than any woman, more even than my mother.--And so, I am very happy. I am +very happy, she is very happy, in our love and our marriage.--But wait. +Nothing has changed--the love has not changed: it is the same.--And yet +we are NOT happy. No, we are not happy. I know she is not happy, I know +I am not--” + +“Why should you be?” said Lilly. + +“Yes--and it is not even happiness,” said the Marchese, screwing up his +face in a painful effort of confession. “It is not even happiness. No, +I do not ask to be happy. Why should I? It is childish--but there is for +both of us, I know it, something which bites us, which eats us within, +and drives us, drives us, somewhere, we don't know where. But it drives +us, and eats away the life--and yet we love each other, and we must not +separate--Do you know what I mean? Do you understand me at all in what I +say? I speak what is true.” + +“Yes, I understand. I'm in the same dilemma myself.--But what I want to +hear, is WHY you think it is so. Why is it?” + +“Shall I say what I think? Yes? And you can tell me if it is foolish to +you.--Shall I tell you? Well. Because a woman, she now first wants the +man, and he must go to her because he is wanted. Do you understand?--You +know--supposing I go to a woman--supposing she is my wife--and I go to +her, yes, with my blood all ready, because it is I who want. Then she +puts me off. Then she says, not now, not now, I am tired, I am not well. +I do not feel like it. She puts me off--till I am angry or sorry or +whatever I am--but till my blood has gone down again, you understand, +and I don't want her any more. And then she puts her arms round me, and +caresses me, and makes love to me--till she rouses me once more. So, and +so she rouses me--and so I come to her. And I love her, it is very good, +very good. But it was she who began, it was her initiative, you know.--I +do not think, in all my life, my wife has loved me from my initiative, +you know. She will yield to me--because I insist, or because she wants +to be a good submissive wife who loves me. So she will yield to me. But +ah, what is it, you know? What is it a woman who allows me, and who has +no answer? It is something worse than nothing--worse than nothing. And +so it makes me very discontented and unbelieving.--If I say to her, she +says it is not true--not at all true. Then she says, all she wants is +that I should desire her, that I should love her and desire her. But +even that is putting her will first. And if I come to her so, if I come +to her of my own desire, then she puts me off. She puts me off, or she +only allows me to come to her. Even now it is the same after ten years, +as it was at first. But now I know, and for many years I did not know--” + +The little man was intense. His face was strained, his blue eyes so +stretched that they showed the whites all round. He gazed into Lilly's +face. + +“But does it matter?” said Lilly slowly, “in which of you the desire +initiates? Isn't the result the same?” + +“It matters. It matters--” cried the Marchese. + +“Oh, my dear fellow, how MUCH it matters--” interrupted Argyle sagely. + +“Ay!” said Aaron. + +The Marchese looked from one to the other of them. + +“It matters!” he cried. “It matters life or death. It used to be, that +desire started in the man, and the woman answered. It used to be so for +a long time in Italy. For this reason the women were kept away from the +men. For this reason our Catholic religion tried to keep the young girls +in convents, and innocent, before marriage. So that with their minds +they should not know, and should not start this terrible thing, this +woman's desire over a man, beforehand. This desire which starts in a +woman's head, when she knows, and which takes a man for her use, for her +service. This is Eve. Ah, I hate Eve. I hate her, when she knows, and +when she WILLS. I hate her when she will make of me that which serves +her desire.--She may love me, she may be soft and kind to me, she may +give her life for me. But why? Only because I am HERS. I am that thing +which does her most intimate service. She can see no other in me. And I +may be no other to her--” + +“Then why not let it be so, and be satisfied?” said Lilly. + +“Because I cannot. I cannot. I would. But I cannot. The Borghesia--the +citizens--the bourgeoisie, they are the ones who can. Oh, yes. The +bourgeoisie, the shopkeepers, these serve their wives so, and their +wives love them. They are the marital maquereaux--the husband-maquereau, +you know. Their wives are so stout and happy, and they dote on their +husbands and always betray them. So it is with the bourgeoise. She loves +her husband so much, and is always seeking to betray him. Or she is a +Madame Bovary, seeking for a scandal. But the bourgeois husband, he goes +on being the same. He is the horse, and she the driver. And when she +says gee-up, you know--then he comes ready, like a hired maquereau. Only +he feels so good, like a good little boy at her breast. And then there +are the nice little children. And so they keep the world going.--But for +me--” he spat suddenly and with frenzy on the floor. + +“You are quite right, my boy,” said Argyle. “You are quite right. +They've got the start of us, the women: and we've got to canter when +they say gee-up. I--oh, I went through it all. But I broke the shafts +and smashed the matrimonial cart, I can tell you, and I didn't care +whether I smashed her up along with it or not. I didn't care one single +bit, I assure you.--And here I am. And she is dead and buried these +dozen years. Well--well! Life, you know, life. And women oh, they are +the very hottest hell once they get the start of you. There's NOTHING +they won't do to you, once they've got you. Nothing they won't do to +you. Especially if they love you. Then you may as well give up the +ghost: or smash the cart behind you, and her in it. Otherwise she will +just harry you into submission, and make a dog of you, and cuckold you +under your nose. And you'll submit. Oh, you'll submit, and go on calling +her my darling. Or else, if you won't submit, she'll do for you. Your +only chance is to smash the shafts, and the whole matrimonial cart. Or +she'll do for you. For a woman has an uncanny, hellish strength--she's +a she-bear and a wolf, is a woman when she's got the start of you. Oh, +it's a terrible experience, if you're not a bourgeois, and not one of +the knuckling-under money-making sort.” + +“Knuckling-under sort. Yes. That is it,” said the Marchese. + +“But can't there be a balancing of wills?” said Lilly. + +“My dear boy, the balance lies in that, that when one goes up, the other +goes down. One acts, the other takes. It is the only way in love--And +the women are nowadays the active party. Oh, yes, not a shadow of doubt +about it. They take the initiative, and the man plays up. That's how it +is. The man just plays up.--Nice manly proceeding, what!” cried Argyle. + +“But why can't man accept it as the natural order of things?” said +Lilly. “Science makes it the natural order.” + +“All my ---- to science,” said Argyle. “No man with one drop of real +spunk in him can stand it long.” + +“Yes! Yes! Yes!” cried the Italian. “Most men want it so. Most men want +only, that a woman shall want them, and they shall then play up to her +when she has roused them. Most men want only this: that a woman shall +choose one man out, to be her man, and he shall worship her and come +up when she shall provoke him. Otherwise he is to keep still. And the +woman, she is quite sure of her part. She must be loved and adored, and +above all, obeyed, particularly in her sex desire. There she must not +be thwarted, or she becomes a devil. And if she is obeyed, she becomes a +misunderstood woman with nerves, looking round for the next man whom she +can bring under. So it is.” + +“Well,” said Lilly. “And then what?” + +“Nay,” interrupted Aaron. “But do you think it's true what he says? +Have you found it like that? You're married. Has your experience been +different, or the same?” + +“What was yours?” asked Lilly. + +“Mine was the same. Mine was the same, if ever it was,” said Aaron. + +“And mine was EXTREMELY similar,” said Argyle with a grimace. + +“And yours, Lilly?” asked the Marchese anxiously. + +“Not very different,” said Lilly. + +“Ah!” cried Del Torre, jerking up erect as if he had found something. + +“And what's your way out?” Aaron asked him. + +“I'm not out--so I won't holloa,” said Lilly. “But Del Torre puts it +best.--What do you say is the way out, Del Torre?” + +“The way out is that it should change: that the man should be the asker +and the woman the answerer. It must change.” + +“But it doesn't. Prrr!” Argyle made his trumpeting noise. + +“Does it?” asked Lilly of the Marchese. + +“No. I think it does not.” + +“And will it ever again?” + +“Perhaps never.” + +“And then what?” + +“Then? Why then man seeks a _pis-aller_. Then he seeks something which +will give him answer, and which will not only draw him, draw him, with a +terrible sexual will.--So he seeks young girls, who know nothing, and so +cannot force him. He thinks he will possess them while they are young, +and they will be soft and responding to his wishes.--But in this, too, +he is mistaken. Because now a baby of one year, if it be a female, is +like a woman of forty, so is its will made up, so it will force a man.” + +“And so young girls are no good, even as a _pis-aller_.” + +“No good--because they are all modern women. Every one, a modern woman. +Not one who isn't.” + +“Terrible thing, the modern woman,” put in Argyle. + +“And then--?” + +“Then man seeks other forms of loves, always seeking the loving +response, you know, of one gentler and tenderer than himself, who will +wait till the man desires, and then will answer with full love.--But it +is all _pis-aller_, you know.” + +“Not by any means, my boy,” cried Argyle. + +“And then a man naturally loves his own wife, too, even if it is not +bearable to love her.” + +“Or one leaves her, like Aaron,” said Lilly. + +“And seeks another woman, so,” said the Marchese. + +“Does he seek another woman?” said Lilly. “Do you, Aaron?” + +“I don't WANT to,” said Aaron. “But--I can't stand by myself in the +middle of the world and in the middle of people, and know I am quite by +myself, and nowhere to go, and nothing to hold on to. I can for a day +or two--But then, it becomes unbearable as well. You get frightened. You +feel you might go funny--as you would if you stood on this balcony wall +with all the space beneath you.” + +“Can't one be alone--quite alone?” said Lilly. + +“But no--it is absurd. Like Saint Simeon Stylites on a pillar. But it is +absurd!” cried the Italian. + +“I don't mean like Simeon Stylites. I mean can't one live with one's +wife, and be fond of her: and with one's friends, and enjoy their +company: and with the world and everything, pleasantly: and yet KNOW +that one is alone? Essentially, at the very core of me, alone. Eternally +alone. And choosing to be alone. Not sentimental or LONELY. Alone, +choosing to be alone, because by one's own nature one is alone. The +being with another person is secondary,” said Lilly. + +“One is alone,” said Argyle, “in all but love. In all but love, my dear +fellow. And then I agree with you.” + +“No,” said Lilly, “in love most intensely of all, alone.” + +“Completely incomprehensible,” said Argyle. “Amounts to nothing.” + +“One man is but a part. How can he be so alone?” said the Marchese. + +“In so far as he is a single individual soul, he IS alone--ipso facto. +In so far as I am I, and only I am I, and I am only I, in so far, I am +inevitably and eternally alone, and it is my last blessedness to +know it, and to accept it, and to live with this as the core of my +self-knowledge.” + +“My dear boy, you are becoming metaphysical, and that is as bad as +softening of the brain,” said Argyle. + +“All right,” said Lilly. + +“And,” said the Marchese, “it may be so by REASON. But in the heart--? +Can the heart ever beat quite alone? Plop! Plop!--Can the heart beat +quite alone, alone in all the atmosphere, all the space of the universe? +Plop! Plop! Plop!--Quite alone in all the space?” A slow smile came over +the Italian's face. “It is impossible. It may eat against the heart of +other men, in anger, all in pressure against the others. It may beat +hard, like iron, saying it is independent. But this is only beating +against the heart of mankind, not alone.--But either with or against +the heart of mankind, or the heart of someone, mother, wife, friend, +children--so must the heart of every man beat. It is so.” + +“It beats alone in its own silence,” said Lilly. + +The Italian shook his head. + +“We'd better be going inside, anyhow,” said Argyle. “Some of you will be +taking cold.” + +“Aaron,” said Lilly. “Is it true for you?” + +“Nearly,” said Aaron, looking into the quiet, half-amused, yet +frightening eyes of the other man. “Or it has been.” + +“A miss is as good as a mile,” laughed Lilly, rising and picking up his +chair to take it indoors. And the laughter of his voice was so like a +simple, deliberate amiability, that Aaron's heart really stood still +for a second. He knew that Lilly was alone--as far as he, Aaron, was +concerned. Lilly was alone--and out of his isolation came his words, +indifferent as to whether they came or not. And he left his friends +utterly to their own choice. Utterly to their own choice. Aaron felt +that Lilly was _there_, existing in life, yet neither asking for +connection nor preventing any connection. He was present, he was the +real centre of the group. And yet he asked nothing of them, and he +imposed nothing. He left each to himself, and he himself remained just +himself: neither more nor less. And there was a finality about it, which +was at once maddening and fascinating. Aaron felt angry, as if he were +half insulted by the other man's placing the gift of friendship or +connection so quietly back in the giver's hands. Lilly would receive no +gift of friendship in equality. Neither would he violently refuse it. He +let it lie unmarked. And yet at the same time Aaron knew that he could +depend on the other man for help, nay, almost for life itself--so long +as it entailed no breaking of the intrinsic isolation of Lilly's +soul. But this condition was also hateful. And there was also a great +fascination in it. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. THE MARCHESA + + +So Aaron dined with the Marchesa and Manfredi. He was quite startled +when his hostess came in: she seemed like somebody else. She seemed like +a demon, her hair on her brows, her terrible modern elegance. She wore +a wonderful gown of thin blue velvet, of a lovely colour, with some kind +of gauzy gold-threaded filament down the sides. It was terribly modern, +short, and showed her legs and her shoulders and breast and all her +beautiful white arms. Round her throat was a collar of dark-blue +sapphires. Her hair was done low, almost to the brows, and heavy, like +an Aubrey Beardsley drawing. She was most carefully made up--yet with +that touch of exaggeration, lips slightly too red, which was quite +intentional, and which frightened Aaron. He thought her wonderful, and +sinister. She affected him with a touch of horror. She sat down opposite +him, and her beautifully shapen legs, in frail, goldish stockings, +seemed to glisten metallic naked, thrust from out of the wonderful, +wonderful skin, like periwinkle-blue velvet. She had tapestry shoes, +blue and gold: and almost one could see her toes: metallic naked. The +gold-threaded gauze slipped at her side. Aaron could not help watching +the naked-seeming arch of her foot. It was as if she were dusted with +dark gold-dust upon her marvellous nudity. + +She must have seen his face, seen that he was _ebloui_. + +“You brought the flute?” she said, in that toneless, melancholy, +unstriving voice of hers. Her voice alone was the same: direct and bare +and quiet. + +“Yes.” + +“Perhaps I shall sing later on, if you'll accompany me. Will you?” + +“I thought you hated accompaniments.” + +“Oh, no--not just unison. I don't mean accompaniment. I mean unison. I +don't know how it will be. But will you try?” + +“Yes, I'll try.” + +“Manfredi is just bringing the cocktails. Do you think you'd prefer +orange in yours?” + +“Ill have mine as you have yours.” + +“I don't take orange in mine. Won't you smoke?” + +The strange, naked, remote-seeming voice! And then the beautiful firm +limbs thrust out in that dress, and nakedly dusky as with gold-dust. Her +beautiful woman's legs, slightly glistening, duskily. His one abiding +instinct was to touch them, to kiss them. He had never known a woman to +exercise such power over him. It was a bare, occult force, something he +could not cope with. + +Manfredi came in with the little tray. He was still in uniform. + +“Hello!” cried the little Italian. “Glad to see you--well, everything +all right? Glad to hear it. How is the cocktail, Nan?” + +“Yes,” she said. “All right.” + +“One drop too much peach, eh?” + +“No, all right.” + +“Ah,” and the little officer seated himself, stretching his gaitered +legs as if gaily. He had a curious smiling look on his face, that +Aaron thought also diabolical--and almost handsome. Suddenly the odd, +laughing, satanic beauty of the little man was visible. + +“Well, and what have you been doing with yourself?” said he. “What did +you do yesterday?” + +“Yesterday?” said Aaron. “I went to the Uffizi.” + +“To the Uffizi? Well! And what did you think of it?” + +“Very fine.” + +“I think it is. I think it is. What pictures did you look at?” + +“I was with Dekker. We looked at most, I believe.” + +“And what do you remember best?” + +“I remember Botticelli's Venus on the Shell.” + +“Yes! Yes!--” said Manfredi. “I like her. But I like others better. You +thought her a pretty woman, yes?” + +“No--not particularly pretty. But I like her body. And I like the fresh +air. I like the fresh air, the summer sea-air all through it--through +her as well.” + +“And her face?” asked the Marchesa, with a slow, ironic smile. + +“Yes--she's a bit baby-faced,” said Aaron. + +“Trying to be more innocent than her own common-sense will let her,” + said the Marchesa. + +“I don't agree with you, Nan,” said her husband. “I think it is just +that wistfulness and innocence which makes her the true Venus: the +true modern Venus. She chooses NOT to know too much. And that is her +attraction. Don't you agree, Aaron? Excuse me, but everybody speaks of +you as Aaron. It seems to come naturally. Most people speak of me as +Manfredi, too, because it is easier, perhaps, than Del Torre. So if you +find it easier, use it. Do you mind that I call you Aaron?” + +“Not at all. I hate Misters, always.” + +“Yes, so do I. I like one name only.” + +The little officer seemed very winning and delightful to Aaron this +evening--and Aaron began to like him extremely. But the dominating +consciousness in the room was the woman's. + +“DO you agree, Mr. Sisson?” said the Marchesa. “Do you agree that the +mock-innocence and the sham-wistfulness of Botticelli's Venus are her +great charms?” + +“I don't think she is at all charming, as a person,” said Aaron. “As +a particular woman, she makes no impression on me at all. But as a +picture--and the fresh air, particularly the fresh air. She doesn't seem +so much a woman, you know, as the kind of out-of-doors morning-feelings +at the seaside.” + +“Quite! A sort of sea-scape of a woman. With a perfectly sham innocence. +Are you as keen on innocence as Manfredi is?” + +“Innocence?” said Aaron. “It's the sort of thing I don't have much +feeling about.” + +“Ah, I know you,” laughed the soldier wickedly. “You are the sort of man +who wants to be Anthony to Cleopatra. Ha-ha!” + +Aaron winced as if struck. Then he too smiled, flattered. Yet he felt +he had been struck! Did he want to be Anthony to Cleopatra? Without +knowing, he was watching the Marchesa. And she was looking away, but +knew he was watching her. And at last she turned her eyes to his, with a +slow, dark smile, full of pain and fuller still of knowledge. A strange, +dark, silent look of knowledge she gave him: from so far away, it +seemed. And he felt all the bonds that held him melting away. His eyes +remained fixed and gloomy, but with his mouth he smiled back at her. And +he was terrified. He knew he was sulking towards her--sulking towards +her. And he was terrified. But at the back of his mind, also, he knew +there was Lilly, whom he might depend on. And also he wanted to sink +towards her. The flesh and blood of him simply melted out, in desire +towards her. Cost what may, he must come to her. And yet he knew at the +same time that, cost what may, he must keep the power to recover himself +from her. He must have his cake and eat it. + +And she became Cleopatra to him. “Age cannot wither, nor custom stale--” + To his instinctive, unwilled fancy, she was Cleopatra. + +They went in to dinner, and he sat on her right hand. It was a smallish +table, with a very few daisy-flowers: everything rather frail, and +sparse. The food the same--nothing very heavy, all rather exquisite. +They drank hock. And he was aware of her beautiful arms, and her bosom; +her low-crowded, thick hair, parted in the centre: the sapphires on her +throat, the heavy rings on her fingers: and the paint on her lips, +the fard. Something deep, deep at the bottom of him hovered upon her, +cleaved to her. Yet he was as if sightless, in a stupor. Who was she, +what was she? He had lost all his grasp. Only he sat there, with his +face turned to hers, or to her, all the time. And she talked to him. But +she never looked at him. + +Indeed she said little. It was the husband who talked. His manner +towards Aaron was almost caressive. And Aaron liked it. The woman was +silent mostly, and seemed remote. And Aaron felt his life ebb towards +her. He felt the marvellousness, the rich beauty of her arms and breast. +And the thought of her gold-dusted smooth limbs beneath the table made +him feel almost an idiot. + +The second wine was a gold-coloured Moselle, very soft and rich and +beautiful. She drank this with pleasure, as one who understands. And for +dessert there was a dish of cacchi--that orange-coloured, pulpy Japanese +fruit--persimmons. Aaron had never eaten these before. Soft, almost +slimy, of a wonderful colour, and of a flavour that had sunk from harsh +astringency down to that first decay-sweetness which is all autumn-rich. +The Marchese loved them, and scooped them out with his spoon. But she +ate none. + +Aaron did not know what they talked about, what was said. If someone had +taken his mind away altogether, and left him with nothing but a body and +a spinal consciousness, it would have been the same. + +But at coffee the talk turned to Manfredi's duties. He would not be free +from the army for some time yet. On the morrow, for example, he had to +be out and away before it was day. He said he hated it, and wanted to +be a free man once more. But it seemed to Aaron he would be a very bored +man, once he was free. And then they drifted on to talk of the palazzo +in which was their apartment. + +“We've got such a fine terrace--you can see it from your house where you +are,” said Manfredi. “Have you noticed it?” + +“No,” said Aaron. + +“Near that tuft of palm-trees. Don't you know?” + +“No,” said Aaron. + +“Let us go out and show it him,” said the Marchesa. + +Manfredi fetched her a cloak, and they went through various doors, then +up some steps. The terrace was broad and open. It looked straight across +the river at the opposite Lungarno: and there was the thin-necked tower +of the Palazzo Vecchio, and the great dome of the cathedral in the +distance, in shadow-bulk in the cold-aired night of stars. Little trams +were running brilliant over the flat new bridge on the right. And from a +garden just below rose a tuft of palm-trees. + +“You see,” said the Marchesa, coming and standing close to Aaron, so +that she just touched him, “you can know the terrace, just by these palm +trees. And you are in the Nardini just across there, are you? On the top +floor, you said?” + +“Yes, the top floor--one of the middle windows, I think.” + +“One that is always open now--and the others are shut. I have noticed +it, not connecting it with you.” + +“Yes, my window is always open.” + +She was leaning very slightly against him, as he stood. And he knew, +with the same kind of inevitability with which he knew he would one +day die, that he would be the lover of this woman. Nay, that he was her +lover already. + +“Don't take cold,” said Manfredi. + +She turned at once indoors. Aaron caught a faint whiff of perfume from +the little orange trees in tubs round the wall. + +“Will you get the flute?” she said as they entered. + +“And will you sing?” he answered. + +“Play first,” she said. + +He did as she wished. As the other night, he went into the big +music-room to play. And the stream of sound came out with the quick wild +imperiousness of the pipe. It had an immediate effect on her. She seemed +to relax the peculiar, drug-like tension which was upon her at all +ordinary times. She seemed to go still, and yielding. Her red mouth +looked as if it might moan with relief. She sat with her chin dropped +on her breast, listening. And she did not move. But she sat softly, +breathing rather quick, like one who has been hurt, and is soothed. A +certain womanly naturalness seemed to soften her. + +And the music of the flute came quick, rather brilliant like a +call-note, or like a long quick message, half command. To her it was +like a pure male voice--as a blackbird's when he calls: a pure male +voice, not only calling, but telling her something, telling her +something, and soothing her soul to sleep. It was like the fire-music +putting Brunnhilde to sleep. But the pipe did not flicker and sink. It +seemed to cause a natural relaxation in her soul, a peace. Perhaps it +was more like waking to a sweet, morning awakening, after a night of +tormented, painful tense sleep. Perhaps more like that. + +When Aaron came in, she looked at him with a gentle, fresh smile that +seemed to make the fard on her face look like a curious tiredness, which +now she might recover from. And as the last time, it was difficult for +her to identify this man with the voice of the flute. It was rather +difficult. Except that, perhaps, between his brows was something of a +doubt, and in his bearing an aloofness that made her dread he might go +away and not come back. She could see it in him, that he might go away +and not come back. + +She said nothing to him, only just smiled. And the look of knowledge in +her eyes seemed, for the moment, to be contained in another look: a look +of faith, and at last happiness. Aaron's heart stood still. No, in her +moment's mood of faith and at last peace, life-trust, he was perhaps +more terrified of her than in her previous sinister elegance. His spirit +started and shrank. What was she going to ask of him? + +“I am so anxious that you should come to play one Saturday morning,” + said Manfredi. “With an accompaniment, you know. I should like so much +to hear you with piano accompaniment.” + +“Very well,” said Aaron. + +“Will you really come? And will you practise with me, so that I can +accompany you?” said Manfredi eagerly. + +“Yes. I will,” said Aaron. + +“Oh, good! Oh, good! Look here, come in on Friday morning and let us +both look through the music.” + +“If Mr. Sisson plays for the public,” said the Marchesa, “he must not do +it for charity. He must have the proper fee.” + +“No, I don't want it,” said Aaron. + +“But you must earn money, mustn't you?” said she. + +“I must,” said Aaron. “But I can do it somewhere else.” + +“No. If you play for the public, you must have your earnings. When you +play for me, it is different.” + +“Of course,” said Manfredi. “Every man must have his wage. I have mine +from the Italian government---” + +After a while, Aaron asked the Marchesa if she would sing. + +“Shall I?” she said. + +“Yes, do.” + +“Then I will sing alone first, to let you see what you think of it--I +shall be like Trilby--I won't say like Yvette Guilbert, because I +daren't. So I will be like Trilby, and sing a little French song. Though +not Malbrouck, and without a Svengali to keep me in tune.” + +She went near the door, and stood with heir hands by her side. There was +something wistful, almost pathetic now, in her elegance. + + + “Derriere chez mon pere + _Vole vole mon coeur, vole_! + Derriere chez mon pere + Il y a un pommier doux. + _Tout doux, et iou + Et iou, tout doux. + Il y a unpommier doux_. + + Trois belles princesses + _Vole vole mon coeur, vole_! + Trois belles princesses + Sont assis dessous. + _Tout doux, et iou + Et iou, tout doux. + Sont asses dessous._” + + +She had a beautiful, strong, sweet voice. But it was faltering, +stumbling and sometimes it seemed to drop almost to speech. After three +verses she faltered to an end, bitterly chagrined. + +“No,” she said. “It's no good. I can't sing.” And she dropped in her +chair. + +“A lovely little tune,” said Aaron. “Haven't you got the music?” + +She rose, not answering, and found him a little book. + +“What do the words mean?” he asked her. + +She told him. And then he took his flute. + +“You don't mind if I play it, do you?” he said. + +So he played the tune. It was so simple. And he seemed to catch the lilt +and the timbre of her voice. + +“Come and sing it while I play--” he said. + +“I can't sing,” she said, shaking her head rather bitterly. + +“But let us try,” said he, disappointed. + +“I know I can't,” she said. But she rose. + +He remained sitting at the little table, the book propped up under the +reading lamp. She stood at a little distance, unhappy. + +“I've always been like that,” she said. “I could never sing music, +unless I had a thing drilled into me, and then it wasn't singing any +more.” + +But Aaron wasn't heeding. His flute was at his mouth, he was watching +her. He sounded the note, but she did not begin. She was twisting her +handkerchief. So he played the melody alone. At the end of the verse, +he looked up at her again, and a half mocking smile played in his +eyes. Again he sounded the note, a challenge. And this time, as at his +bidding, she began to sing. The flute instantly swung with a lovely soft +firmness into the song, and she wavered only for a minute or two. Then +her soul and her voice got free, and she sang--she sang as she wanted to +sing, as she had always wanted to sing, without that awful scotch, that +impediment inside her own soul, which prevented her. + +She sang free, with the flute gliding along with her. And oh, how +beautiful it was for her! How beautiful it was to sing the little song +in the sweetness of her own spirit. How sweet it was to move pure and +unhampered at last in the music! The lovely ease and lilt of her own +soul in its motion through the music! She wasn't aware of the flute. She +didn't know there was anything except her own pure lovely song-drift. +Her soul seemed to breathe as a butterfly breathes, as it rests on a +leaf and slowly breathes its wings. For the first time! For the first +time her soul drew its own deep breath. All her life, the breath had +caught half-way. And now she breathed full, deep, to the deepest extent +of her being. + +And oh, it was so wonderful, she was dazed. The song ended, she stood +with a dazed, happy face, like one just coming awake. And the fard +on her face seemed like the old night-crust, the bad sleep. New and +luminous she looked out. And she looked at Aaron with a proud smile. + +“Bravo, Nan! That was what you wanted,” said her husband. + +“It was, wasn't it?” she said, turning a wondering, glowing face to him. + +His face looked strange and withered and gnome-like, at the moment. + +She went and sat in her chair, quite silent, as if in a trance. The +two men also sat quite still. And in the silence a little drama played +itself between the three, of which they knew definitely nothing. But +Manfredi knew that Aaron had done what he himself never could do, for +this woman. And yet the woman was his own woman, not Aaron's. And so, he +was displaced. Aaron, sitting there, glowed with a sort of triumph. He +had performed a little miracle, and felt himself a little wonder-worker, +to whom reverence was due. And as in a dream the woman sat, feeling what +a joy it was to float and move like a swan in the high air, flying upon +the wings of her own spirit. She was as a swan which never before could +get its wings quite open, and so which never could get up into the open, +where alone it can sing. For swans, and storks make their music only +when they are high, high up in the air. Then they can give sound to +their strange spirits. And so, she. + +Aaron and Manfredi kept their faces averted from one another and hardly +spoke to one another. It was as if two invisible hands pushed their +faces apart, away, averted. And Aaron's face glimmered with a little +triumph, and a little grimace of obstinacy. And the Italian's face +looked old, rather monkey-like, and of a deep, almost stone-bare +bitterness. The woman looked wondering from one man to the +other--wondering. The glimmer of the open flower, the wonder-look, still +lasted. And Aaron said in his heart, what a goodly woman, what a woman +to taste and enjoy. Ah, what a woman to enjoy! And was it not his +privilege? Had he not gained it? + +His manhood, or rather his maleness, rose powerfully in him, in a sort +of mastery. He felt his own power, he felt suddenly his own virile title +to strength and reward. Suddenly, and newly flushed with his own male +super-power, he was going to have his reward. The woman was his reward. +So it was, in him. And he cast it over in his mind. He wanted her--ha, +didn't he! But the husband sat there, like a soap-stone Chinese monkey, +greyish-green. So, it would have to be another time. + +He rose, therefore, and took his leave. + +“But you'll let us do that again, won't you?” said she. + +“When you tell me, I'll come,” said he. + +“Then I'll tell you soon,” said she. + +So he left, and went home to his own place, and there to his own remote +room. As he laid his flute on the table he looked at it and smiled. He +remembered that Lilly had called it Aaron's Rod. + +“So you blossom, do you?--and thorn as well,” said he. + +For such a long time he had been gripped inside himself, and withheld. +For such a long time it had been hard and unyielding, so hard and +unyielding. He had wanted nothing, his desire had kept itself back, fast +back. For such a long time his desire for woman had withheld itself, +hard and resistant. All his deep, desirous blood had been locked, he had +wanted nobody, and nothing. And it had been hard to live, so. Without +desire, without any movement of passionate love, only gripped back in +recoil! That was an experience to endure. + +And now came his desire back. But strong, fierce as iron. Like the +strength of an eagle with the lightning in its talons. Something to +glory in, something overweening, the powerful male passion, arrogant, +royal, Jove's thunderbolt. Aaron's black rod of power, blossoming again +with red Florentine lilies and fierce thorns. He moved about in the +splendour of his own male lightning, invested in the thunder of the male +passion-power. He had got it back, the male godliness, the male godhead. + +So he slept, and dreamed violent dreams of strange, black strife, +something like the street-riot in Milan, but more terrible. In the +morning, however, he cared nothing about his dreams. As soon as it was +really light, he rose, and opened his window wide. It was a grey, slow +morning. But he saw neither the morning nor the river nor the woman +walking on the gravel river-bed with her goose nor the green hill up to +San Miniato. He watched the tuft of palm-trees, and the terrace beside +it. He could just distinguish the terrace clearly, among the green of +foliage. So he stood at his window for a full hour, and did not move. +Motionless, planted, he stood and watched that terrace across above the +Arno. But like a statue. + +After an hour or so, he looked at his watch. It was nine o'clock. So he +rang for his coffee, and meanwhile still stood watching the terrace +on the hill. He felt his turn had come. The phoenix had risen in fire +again, out of the ashes. + +Therefore at ten o'clock he went over the bridge. He wrote on the back +of his card a request, would she please let him have the little book of +songs, that he might practise them over. The manservant went, and came +back with the request that Aaron should wait. So Aaron entered, while +the man took his hat. + +The manservant spoke only French and Spanish, no English. He was +a Spaniard, with greyish hair and stooping shoulders, and dark, +mute-seeming eyes. He spoke as little as possible. The Marchesa had +inherited him from her father. + +Aaron sat in the little sitting-room and waited. After a rather long +time the Marchesa came in--wearing a white, thin blouse and a blue +skirt. She was hardly made up at all. She had an odd pleased, yet +brooding look on her face as she gave Aaron her hand. Something brooded +between her brows. And her voice was strange, with a strange, secret +undertone, that he could not understand. He looked up at her. And his +face was bright, and his knees, as he sat, were like the knees of the +gods. + +“You wanted the book of _chansons_?” she said. + +“I wanted to learn your tunes,” he replied. + +“Yes. Look--here it is!” And she brought him the little yellow book. It +was just a hand-book, with melody and words only, no accompaniment. So +she stood offering him the book, but waiting as if for something else, +and standing as if with another meaning. + +He opened the leaves at random. + +“But I ought to know which ones you sing,” said he, rising and standing +by her side with the open book. + +“Yes,” she said, looking over his arm. He turned the pages one by one. +“_Trois jeunes tambours_,” said she. “Yes, that.... Yes, _En passant +par la Lorraine_.... _Aupres de ma blonde_.... Oh, I like that one so +much--” He stood and went over the tune in his mind. + +“Would you like me to play it?” he said. + +“Very much,” said she. + +So he got his flute, propped up the book against a vase, and played the +tune, whilst she hummed it fragmentarily. But as he played, he felt that +he did not cast the spell over her. There was no connection. She was in +some mysterious way withstanding him. She was withstanding him, and +his male super-power, and his thunderbolt desire. She was, in some +indescribable way, throwing cold water over his phoenix newly risen from +the ashes of its nest in flames. + +He realised that she did not want him to play. She did not want him to +look at the songs. So he put the book away, and turned round, rather +baffled, not quite sure what was happening, yet feeling she was +withstanding him. He glanced at her face: it was inscrutable: it was +her Cleopatra face once more, yet with something new and warm in it. +He could not understand it. What was it in her face that puzzled him? +Almost angered him? But she could not rob him of his male power, she +could not divest him of his concentrated force. + +“Won't you take off your coat?” she said, looking at him with strange, +large dark eyes. A strange woman, he could not understand her. Yet, as +he sat down again, having removed his overcoat, he felt her looking at +his limbs, his physical body. And this went against him, he did not want +it. Yet quite fixed in him too was the desire for her, her beautiful +white arms, her whole soft white body. And such desire he would not +contradict nor allow to be contradicted. It was his will also. Her whole +soft white body--to possess it in its entirety, its fulness. + +“What have you to do this morning?” she asked him. + +“Nothing,” he said. “Have you?” He lifted his head and looked at her. + +“Nothing at all,” said she. + +And then they sat in silence, he with his head dropped. Then again he +looked at her. + +“Shall we be lovers?” he said. + +She sat with her face averted, and did not answer. His heart struck +heavily, but he did not relax. + +“Shall we be lovers?” came his voice once more, with the faintest touch +of irony. + +Her face gradually grew dusky. And he wondered very much to see it. + +“Yes,” said she, still not looking at him. “If you wish.” + +“I do wish,” he said. And all the time he sat with his eyes fixed on her +face, and she sat with her face averted. + +“Now?” he said. “And where?” + +Again she was silent for some moments, as if struggling with herself. +Then she looked at him--a long, strange, dark look, incomprehensible, +and which he did not like. + +“You don't want emotions? You don't want me to say things, do you?” he +said. + +A faint ironic smile came on her face. + +“I know what all that is worth,” she said, with curious calm equanimity. +“No, I want none of that.” + +“Then--?” + +But now she sat gazing on him with wide, heavy, incomprehensible eyes. +It annoyed him. + +“What do you want to see in me?” he asked, with a smile, looking +steadily back again. + +And now she turned aside her face once more, and once more the dusky +colour came in her cheek. He waited. + +“Shall I go away?” he said at length. + +“Would you rather?” she said, keeping her face averted. + +“No,” he said. + +Then again she was silent. + +“Where shall I come to you?” he said. + +She paused a moment still, then answered: + +“I'll go to my room.” + +“I don't know which it is,” he said. + +“I'll show it you,” she said. + +“And then I shall come to you in ten minutes. In ten minutes,” he +reiterated. + +So she rose, and led the way out of the little salon. He walked with her +to the door of her room, bowed his head as she looked at him, holding +the door handle; and then he turned and went back to the drawing-room, +glancing at his watch. + +In the drawing-room he stood quite still, with his feet apart, and +waited. He stood with his hands behind him, and his feet apart, quite +motionless, planted and firm. So the minutes went by unheeded. He looked +at his watch. The ten minutes were just up. He had heard footsteps and +doors. So he decided to give her another five minutes. He wished to be +quite sure that she had had her own time for her own movements. + +Then at the end of the five minutes he went straight to her room, +entered, and locked the door behind him. She was lying in bed, with her +back to him. + +He found her strange, not as he had imagined her. Not powerful, as +he had imagined her. Strange, in his arms she seemed almost small +and childish, whilst in daily life she looked a full, womanly woman. +Strange, the naked way she clung to him! Almost like a sister, a younger +sister! Or like a child! It filled him with a curious wonder, almost a +bewilderment. In the dark sightlessness of passion, she seemed almost +like a clinging child in his arms. And yet like a child who in some deep +and essential way mocked him. In some strange and incomprehensible way, +as a girl-child blindly obstinate in her deepest nature, she was against +him. He felt she was not his woman. Through him went the feeling, “This +is not my woman.” + +When, after a long sleep, he awoke and came fully to himself, with that +click of awakeness which is the end, the first shades were closing on +the afternoon. He got up and reached for his watch. + +“Quarter past four,” he said. + +Her eyes stretched wide with surprise as she looked at him. But she +said nothing. The same strange and wide, perhaps insatiable child-like +curiosity was in her eyes as she watched him. He dressed very quickly. +And her eyes were wide, and she said no single word. + +But when he was dressed, and bent over her to say goodbye, she put her +arms round him, that seemed such frail and childish arms now, yet withal +so deadly in power. Her soft arms round his neck, her tangle of hair +over his face. And yet, even as he kissed her, he felt her deadly. He +wanted to be gone. He wanted to get out of her arms and her clinging and +her tangle of hair and her curiosity and her strange and hateful power. + +“You'll come again. We'll be like this again?” she whispered. + +And it was hard for him to realise that this was that other woman, who +had sat so silently on the sofa, so darkly and reservedly, at the tea at +Algy's. + +“Yes! I will! Goodbye now!” And he kissed her, and walked straight out +of the room. Quickly he took his coat and his hat, quickly, and left the +house. In his nostrils was still the scent with which the bed linen was +faintly scented--he did not know what it was. But now he wiped his face +and his mouth, to wipe it away. + +He had eaten nothing since coffee that morning, and was hungry, +faint-feeling. And his face, and his mind, felt withered. Curiously he +felt blasted as if blighted by some electricity. And he knew, he +knew quite well he was only in possession of a tithe of his natural +faculties. And in his male spirit he felt himself hating her: hating her +deeply, damnably. But he said to himself: “No, I won't hate her. I won't +hate her.” + +So he went on, over the Ponte Vecchio, where the jeweller's windows on +the bridge were already blazing with light, on into the town. He wanted +to eat something, so he decided to go to a shop he knew, where one could +stand and eat good tiny rolls split into truffle or salami sandwiches, +and drink Marsala. So one after the other he ate little truffle rolls, +and drank a few glasses of Marsala. And then he did not know what to do. +He did not want to eat any more, he had had what he wanted. His hunger +had been more nervous than sensual. + +So he went into the street. It was just growing dark and the town was +lighting up. He felt curiously blazed, as if some flame or electric +power had gone through him and withered his vital tissue. Blazed, as if +some kind of electric flame had run over him and withered him. His brain +felt withered, his mind had only one of its many-sighted eyes left open +and unscorched. So many of the eyes of his mind were scorched now and +sightless. + +Yet a restlessness was in his nerves. What should he do? He remembered +he had a letter in his pocket from Sir William Franks. Sir William had +still teased him about his fate and his providence, in which he, Aaron, +was supposed to trust. “I shall be very glad to hear from you, and to +know how your benevolent Providence--or was yours a Fate--has treated +you since we saw you---” + +So, Aaron turned away, and walked to the post office. There he took +paper, and sat down at one of the tables in the writing room, and wrote +his answer. It was very strange, writing thus when most of his mind's +eyes were scorched, and it seemed he could hardly see to hold the pen, +to drive it straight across the paper. Yet write he must. And most of +his faculties being quenched or blasted for the moment, he wrote perhaps +his greatest, or his innermost, truth.--“I don't want my Fate or my +Providence to treat me well. I don't want kindness or love. I don't +believe in harmony and people loving one another. I believe in the fight +and in nothing else. I believe in the fight which is in everything. And +if it is a question of women, I believe in the fight of love, even if it +blinds me. And if it is a question of the world, I believe in fighting +it and in having it hate me, even if it breaks my legs. I want the world +to hate me, because I can't bear the thought that it might love me. For +of all things love is the most deadly to me, and especially from such a +repulsive world as I think this is....” + +Well, here was a letter for a poor old man to receive. But, in the +dryness of his withered mind, Aaron got it out of himself. When a man +writes a letter to himself, it is a pity to post it to somebody else. +Perhaps the same is true of a book. + +His letter written, however, he stamped it and sealed it and put it +in the box. That made it final. Then he turned towards home. One fact +remained unbroken in the debris of his consciousness: that in the town +was Lilly: and that when he needed, he could go to Lilly: also, that +in the world was Lottie, his wife: and that against Lottie, his heart +burned with a deep, deep, almost unreachable bitterness.--Like a deep +burn on his deepest soul, Lottie. And like a fate which he resented, yet +which steadied him, Lilly. + +He went home and lay on his bed. He had enough self-command to hear the +gong and go down to dinner. White and abstract-looking, he sat and ate +his dinner. And then, thank God, he could go to bed, alone, in his own +cold bed, alone, thank God. To be alone in the night! For this he was +unspeakably thankful. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. CLEOPATRA, BUT NOT ANTHONY + + +Aaron awoke in the morning feeling better, but still only a part +himself. The night alone had restored him. And the need to be alone +still was his greatest need. He felt an intense resentment against the +Marchesa. He felt that somehow, she had given him a scorpion. And his +instinct was to hate her. And yet he avoided hating her. He remembered +Lilly--and the saying that one must possess oneself, and be alone in +possession of oneself. And somehow, under the influence of Lilly, he +refused to follow the reflex of his own passion. He refused to hate the +Marchesa. He _did_ like her. He did _esteem_ her. And after all, she too +was struggling with her fate. He had a genuine sympathy with her. Nay, +he was not going to hate her. + +But he could not see her. He could not bear the thought that she might +call and see him. So he took the tram to Settignano, and walked away all +day into the country, having bread and sausage in his pocket. He sat for +long hours among the cypress trees of Tuscany. And never had any trees +seemed so like ghosts, like soft, strange, pregnant presences. He lay +and watched tall cypresses breathing and communicating, faintly moving +and as it were walking in the small wind. And his soul seemed to +leave him and to go far away, far back, perhaps, to where life was +all different and time passed otherwise than time passes now. As in +clairvoyance he perceived it: that our life is only a fragment of the +shell of life. That there has been and will be life, human life such as +we do not begin to conceive. Much that is life has passed away from men, +leaving us all mere bits. In the dark, mindful silence and inflection of +the cypress trees, lost races, lost language, lost human ways of feeling +and of knowing. Men have known as we can no more know, have felt as we +can no more feel. Great life-realities gone into the darkness. But the +cypresses commemorate. In the afternoon, Aaron felt the cypresses rising +dark about him, like so many high visitants from an old, lost, lost +subtle world, where men had the wonder of demons about them, the aura of +demons, such as still clings to the cypresses, in Tuscany. + +All day, he did not make up his mind what he was going to do. His first +impulse was never to see her again. And this was his intention all day. +But as he went home in the tram he softened, and thought. Nay, +that would not be fair. For how had she treated him, otherwise than +generously. + +She had been generous, and the other thing, that he felt blasted +afterwards, which was his experience, that was fate, and not her fault. +So he must see her again. He must not act like a churl. But he would +tell her--he would tell her that he was a married man, and that though +he had left his wife, and though he had no dogma of fidelity, still, +the years of marriage had made a married man of him, and any other woman +than his wife was a strange woman to him, a violation. “I will tell +her,” he said to himself, “that at the bottom of my heart I love Lottie +still, and that I can't help it. I believe that is true. It isn't love, +perhaps. But it is marriage. I am married to Lottie. And that means I +can't be married to another woman. It isn't my nature. And perhaps I +can't bear to live with Lottie now, because I am married and not in +love. When a man is married, he is not in love. A husband is not a +lover. Lilly told me that: and I know it's true now. Lilly told me that +a husband cannot be a lover, and a lover cannot be a husband. And that +women will only have lovers now, and never a husband. Well, I am a +husband, if I am anything. And I shall never be a lover again, not while +I live. No, not to anybody. I haven't it in me. I'm a husband, and so it +is finished with me as a lover. I can't be a lover any more, just as I +can't be aged twenty any more. I am a man now, not an adolescent. And to +my sorrow I am a husband to a woman who wants a lover: always a lover. +But all women want lovers. And I can't be it any more. I don't want to. +I have finished that. Finished for ever: unless I become senile---” + +Therefore next day he gathered up his courage. He would not have had +courage unless he had known that he was not alone. The other man was +in the town, and from this fact he derived his strength: the fact that +Lilly was there. So at teatime he went over the river, and rang at her +door. Yes, she was at home, and she had other visitors. She was wearing +a beautiful soft afternoon dress, again of a blue like chicory-flowers, +a pale, warm blue. And she had cornflowers in her belt: heaven knows +where she had got them. + +She greeted Aaron with some of the childish shyness. He could tell that +she was glad he had come, and that she had wondered at his not coming +sooner. She introduced him to her visitors: two young ladies and one +old lady and one elderly Italian count. The conversation was mostly in +French or Italian, so Aaron was rather out of it. + +However, the visitors left fairly early, so Aaron stayed them out. When +they had gone, he asked: + +“Where is Manfredi?” + +“He will come in soon. At about seven o'clock.” + +Then there was a silence again. + +“You are dressed fine today,” he said to her. + +“Am I?” she smiled. + +He was never able to make out quite what she felt, what she was feeling. +But she had a quiet little air of proprietorship in him, which he did +not like. + +“You will stay to dinner tonight, won't you?” she said. + +“No--not tonight,” he said. And then, awkwardly, he added: “You know. I +think it is better if we are friends--not lovers. You know--I don't feel +free. I feel my wife, I suppose, somewhere inside me. And I can't help +it---” + +She bent her head and was silent for some moments. Then she lifted her +face and looked at him oddly. + +“Yes,” she said. “I am sure you love your wife.” + +The reply rather staggered him--and to tell the truth, annoyed him. + +“Well,” he said. “I don't know about love. But when one has been married +for ten years--and I did love her--then--some sort of bond or something +grows. I think some sort of connection grows between us, you know. And +it isn't natural, quite, to break it.--Do you know what I mean?” + +She paused a moment. Then, very softly, almost gently, she said: + +“Yes, I do. I know so well what you mean.” + +He was really surprised at her soft acquiescence. What _did_ she mean? + +“But we can be friends, can't we?” he said. + +“Yes, I hope so. Why, yes! Goodness, yes! I should be sorry if we +couldn't be friends.” + +After which speech he felt that everything was all right--everything +was A-one. And when Manfredi came home, the first sound he heard was the +flute and his wife's singing. + +“I'm so glad you've come,” his wife said to him. “Shall we go into the +sala and have real music? Will you play?” + +“I should love to,” replied the husband. + +Behold them then in the big drawing-room, and Aaron and the Marchese +practising together, and the Marchesa singing an Italian folk-song +while her husband accompanied her on the pianoforte. But her singing was +rather strained and forced. Still, they were quite a little family, and +it seemed quite nice. As soon as she could, the Marchesa left the two +men together, whilst she sat apart. Aaron and Manfredi went through +old Italian and old German music, tried one thing and then another, and +seemed quite like brothers. They arranged a piece which they should play +together on a Saturday morning, eight days hence. + +The next day, Saturday, Aaron went to one of the Del Torre music +mornings. There was a string quartette--and a violin soloist--and the +Marchese at the piano. The audience, some dozen or fourteen friends, +sat at the near end of the room, or in the smaller salotta, whilst the +musicians performed at the further end of the room. The Lillys were +there, both Tanny and her husband. But apart from these, Aaron knew +nobody, and felt uncomfortable. The Marchesa gave her guests little +sandwiches and glasses of wine or Marsala or vermouth, as they chose. +And she was quite the hostess: the well-bred and very simple, but still +the conventional hostess. Aaron did not like it. And he could see that +Lilly too was unhappy. In fact, the little man bolted the moment he +could, dragging after him the indignant Tanny, who was so looking +forward to the excellent little sandwiches. But no--Lilly just rudely +bolted. Aaron followed as soon as he could. + +“Will you come to dinner tomorrow evening?” said his hostess to him as +he was leaving. And he agreed. He had really resented seeing her as a +conventional hostess, attending so charmingly to all the other people, +and treating him so merely as one of the guests, among many others. So +that when at the last moment she quietly invited him to dinner next day, +he was flattered and accepted at once. + +The next day was Sunday--the seventh day after his coming together with +the Marchesa--which had taken place on the Monday. And already he was +feeling much less dramatic in his decision to keep himself apart from +her, to be merely friends. Already the memory of the last time was +fanning up in him, not as a warning but as a terrible incitement. Again +the naked desire was getting hold of him, with that peculiar brutal +powerfulness which startled him and also pleased him. + +So that by the time Sunday morning came, his recoil had exhausted +itself, and he was ready again, eager again, but more wary this time. +He sat in his room alone in the morning, playing his flute, playing over +from memory the tunes she loved, and imagining how he and she would get +into unison in the evening. His flute, his Aaron's rod, would blossom +once again with splendid scarlet flowers, the red Florentine lilies. +It was curious, the passion he had for her: just unalloyed desire, and +nothing else. Something he had not known in his life before. Previously +there had been always _some_ personal quality, some sort of personal +tenderness. But here, none. She did not seem to want it. She seemed +to hate it, indeed. No, all he felt was stark, naked desire, without a +single pretension. True enough, his last experience had been a warning +to him. His desire and himself likewise had broken rather disastrously +under the proving. But not finally broken. He was ready again. And with +all the sheer powerful insolence of desire he looked forward to the +evening. For he almost expected Manfredi would not be there. The +officer had said something about having to go to Padua on the Saturday +afternoon. + +So Aaron went skipping off to his appointment, at seven o'clock. Judge +of his chagrin, then, when he found already seated in the salotta an +elderly, quite well-known, very cultured and very well-connected English +authoress. She was charming, in her white hair and dress of soft white +wool and white lace, with a long chain of filigree gold beads, like +bubbles. She was charming in her old-fashioned manner too, as if the +world were still safe and stable, like a garden in which delightful +culture, and choice ideas bloomed safe from wind and weather. Alas, +never was Aaron more conscious of the crude collapse in the world than +when he listened to this animated, young-seeming lady from the safe +days of the seventies. All the old culture and choice ideas seemed like +blowing bubbles. And dear old Corinna Wade, she seemed to be blowing +bubbles still, as she sat there so charming in her soft white dress, +and talked with her bright animation about the influence of woman +in Parliament and the influence of woman in the Periclean day. Aaron +listened spell-bound, watching the bubbles float round his head, and +almost hearing them go pop. + +To complete the party arrived an elderly litterateur who was more proud +of his not-very-important social standing than of his literature. In +fact he was one of those English snobs of the old order, living abroad. +Perfectly well dressed for the evening, his grey hair and his prim face +was the most well-dressed thing to be met in North Italy. + +“Oh, so glad to see you, Mr. French. I didn't know you were in Florence +again. You make that journey from Venice so often. I wonder you don't +get tired of it,” cried Corinna Wade. + +“No,” he said. “So long as duty to England calls me to Florence, I shall +come to Florence. But I can LIVE in no town but Venice.” + +“No, I suppose you can't. Well, there is something special about Venice: +having no streets and no carriages, and moving about in a gondola. I +suppose it is all much more soothing.” + +“Much less nerve-racking, yes. And then there is a quality in the +whole life. Of course I see few English people in Venice--only the old +Venetian families, as a rule.” + +“Ah, yes. That must be very interesting. They are very exclusive still, +the Venetian _noblesse_?” said Miss Wade. + +“Oh, very exclusive,” said Mr. French. “That is one of the charms. +Venice is really altogether exclusive. It excludes the world, really, +and defies time and modern movement. Yes, in spite of the steamers on +the canal, and the tourists.” + +“That is so. That is so. Venice is a strange back-water. And the old +families are very proud still, in these democratic days. They have a +great opinion of themselves, I am told.” + +“Well,” said Mr. French. “Perhaps you know the rhyme: + + “'Veneziano gran' Signore + Padovano buon' dotore. + Vicenzese mangia il gatto + Veronese tutto matto---'” + +“How very amusing!” said Miss Wade. “_Veneziana_ gran' Signore. The +Venetian is a great gentleman! Yes, I know they are all convinced of it. +Really, how very amusing, in these advanced days. To be born a Venetian, +is to be born a great gentleman! But this outdoes divine right of king.” + +“To be born a Venetian GENTLEMAN, is to be born a great gentleman,” said +Mr. French, rather fussily. + +“You seriously think so?” said Miss Wade. “Well now, what do you base +your opinion on?” + +Mr. French gave various bases for his opinion. + +“Yes--interesting. Very interesting. Rather like the +Byzantines--lingering on into far other ages. Anna Comnena always +charmed me very much. HOW she despised the flower of the north--even +Tancred! And so the lingering Venetian families! And you, in your +palazzo on the Grand Canal: you are a northern barbarian civilised into +the old Venetian Signoria. But how very romantic a situation!” + +It was really amusing to see the old maid, how she skirmished and hit +out gaily, like an old jaunty free lance: and to see the old bachelor, +how prim he was, and nervy and fussy and precious, like an old maid. + +But need we say that Mr. Aaron felt very much out of it. He sat and +listened, with a sardonic small smile on his face and a sardonic gleam +in his blue eyes, that looked so very blue on such an occasion. He made +the two elderly people uncomfortable with his silence: his democratic +silence, Miss Wade might have said. + +However, Miss Wade lived out towards Galuzzo, so she rose early, to +catch her tram. And Mr. French gallantly and properly rose to accompany +her, to see her safe on board. Which left Aaron and the Marchesa alone. + +“What time is Manfredi coming back?” said he. + +“Tomorrow,” replied she. + +There was a pause. + +“Why do you have those people?” he asked. + +“Who?” + +“Those two who were here this evening.” + +“Miss Wade and Mr. French?--Oh, I like Miss Wade so very much. She is so +refreshing.” + +“Those old people,” said Aaron. “They licked the sugar off the pill, and +go on as if everything was toffee. And we've got to swallow the pill. +It's easy to be refreshing---” + +“No, don't say anything against her. I like her so much.” + +“And him?” + +“Mr. French!--Well, he's perhaps a little like the princess who felt +the pea through three feather-beds. But he can be quite witty, and an +excellent conversationalist, too. Oh yes, I like him quite well.” + +“Matter of taste,” said Aaron. + +They had not much to say to one another. The time passed, in the pauses. +He looked at his watch. + +“I shall have to go,” he said. + +“Won't you stay?” she said, in a small, muted voice. + +“Stay all night?” he said. + +“Won't you?” + +“Yes,” he said quietly. Did he not feel the strength of his desire on +him. + +After which she said no more. Only she offered him whiskey and soda, +which he accepted. + +“Go then,” he said to her. “And I'll come to you.--Shall I come in +fifteen minutes?” + +She looked at him with strange, slow dark eyes. And he could not +understand. + +“Yes,” she said. And she went. + +And again, this night as before, she seemed strangely small and clinging +in his arms. And this night he felt his passion drawn from him as if +a long, live nerve were drawn out from his body, a long live thread of +electric fire, a long, living nerve finely extracted from him, from the +very roots of his soul. A long fine discharge of pure, bluish fire, +from the core of his soul. It was an excruciating, but also an intensely +gratifying sensation. + +This night he slept with a deeper obliviousness than before. But ah, as +it grew towards morning how he wished he could be alone. + +They must stay together till the day was light. And she seemed to love +clinging to him and curling strangely on his breast. He could never +reconcile it with her who was a hostess entertaining her guests. How +could she now in a sort of little ecstasy curl herself and nestle +herself on his, Aaron's breast, tangling his face all over with her +hair. He verily believed that this was what she really wanted of him: to +curl herself on his naked breast, to make herself small, small, to feel +his arms around her, while he himself was remote, silent, in some +way inaccessible. This seemed almost to make her beside herself with +gratification. But why, why? Was it because he was one of her own race, +and she, as it were, crept right home to him? + +He did not know. He only knew it had nothing to do with him: and that, +save out of _complaisance_, he did not want it. It simply blasted his +own central life. It simply blighted him. + +And she clung to him closer. Strange, she was afraid of him! Afraid of +him as of a fetish! Fetish afraid, and fetish-fascinated! Or was her +fear only a delightful game of cat and mouse? Or was the fear genuine, +and the delight the greater: a sort of sacrilege? The fear, and the +dangerous, sacrilegious power over that which she feared. + +In some way, she was not afraid of him at all. In some other way she +used him as a mere magic implement, used him with the most amazing +priestess-craft. Himself, the individual man which he was, this she +treated with an indifference that was startling to him. + +He forgot, perhaps, that this was how he had treated her. His famous +desire for her, what had it been but this same attempt to strike a magic +fire out of her, for his own ecstasy. They were playing the same game +of fire. In him, however, there was all the time something hard and +reckless and defiant, which stood apart. She was absolutely gone in +her own incantations. She was absolutely gone, like a priestess utterly +involved in her terrible rites. And he was part of the ritual only, God +and victim in one. God and victim! All the time, God and victim. When +his aloof soul realised, amid the welter of incantation, how he was +being used,--not as himself but as something quite different--God and +victim--then he dilated with intense surprise, and his remote soul stood +up tall and knew itself alone. He didn't want it, not at all. He knew +he was apart. And he looked back over the whole mystery of their +love-contact. Only his soul was apart. + +He was aware of the strength and beauty and godlikeness that his breast +was then to her--the magic. But himself, he stood far off, like Moses' +sister Miriam. She would drink the one drop of his innermost heart's +blood, and he would be carrion. As Cleopatra killed her lovers in the +morning. Surely they knew that death was their just climax. They had +approached the climax. Accept then. + +But his soul stood apart, and could have nothing to do with it. If he +had really been tempted, he would have gone on, and she might have had +his central heart's blood. Yes, and thrown away the carrion. He would +have been willing. + +But fatally, he was not tempted. His soul stood apart and decided. At +the bottom of his soul he disliked her. Or if not her, then her whole +motive. Her whole life-mode. He was neither God nor victim: neither +greater nor less than himself. His soul, in its isolation as she lay on +his breast, chose it so, with the soul's inevitability. So, there was no +temptation. + +When it was sufficiently light, he kissed her and left her. Quietly he +left the silent flat. He had some difficulty in unfastening the various +locks and bars and catches of the massive door downstairs, and began, in +irritation and anger, to feel he was a prisoner, that he was locked +in. But suddenly the ponderous door came loose, and he was out in the +street. The door shut heavily behind him, with a shudder. He was out in +the morning streets of Florence. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. THE BROKEN ROD + + +The day was rainy. Aaron stayed indoors alone, and copied music and +slept. He felt the same stunned, withered feeling as before, but less +intensely, less disastrously, this time. He knew now, without argument +or thought that he would never go again to the Marchesa: not as a lover. +He would go away from it all. He did not dislike her. But he would never +see her again. A great gulf had opened, leaving him alone on the far +side. + +He did not go out till after dinner. When he got downstairs he found the +heavy night-door closed. He wondered: then remembered the Signorina's +fear of riots and disturbances. As again he fumbled with the catches, +he felt that the doors of Florence were trying to prevent his egress. +However, he got out. + +It was a very dark night, about nine o'clock, and deserted seeming. He +was struck by the strange, deserted feeling of the city's atmosphere. +Yet he noticed before him, at the foot of the statue, three men, one +with a torch: a long torch with naked flames. The men were stooping over +something dark, the man with the torch bending forward too. It was a +dark, weird little group, like Mediaeval Florence. Aaron lingered on his +doorstep, watching. He could not see what they were doing. But now, the +two were crouching down; over a long dark object on the ground, and the +one with the torch bending also to look. What was it? They were just at +the foot of the statue, a dark little group under the big pediment, the +torch-flames weirdly flickering as the torch-bearer moved and stooped +lower to the two crouching men, who seemed to be kneeling. + +Aaron felt his blood stir. There was something dark and mysterious, +stealthy, in the little scene. It was obvious the men did not want to +draw attention, they were so quiet and furtive-seeming. And an eerie +instinct prevented Aaron's going nearer to look. Instead, he swerved +on to the Lungarno, and went along the top of the square, avoiding the +little group in the centre. He walked the deserted dark-seeming street +by the river, then turned inwards, into the city. He was going to the +Piazza Vittoria Emmanuele, to sit in the cafe which is the centre +of Florence at night. There he could sit for an hour, and drink his +vermouth and watch the Florentines. + +As he went along one of the dark, rather narrow streets, he heard a +hurrying of feet behind him. Glancing round, he saw the torch-bearer +coming along at a trot, holding his flaming torch up in front of him as +he trotted down the middle of the narrow dark street. Aaron shrank under +the wall. The trotting torch-bearer drew near, and now Aaron perceived +the other two men slowly trotting behind, stealthily, bearing a +stretcher on which a body was wrapped up, completely and darkly covered. +The torch-bearer passed, the men with the stretcher passed too, hastily +and stealthily, the flickering flames revealing them. They took no +notice of Aaron, no notice of anything, but trotted softly on towards +the centre of the city. Their queer, quick footsteps echoed down the +distance. Then Aaron too resumed his way. + +He came to the large, brilliantly-lighted cafe. It was Sunday evening, +and the place was full. Men, Florentines, many, many men sat in groups +and in twos and threes at the little marble tables. They were mostly in +dark clothes or black overcoats. They had mostly been drinking just a +cup of coffee--others however had glasses of wine or liquor. But mostly +it was just a little coffee-tray with a tiny coffee pot and a cup and +saucer. There was a faint film of tobacco smoke. And the men were +all talking: talking, talking with that peculiar intensity of +the Florentines. Aaron felt the intense, compressed sound of many +half-secret voices. For the little groups and couples abated their +voices, none wished that others should hear what they said. + +Aaron was looking for a seat--there was no table to him-—when suddenly +someone took him by the arm. It was Argyle. + +“Come along, now! Come and join us. Here, this way! Come along!” + +Aaron let himself be led away towards a corner. There sat Lilly and a +strange man: called Levison. The room was warm. Aaron could never bear +to be too hot. After sitting a minute, he rose and took off his coat, +and hung it on a stand near the window. As he did so he felt the weight +of his flute--it was still in his pocket. And he wondered if it was safe +to leave it. + +“I suppose no one will steal from the overcoat pockets,” he said, as he +sat down. + +“My dear chap, they'd steal the gold filling out of your teeth, if you +happened to yawn,” said Argyle. “Why, have you left valuables in your +overcoat?” + +“My flute,” said Aaron. + +“Oh, they won't steal that,” said Argyle. + +“Besides,” said Lilly, “we should see anyone who touched it.” + +And so they settled down to the vermouth. + +“Well,” said Argyle, “what have you been doing with yourself, eh? I +haven't seen a glimpse of you for a week. Been going to the dogs, eh?” + +“Or the bitches,” said Aaron. + +“Oh, but look here, that's bad! That's bad! I can see I shall have +to take you in hand, and commence my work of reform. Oh, I'm a great +reformer, a Zwingli and Savonarola in one. I couldn't count the number +of people I've led into the right way. It takes some finding, you know. +Strait is the gate--damned strait sometimes. A damned tight squeeze....” + Argyle was somewhat intoxicated. He spoke with a slight slur, and +laughed, really tickled at his own jokes. The man Levison smiled +acquiescent. But Lilly was not listening. His brow was heavy and he +seemed abstracted. He hardly noticed Aaron's arrival. + +“Did you see the row yesterday?” asked Levison. + +“No,” said Aaron. “What was it?” + +It was the socialists. They were making a demonstration against the +imprisonment of one of the railway-strikers. I was there. They went on +all right, with a good bit of howling and gibing: a lot of young louts, +you know. And the shop-keepers shut up shop, and nobody showed the +Italian flag, of course. Well, when they came to the Via Benedetto +Croce, there were a few mounted carabinieri. So they stopped the +procession, and the sergeant said that the crowd could continue, could +go on where they liked, but would they not go down the Via Verrocchio, +because it was being repaired, the roadway was all up, and there were +piles of cobble stones. These might prove a temptation and lead to +trouble. So would the demonstrators not take that road--they might take +any other they liked.--Well, the very moment he had finished, there +was a revolver shot, he made a noise, and fell forward over his horse's +nose. One of the anarchists had shot him. Then there was hell let loose, +the carabinieri fired back, and people were bolting and fighting like +devils. I cleared out, myself. But my God--what do you think of it?” + +“Seems pretty mean,” said Aaron. + +“Mean!--He had just spoken them fair--they could go where they liked, +only would they not go down the one road, because of the heap of stones. +And they let him finish. And then shot him dead.” + +“Was he dead?” said Aaron. + +“Yes--killed outright, the Nazione says.” + +There was a silence. The drinkers in the cafe all continued to talk +vehemently, casting uneasy glances. + +“Well,” said Argyle, “if you let loose the dogs of war, you mustn't +expect them to come to heel again in five minutes.” + +“But there's no fair play about it, not a bit,” said Levison. + +“Ah, my dear fellow, are you still so young and callow that you cherish +the illusion of fair play?” said Argyle. + +“Yes, I am,” said Levison. + +“Live longer and grow wiser,” said Argyle, rather contemptuously. + +“Are you a socialist?” asked Levison. + +“Am I my aunt Tabitha's dachshund bitch called Bella,” said Argyle, in +his musical, indifferent voice. “Yes, Bella's her name. And if you +can tell me a damneder name for a dog, I shall listen, I assure you, +attentively.” + +“But you haven't got an aunt called Tabitha,” said Aaron. + +“Haven't I? Oh, haven't I? I've got TWO aunts called Tabitha: if not +more.” + +“They aren't of any vital importance to you, are they?” said Levison. + +“Not the very least in the world--if it hadn't been that my elder Aunt +Tabitha had christened her dachshund bitch Bella. I cut myself off from +the family after that. Oh, I turned over a new leaf, with not a family +name on it. Couldn't stand Bella amongst the rest.” + +“You must have strained most of the gnats out of your drink, Argyle,” + said Lilly, laughing. + +“Assiduously! Assiduously! I can't stand these little vermin. Oh, I +am quite indifferent about swallowing a camel or two--or even a whole +string of dromedaries. How charmingly Eastern that sounds! But gnats! +Not for anything in the world would I swallow one.” + +“You're a bit of a SOCIALIST though, aren't you?” persisted Levison, now +turning to Lilly. + +“No,” said Lilly. “I was.” + +“And am no more,” said Argyle sarcastically. “My dear fellow, the only +hope of salvation for the world lies in the re-institution of slavery.” + +“What kind of slavery?” asked Levison. + +“Slavery! SLAVERY! When I say SLAVERY I don't mean any of your damned +modern reform cant. I mean solid sound slavery on which the Greek and +the Roman world rested. FAR finer worlds than ours, my dear chap! Oh +FAR finer! And can't be done without slavery. Simply can't be done.--Oh, +they'll all come to realise it, when they've had a bit more of this +democratic washer-women business.” + +Levison was laughing, with a slight sneer down his nose. “Anyhow, +there's no immediate danger--or hope, if you prefer it--of the +re-instituting of classic slavery,” he said. + +“Unfortunately no. We are all such fools,” said Argyle. + +“Besides,” said Levison, “who would you make slaves of?” + +“Everybody, my dear chap: beginning with the idealists and the +theorising Jews, and after them your nicely-bred gentlemen, and then +perhaps, your profiteers and Rothschilds, and ALL politicians, and +ending up with the proletariat,” said Argyle. + +“Then who would be the masters?--the professional classes, doctors and +lawyers and so on?” + +“What? Masters. They would be the sewerage slaves, as being those who +had made most smells.” There was a moment's silence. + +“The only fault I have to find with your system,” said Levison, rather +acidly, “is that there would be only one master, and everybody else +slaves.” + +“Do you call that a fault? What do you want with more than one +master? Are you asking for several?--Well, perhaps there's cunning in +THAT.--Cunning devils, cunning devils, these theorising slaves--” And +Argyle pushed his face with a devilish leer into Aaron's face. “Cunning +devils!” he reiterated, with a slight tipsy slur. “That be-fouled +Epictetus wasn't the last of 'em--nor the first. Oh, not by any means, +not by any means.” + +Here Lilly could not avoid a slight spasm of amusement. “But returning +to serious conversation,” said Levison, turning his rather sallow face +to Lilly. “I think you'll agree with me that socialism is the inevitable +next step--” + +Lilly waited for some time without answering. Then he said, with +unwilling attention to the question: “I suppose it's the logically +inevitable next step.” + +“Use logic as lavatory paper,” cried Argyle harshly. “Yes--logically +inevitable--and humanly inevitable at the same time. Some form of +socialism is bound to come, no matter how you postpone it or try +variations,” said Levison. + +“All right, let it come,” said Lilly. “It's not my affair, neither to +help it nor to keep it back, or even to try varying it.” + +“There I don't follow you,” said Levison. “Suppose you were in Russia +now--” + +“I watch it I'm not.” + +“But you're in Italy, which isn't far off. Supposing a socialist +revolution takes place all around you. Won't that force the problem on +you?--It is every man's problem,” persisted Levison. + +“Not mine,” said Lilly. + +“How shall you escape it?” said Levison. + +“Because to me it is no problem. To Bolsh or not to Bolsh, as far as my +mind goes, presents no problem. Not any more than to be or not to be. To +be or not to be is simply no problem--” + +“No, I quite agree, that since you are already existing, and since death +is ultimately inevitable, to be or not to be is no sound problem,” + said Levison. “But the parallel isn't true of socialism. That is not a +problem of existence, but of a certain mode of existence which centuries +of thought and action on the part of Europe have now made logically +inevitable for Europe. And therefore there is a problem. There is more +than a problem, there is a dilemma. Either we must go to the logical +conclusion--or--” + +“Somewhere else,” said Lilly. + +“Yes--yes. Precisely! But where ELSE? That's the one half of the +problem: supposing you do not agree to a logical progression in human +social activity. Because after all, human society through the course +of ages only enacts, spasmodically but still inevitably, the logical +development of a given idea.” + +“Well, then, I tell you.--The idea and the ideal has for me gone +dead--dead as carrion--” + +“Which idea, which ideal precisely?” + +“The ideal of love, the ideal that it is better to give than to receive, +the ideal of liberty, the ideal of the brotherhood of man, the ideal of +the sanctity of human life, the ideal of what we call goodness, charity, +benevolence, public spirited-ness, the ideal of sacrifice for a cause, +the ideal of unity and unanimity--all the lot--all the whole beehive +of ideals--has all got the modern bee-disease, and gone putrid, +stinking.--And when the ideal is dead and putrid, the logical sequence +is only stink.--Which, for me, is the truth concerning the ideal of +good, peaceful, loving humanity and its logical sequence in socialism +and equality, equal opportunity or whatever you like.--But this time he +stinketh--and I'm sorry for any Christus who brings him to life again, +to stink livingly for another thirty years: the beastly Lazarus of our +idealism.” + +“That may be true for you--” + +“But it's true for nobody else,” said Lilly. “All the worse for them. +Let them die of the bee-disease.” + +“Not only that,” persisted Levison, “but what is your alternative? Is it +merely nihilism?” + +“My alternative,” said Lilly, “is an alternative for no one but myself, +so I'll keep my mouth shut about it.” + +“That isn't fair.” + +“I tell you, the ideal of fairness stinks with the rest.--I have no +obligation to say what I think.” + +“Yes, if you enter into conversation, you have--” + +“Bah, then I didn't enter into conversation.--The only thing is, I agree +in the rough with Argyle. You've got to have a sort of slavery again. +People are not MEN: they are insects and instruments, and their +destiny is slavery. They are too many for me, and so what I think +is ineffectual. But ultimately they will be brought to agree--after +sufficient extermination--and then they will elect for themselves a +proper and healthy and energetic slavery.” + +“I should like to know what you mean by slavery. Because to me it is +impossible that slavery should be healthy and energetic. You seem to +have some other idea in your mind, and you merely use the word slavery +out of exasperation--” + +“I mean it none the less. I mean a real committal of the life-issue of +inferior beings to the responsibility of a superior being.” + +“It'll take a bit of knowing, who are the inferior and which is the +superior,” said Levison sarcastically. + +“Not a bit. It is written between a man's brows, which he is.” + +“I'm afraid we shall all read differently.” + +“So long as we're liars.” + +“And putting that question aside: I presume that you mean that this +committal of the life-issue of inferior beings to someone higher shall +be made voluntarily--a sort of voluntary self-gift of the inferiors--” + +“Yes--more or less--and a voluntary acceptance. For it's no pretty gift, +after all.--But once made it must be held fast by genuine power. +Oh yes--no playing and fooling about with it. Permanent and very +efficacious power.” + +“You mean military power?” + +“I do, of course.” + +Here Levison smiled a long, slow, subtle smile of ridicule. It all +seemed to him the preposterous pretentiousness of a megalomaniac--one +whom, after a while, humanity would probably have the satisfaction of +putting into prison, or into a lunatic asylum. And Levison felt +strong, overwhelmingly strong, in the huge social power with which +he, insignificant as he was, was armed against such criminal-imbecile +pretensions as those above set forth. Prison or the lunatic asylum. +The face of the fellow gloated in these two inevitable engines of his +disapproval. + +“It will take you some time before you'll get your doctrines accepted,” + he said. + +“Accepted! I'd be sorry. I don't want a lot of swine snouting and +sniffing at me with their acceptance.--Bah, Levison--one can easily make +a fool of you. Do you take this as my gospel?” + +“I take it you are speaking seriously.” + +Here Lilly broke into that peculiar, gay, whimsical smile. + +“But I should say the blank opposite with just as much fervour,” he +declared. + +“Do you mean to say you don't MEAN what you've been saying?” said +Levison, now really looking angry. + +“Why, I'll tell you the real truth,” said Lilly. “I think every man is a +sacred and holy individual, NEVER to be violated; I think there is only +one thing I hate to the verge of madness, and that is BULLYING. To see +any living creature BULLIED, in any way, almost makes a murderer of me. +That is true. Do you believe it--?” + +“Yes,” said Levison unwillingly. “That may be true as well. You have no +doubt, like most of us, got a complex nature which--” + +C R A S H! + +There intervened one awful minute of pure shock, when the soul was in +darkness. + +Out of this shock Aaron felt himself issuing amid a mass of terrible +sensations: the fearful blow of the explosion, the noise of glass, the +hoarse howl of people, the rushing of men, the sudden gulf, the awful +gulfing whirlpool of horror in the social life. + +He stood in agony and semi-blindness amid a chaos. Then as he began to +recover his consciousness, he found himself standing by a pillar some +distance from where he had been sitting: he saw a place where tables and +chairs were all upside down, legs in the air, amid debris of glass and +breakage: he saw the cafe almost empty, nearly everybody gone: he saw +the owner, or the manager, advancing aghast to the place of debris: he +saw Lilly standing not far off, white as a sheet, and as if unconscious. +And still he had no idea of what had happened. He thought perhaps +something had broken down. He could not understand. + +Lilly began to look round. He caught Aaron's eye. And then Aaron began +to approach his friend. + +“What is it?” he asked. + +“A bomb,” said Lilly. + +The manager, and one old waiter, and three or four youths had now +advanced to the place of debris. And now Aaron saw that a man was lying +there--and horror, blood was running across the floor of the cafe. Men +began now hastily to return to the place. Some seized their hats and +departed again at once. But many began to crowd in--a black eager crowd +of men pressing to where the bomb had burst--where the man was lying. It +was rather dark, some of the lamps were broken--but enough still shone. +Men surged in with that eager, excited zest of people, when there has +been an accident. Grey carabinieri, and carabinieri in the cocked hat +and fine Sunday uniform pressed forward officiously. + +“Let us go,” said Lilly. + +And he went to the far corner, where his hat hung. But Aaron looked in +vain for his own hat. The bomb had fallen near the stand where he had +hung it and his overcoat. + +“My hat and coat?” he said to Lilly. + +Lilly, not very tall, stood on tiptoe. Then he climbed on a chair and +looked round. Then he squeezed past the crowd. + +Aaron followed. On the other side of the crowd excited angry men +were wrestling over overcoats that were mixed up with a broken marble +table-top. Aaron spied his own black hat under the sofa near the wall. +He waited his turn and then in the confusion pressed forward to where +the coats were. Someone had dragged out his, and it lay on the floor +under many feet. He managed, with a struggle, to get it from under the +feet of the crowd. He felt at once for his flute. But his trampled, torn +coat had no flute in its pocket. He pushed and struggled, caught sight +of a section, and picked it up. But it was split right down, two silver +stops were torn out, and a long thin spelch of wood was curiously torn +off. He looked at it, and his heart stood still. No need to look for the +rest. + +He felt utterly, utterly overcome--as if he didn't care what became +of him any further. He didn't care whether he were hit by a bomb, or +whether he himself threw the next bomb, and hit somebody. He just didn't +care any more about anything in life or death. It was as if the reins of +his life slipped from his hands. And he would let everything run where +it would, so long as it did run. + +Then he became aware of Lilly's eyes on him--and automatically he joined +the little man. + +“Let us go,” said Lilly. + +And they pushed their way through the door. The police were just +marching across the square. Aaron and Lilly walked in the opposite +direction. Groups of people were watching. Suddenly Lilly swerved--in +the middle of the road was a large black glisten of blood, trickling +horribly. A wounded man had run from the blow and fallen here. + +Aaron did not know where he was going. But in the Via Tournabuoni Lilly +turned towards the Arno, and soon they were on the Ponte Santa Trinita. + +“Who threw the bomb?” said Aaron. + +“I suppose an anarchist.” + +“It's all the same,” said Aaron. + +The two men, as if unable to walk any further, leaned on the broad +parapet of the bridge and looked at the water in the darkness of the +still, deserted night. Aaron still had his flute section in his hand, +his overcoat over his arm. + +“Is that your flute?” asked Lilly. + +“Bit of it. Smashed.” + +“Let me look.” + +He looked, and gave it back. + +“No good,” he said. + +“Oh, no,” said Aaron. + +“Throw it in the river, Aaron,” said Lilly. + +Aaron turned and looked at him. + +“Throw it in the river,” repeated Lilly. “It's an end.” + +Aaron nervelessly dropped the flute into the stream. The two men stood +leaning on the bridge-parapet, as if unable to move. + +“We shall have to go home,” said Lilly. “Tanny may hear of it and be +anxious.” + +Aaron was quite dumbfounded by the night's event: the loss of his +flute. Here was a blow he had not expected. And the loss was for him +symbolistic. It chimed with something in his soul: the bomb, the smashed +flute, the end. + +“There goes Aaron's Rod, then,” he said to Lilly. + +“It'll grow again. It's a reed, a water-plant--you can't kill it,” said +Lilly, unheeding. + +“And me?” + +“You'll have to live without a rod, meanwhile.” + +To which pleasant remark Aaron made no reply. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. WORDS + + +He went home to bed: and dreamed a strange dream. He dreamed that he was +in a country with which he was not acquainted. Night was coming on, and +he had nowhere to sleep. So he passed the mouth of a sort of cave or +house, in which a woman, an old woman, sat. Therefore he entered, and +though he could not understand the language, still his second self +understood. The cave was a house: and men came home from work. His +second self assumed that they were tin-miners. + +He wandered uneasily to and fro, no one taking any particular notice of +him. And he realized that there was a whole vast country spreading, a +sort of underworld country, spreading away beyond him. He wandered from +vast apartment to apartment, down narrow corridors like the roads in a +mine. In one of the great square rooms, the men were going to eat. And +it seemed to him that what they were going to eat was a man, naked man. +But his second self knew that what appeared to his eyes as a man was +really a man's skin stuffed tight with prepared meat, as the skin of a +Bologna sausage. This did not prevent his seeing the naked man who was +to be eaten walk slowly and stiffly across the gangway and down the +corridor. He saw him from behind. It was a big handsome man in the prime +of life, quite naked and perhaps stupid. But of course he was only a +skin stuffed with meat, whom the grey tin-miners were going to eat. + +Aaron, the dream-Aaron, turned another way, and strayed along the vast +square rooms, cavern apartments. He came into one room where there were +many children, all in white gowns. And they were all busily putting +themselves to bed, in the many beds scattered about the room at +haphazard. And each child went to bed with a wreath of flowers on its +head, white flowers and pink, so it seemed. So there they all lay, in +their flower-crowns in the vast space of the rooms. And Aaron went away. + +He could not remember the following part. Only he seemed to have passed +through many grey domestic apartments, where were all women, all +greyish in their clothes and appearance, being wives of the underground +tin-miners. The men were away and the dream-Aaron remembered with fear +the food they were to eat. + +The next thing he could recall was, that he was in a boat. And now he +was most definitely two people. His invisible, _conscious_ self, what we +have called his second self, hovered as it were before the prow of +the boat, seeing and knowing, but unseen. His other self, the palpable +Aaron, sat as a passenger in the boat, which was being rowed by the +unknown people of this underworld. They stood up as they thrust the boat +along. Other passengers were in the boat too, women as well, but all of +them unknown people, and not noticeable. + +The boat was upon a great lake in the underworld country, a lake of dark +blue water, but crystal clear and very beautiful in colour. The second +or invisible Aaron sat in the prow and watched the fishes swimming +suspended in the clear, beautiful dark-blue water. Some were pale fish, +some frightening-looking, like centipedes swimming, and some were dark +fish, of definite form, and delightful to watch. + +The palpable or visible Aaron sat at the side of the boat, on the end of +the middle seat, with his naked right elbow leaning out over the side. +And now the boat entered upon shallows. The impalpable Aaron in the bows +saw the whitish clay of the bottom swirl up in clouds at each thrust of +the oars, whitish-clayey clouds which would envelope the strange fishes +in a sudden mist. And on the right hand of the course stakes stood up in +the water, at intervals, to mark the course. + +The boat must pass very near these stakes, almost touching. And Aaron's +naked elbow was leaning right over the side. As they approached the +first stake, the boatmen all uttered a strange cry of warning, in a +foreign language. The flesh-and-blood Aaron seemed not even to hear. The +invisible Aaron heard, but did not comprehend the words of the cry. + +So the naked elbow struck smartly against the stake as the boat passed. + +The rowers rowed on. And still the flesh-and-blood Aaron sat with his +arm over the side. Another stake was nearing. “Will he heed, will he +heed?” thought the anxious second self. The rowers gave the strange +warning cry. He did not heed, and again the elbow struck against the +stake as the boat passed. And yet the flesh-and-blood Aaron sat on and +made no sign. There were stakes all along this shallow part of the lake. +Beyond was deep water again. The invisible Aaron was becoming anxious. +“Will he never hear? Will he never heed? Will he never understand?” + he thought. And he watched in pain for the next stake. But still the +flesh-and-blood Aaron sat on, and though the rowers cried so acutely +that the invisible Aaron almost understood their very language, still +the Aaron seated at the side heard nothing, and his elbow struck against +the third stake. + +This was almost too much. But after a few moments, as the boat rowed on, +the palpable Aaron changed his position as he sat, and drew in his arm: +though even now he was not aware of any need to do so. The invisible +Aaron breathed with relief in the bows, the boat swung steadily on, into +the deep, unfathomable water again. + +They were drawing near a city. A lake-city, like Mexico. They must have +reached a city, because when Aaron woke up and tried to piece together +the dream of which these are mere fragments, he could remember having +just seen an idol. An Astarte he knew it as, seated by the road, and in +her open lap, were some eggs: smallish hen's eggs, and one or two bigger +eggs, like swan's, and one single little roll of bread. These lay in the +lap of the roadside Astarte.... And then he could remember no more. + +He woke, and for a minute tried to remember what he had been dreaming, +and what it all meant. But he quickly relinquished the effort. So he +looked at his watch: it was only half-past three. He had one of those +American watches with luminous, phosphorescent figures and fingers. And +tonight he felt afraid of its eerily shining face. + +He was awake a long time in the dark--for two hours, thinking and +not thinking, in that barren state which is not sleep, nor yet full +wakefulness, and which is a painful strain. At length he went to sleep +again, and did not wake till past eight o'clock. He did not ring for his +coffee till nine. + +Outside was a bright day--but he hardly heeded it. He lay profitlessly +thinking. With the breaking of the flute, that which was slowly breaking +had finally shattered at last. And there was nothing ahead: no plan, no +prospect. He knew quite well that people would help him: Francis Dekker +or Angus Guest or the Marchese or Lilly. They would get him a new flute, +and find him engagements. But what was the good? His flute was broken, +and broken finally. The bomb had settled it. The bomb had settled it and +everything. It was an end, no matter how he tried to patch things up. +The only thing he felt was a thread of destiny attaching him to Lilly. +The rest had all gone as bare and bald as the dead orb of the moon. So +he made up his mind, if he could, to make some plan that would bring his +life together with that of his evanescent friend. + +Lilly was a peculiar bird. Clever and attractive as he undoubtedly was, +he was perhaps the most objectionable person to know. It was stamped on +his peculiar face. Aaron thought of Lilly's dark, ugly face, which had +something that lurked in it as a creature under leaves. Then he thought +of the wide-apart eyes, with their curious candour and surety. The +peculiar, half-veiled surety, as if nothing, nothing could overcome +him. It made people angry, this look of silent, indifferent assurance. +“Nothing can touch him on the quick, nothing can really GET at him,” + they felt at last. And they felt it with resentment, almost with hate. +They wanted to be able to get at him. For he was so open-seeming, so +very outspoken. He gave himself away so much. And he had no money to +fall back on. Yet he gave himself away so easily, paid such attention, +almost deference to any chance friend. So they all thought: Here is +a wise person who finds me the wonder which I really am.--And lo and +behold, after he had given them the trial, and found their inevitable +limitations, he departed and ceased to heed their wonderful existence. +Which, to say the least of it, was fraudulent and damnable. It was then, +after his departure, that they realised his basic indifference to them, +and his silent arrogance. A silent arrogance that knew all their wisdom, +and left them to it. + +Aaron had been through it all. He had started by thinking Lilly a +peculiar little freak: gone on to think him a wonderful chap, and a +bit pathetic: progressed, and found him generous, but overbearing: then +cruel and intolerant, allowing no man to have a soul of his own: then +terribly arrogant, throwing a fellow aside like an old glove which is +in holes at the finger-ends. And all the time, which was most beastly, +seeing through one. All the time, freak and outsider as he was, Lilly +_knew_. He knew, and his soul was against the whole world. + +Driven to bay, and forced to choose. Forced to choose, not between life +and death, but between the world and the uncertain, assertive Lilly. +Forced to choose, and yet, in the world, having nothing left to choose. +For in the world there was nothing left to choose, unless he would give +in and try for success. Aaron knew well enough that if he liked to do +a bit of buttering, people would gladly make a success of him, and give +him money and success. He could become quite a favourite. + +But no! If he had to give in to something: if he really had to give in, +and it seemed he had: then he would rather give in to the little Lilly +than to the beastly people of the world. If he had to give in, then +it should be to no woman, and to no social ideal, and to no social +institution. No!--if he had to yield his wilful independence, and give +himself, then he would rather give himself to the little, individual man +than to any of the rest. For to tell the truth, in the man was something +incomprehensible, which had dominion over him, if he chose to allow it. + +As he lay pondering this over, escaping from the _cul de sac_ in which +he had been running for so long, by yielding to one of his pursuers: +yielding to the peculiar mastery of one man's nature rather than to the +quicksands of woman or the stinking bogs of society: yielding, since +yield he must, in some direction or other: yielding in a new direction +now, to one strange and incalculable little individual: as Aaron lay so +relaxing, finding a peculiar delight in giving his soul to his mind's +hero, the self-same hero tapped and entered. + +“I wondered,” he said, “if you'd like to walk into the country with me: +it is such a nice day. I thought you might have gone out already. But +here you are in bed like a woman who's had a baby.--You're all right, +are you?” + +“Yes,” said Aaron. “I'm all right.” + +“Miserable about your flute?--Ah, well, there are more flutes. Get up +then.” And Lilly went to the window, and stood looking out at the river. + +“We're going away on Thursday,” he said. + +“Where to?” said Aaron. + +“Naples. We've got a little house there for the winter--in the country, +not far from Sorrento--I must get a bit of work done, now the winter is +coming. And forget all about everything and just live with life. What's +the good of running after life, when we've got it in us, if nobody +prevents us and obstructs us?” + +Aaron felt very queer. + +“But for how long will you settle down--?” he asked. + +“Oh, only the winter. I am a vagrant really: or a migrant. I must +migrate. Do you think a cuckoo in Africa and a cuckoo in Essex is one +AND the same bird? Anyhow, I know I must oscillate between north and +south, so oscillate I do. It's just my nature. All people don't have the +same needs.” + +“Perhaps not,” said Aaron, who had risen and was sitting on the side of +the bed. + +“I would very much like to try life in another continent, among another +race. I feel Europe becoming like a cage to me. Europe may be all right +in herself. But I find myself chafing. Another year I shall get out. I +shall leave Europe. I begin to feel caged.” + +“I guess there are others that feel caged, as well as you,” said Aaron. + +“I guess there are.” + +“And maybe they haven't a chance to get out.” + +Lilly was silent a moment. Then he said: + +“Well, I didn't make life and society. I can only go my own way.” + +Aaron too was silent. A deep disappointment was settling over his +spirit. + +“Will you be alone all winter?” + +“Just myself and Tanny,” he answered. “But people always turn up.” + +“And then next year, what will you do?” + +“Who knows? I may sail far off. I should like to. I should like to try +quite a new life-mode. This is finished in me--and yet perhaps it is +absurd to go further. I'm rather sick of seekers. I hate a seeker.” + +“What,” said Aaron rather sarcastically--“those who are looking for a +new religion?” + +“Religion--and love--and all that. It's a disease now.” + +“Oh, I don't know,” said Aaron. “Perhaps the lack of love and religion +is the disease.” + +“Ah--bah! The grinding the old millstones of love and God is what ails +us, when there's no more grist between the stones. We've ground love +very small. Time to forget it. Forget the very words religion, and God, +and love--then have a shot at a new mode. But the very words rivet us +down and don't let us move. Rivets, and we can't get them out.” + +“And where should we be if we could?” said Aaron. + +“We might begin to be ourselves, anyhow.” + +“And what does that mean?” said Aaron. “Being yourself--what does it +mean?” + +“To me, everything.” + +“And to most folks, nothing. They've got to have a goal.” + +“There is no goal. I loathe goals more than any other impertinence. +Gaols, they are. Bah--jails and jailers, gaols and gaolers---” + +“Wherever you go, you'll find people with their noses tied to some +goal,” said Aaron. + +“Their wagon hitched to a star--which goes round and round like an ass +in a gin,” laughed Lilly. “Be damned to it.” + +Aaron got himself dressed, and the two men went out, took a tram and +went into the country. Aaron could not help it--Lilly put his back up. +They came to a little inn near a bridge, where a broad stream rustled +bright and shallow. It was a sunny warm day, and Aaron and Lilly had +a table outside under the thin trees at the top of the bank above the +river. The yellow leaves were falling--the Tuscan sky was turquoise +blue. In the stream below three naked boys still adventurously bathed, +and lay flat on the shingle in the sun. A wagon with two pale, loving, +velvety oxen drew slowly down the hill, looking at each step as if they +were going to come to rest, to move no more. But still they stepped +forward. Till they came to the inn, and there they stood at rest. Two +old women were picking the last acorns under three scrubby oak-trees, +whilst a girl with bare feet drove her two goats and a sheep up from the +water-side towards the women. The girl wore a dress that had been blue, +perhaps indigo, but which had faded to the beautiful lavender-purple +colour which is so common, and which always reminded Lilly of purple +anemones in the south. + +The two friends sat in the sun and drank red wine. It was midday. From +the thin, square belfry on the opposite hill the bells had rung. The +old women and the girl squatted under the trees, eating their bread +and figs. The boys were dressing, fluttering into their shirts on the +stream's shingle. A big girl went past, with somebody's dinner tied in +a red kerchief and perched on her head. It was one of the most precious +hours: the hour of pause, noon, and the sun, and the quiet acceptance +of the world. At such a time everything seems to fall into a true +relationship, after the strain of work and of urge. + +Aaron looked at Lilly, and saw the same odd, distant look on his face as +on the face of some animal when it lies awake and alert, yet perfectly +at one with its surroundings. It was something quite different from +happiness: an alert enjoyment of rest, an intense and satisfying sense +of centrality. As a dog when it basks in the sun with one eye open and +winking: or a rabbit quite still and wide-eyed, with a faintly-twitching +nose. Not passivity, but alert enjoyment of being central, life-central +in one's own little circumambient world. + +They sat thus still--or lay under the trees--for an hour and a half. +Then Lilly paid the bill, and went on. + +“What am I going to do this winter, do you think?” Aaron asked. + +“What do you want to do?” + +“Nay, that's what I want to know.” + +“Do you want anything? I mean, does something drive you from inside?” + +“I can't just rest,” said Aaron. + +“Can't you settle down to something?--to a job, for instance?” + +“I've not found the job I could settle down to, yet,” said Aaron. + +“Why not?” + +“It's just my nature.” + +“Are you a seeker? Have you got a divine urge, or need?” + +“How do I know?” laughed Aaron. “Perhaps I've got a DAMNED urge, at the +bottom of me. I'm sure it's nothing divine.” + +“Very well then. Now, in life, there are only two great dynamic +urges--do you believe me--?” + +“How do I know?” laughed Aaron. “Do you want to be believed?” + +“No, I don't care a straw. Only for your own sake, you'd better believe +me.” + +“All right then--what about it?” + +“Well, then, there are only two great dynamic urges in LIFE: love and +power.” + +“Love and power?” said Aaron. “I don't see power as so very important.” + +“You don't see because you don't look. But that's not the point. What +sort of urge is your urge? Is it the love urge?” + +“I don't know,” said Aaron. + +“Yes, you do. You know that you have got an urge, don't you?” + +“Yes--” rather unwillingly Aaron admitted it. + +“Well then, what is it? Is it that you want to love, or to be obeyed?” + +“A bit of both.” + +“All right--a bit of both. And what are you looking for in love?--A +woman whom you can love, and who will love you, out and out and all in +all and happy ever after sort of thing?” + +“That's what I started out for, perhaps,” laughed Aaron. + +“And now you know it's all my eye!” Aaron looked at Lilly, unwilling to +admit it. Lilly began to laugh. + +“You know it well enough,” he said. “It's one of your lost illusions, my +boy. Well, then, what next? Is it a God you're after? Do you want a God +you can strive to and attain, through love, and live happy ever after, +countless millions of eternities, immortality and all that? Is this your +little dodge?” + +Again Aaron looked at Lilly with that odd double look of mockery and +unwillingness to give himself away. + +“All right then. You've got a love-urge that urges you to God; have +you? Then go and join the Buddhists in Burmah, or the newest fangled +Christians in Europe. Go and stick your head in a bush of Nirvana or +spiritual perfection. Trot off.” + +“I won't,” said Aaron. + +“You must. If you've got a love-urge, then give it its fulfilment.” + +“I haven't got a love-urge.” + +“You have. You want to get excited in love. You want to be carried away +in love. You want to whoosh off in a nice little love whoosh and love +yourself. Don't deny it. I know you do. You want passion to sweep you +off on wings of fire till you surpass yourself, and like the swooping +eagle swoop right into the sun. I know you, my love-boy.” + +“Not any more--not any more. I've been had too often,” laughed Aaron. + +“Bah, it's a lesson men never learn. No matter how sick they make +themselves with love, they always rush for more, like a dog to his +vomit.” + +“Well, what am I to do then, if I'm not to love?” cried Aaron. + +“You want to go on, from passion to passion, from ecstasy to ecstasy, +from triumph to triumph, till you can whoosh away into glory, beyond +yourself, all bonds loosened and happy ever after. Either that or +Nirvana, opposite side of the medal.” + +“There's probably more hate than love in me,” said Aaron. + +“That's the recoil of the same urge. The anarchist, the criminal, the +murderer, he is only the extreme lover acting on the recoil. But it +is love: only in recoil. It flies back, the love-urge, and becomes a +horror.” + +“All right then. I'm a criminal and a murderer,” said Aaron. + +“No, you're not. But you've a love-urge. And perhaps on the recoil just +now. But listen to me. It's no good thinking the love-urge is the one +and only. _Niente_! You can whoosh if you like, and get excited and +carried away loving a woman, or humanity, or God. Swoop away in the love +direction till you lose yourself. But that's where you're had. You can't +lose yourself. You can try. But you might just as well try to swallow +yourself. You'll only bite your fingers off in the attempt. You can't +lose yourself, neither in woman nor humanity nor in God. You've always +got yourself on your hands in the end: and a very raw and jaded and +humiliated and nervous-neurasthenic self it is, too, in the end. A +very nasty thing to wake up to is one's own raw self after an excessive +love-whoosh. Look even at President Wilson: he love-whooshed for +humanity, and found in the end he'd only got a very sorry self on his +hands. + +“So leave off. Leave off, my boy. Leave off love-whooshing. You can't +lose yourself, so stop trying. The responsibility is on your own +shoulders all the time, and no God which man has ever struck can take it +off. You ARE yourself and so BE yourself. Stick to it and abide by it. +Passion or no passion, ecstasy or no ecstasy, urge or no urge, there's +no goal outside you, where you can consummate like an eagle flying +into the sun, or a moth into a candle. There's no goal outside you--and +there's no God outside you. No God, whom you can get to and rest in. +None. It's a case of: + + + 'Trot, trot to market, to buy a penny bun, + And trot, trot back again, as fast as you can run.' + + +But there's no God outside you, whom you can rise to or sink to or swoop +away to. You can't even gum yourself to a divine Nirvana moon. Because +all the time you've got to eat your dinner and digest it. There is no +goal outside you. None. + +“There is only one thing, your own very self. So you'd better stick to +it. You can't be any bigger than just yourself, so you needn't drag God +in. You've got one job, and no more. There inside you lies your own very +self, like a germinating egg, your precious Easter egg of your own soul. +There it is, developing bit by bit, from one single egg-cell which you +were at your conception in your mother's womb, on and on to the strange +and peculiar complication in unity which never stops till you die--if +then. You've got an innermost, integral unique self, and since it's the +only thing you have got or ever will have, don't go trying to lose it. +You've got to develop it, from the egg into the chicken, and from the +chicken into the one-and-only phoenix, of which there can only be one +at a time in the universe. There can only be one of you at a time in the +universe--and one of me. So don't forget it. Your own single oneness is +your destiny. Your destiny comes from within, from your own self-form. +And you can't know it beforehand, neither your destiny nor your +self-form. You can only develop it. You can only stick to your own very +self, and NEVER betray it. And by so sticking, you develop the one and +only phoenix of your own self, and you unfold your own destiny, as +a dandelion unfolds itself into a dandelion, and not into a stick of +celery. + +“Remember this, my boy: you've never got to deny the Holy Ghost which is +inside you, your own soul's self. Never. Or you'll catch it. And you've +never got to think you'll dodge the responsibility of your own soul's +self, by loving or sacrificing or Nirvaning--or even anarchising and +throwing bombs. You never will....” + +Aaron was silenced for a moment by this flood of words. Then he said +smiling: + +“So I'd better sit tight on my soul, till it hatches, had I?” + +“Oh, yes. If your soul's urge urges you to love, then love. But always +know that what you are doing is the fulfilling of your own soul's +impulse. It's no good trying to act by prescription: not a bit. And +it's no use getting into frenzies. If you've got to go in for love and +passion, go in for them. But they aren't the goal. They're a mere means: +a life-means, if you will. The only goal is the fulfilling of your own +soul's active desire and suggestion. Be passionate as much as ever it is +your nature to be passionate, and deeply sensual as far as you can +be. Small souls have a small sensuality, deep souls a deep one. But +remember, all the time, the responsibility is upon your own head, it +all rests with your own lonely soul, the responsibility for your own +action.” + +“I never said it didn't,” said Aaron. + +“You never said it did. You never accepted. You thought there was +something outside, to justify you: God, or a creed, or a prescription. +But remember, your soul inside you is your only Godhead. It develops +your actions within you as a tree develops its own new cells. And the +cells push on into buds and boughs and flowers. And these are your +passion and your acts and your thoughts and expressions, your developing +consciousness. You don't know beforehand, and you can't. You can only +stick to your own soul through thick and thin. + +“You are your own Tree of Life, roots and limbs and trunk. Somewhere +within the wholeness of the tree lies the very self, the quick: its own +innate Holy Ghost. And this Holy Ghost puts forth new buds, and pushes +past old limits, and shakes off a whole body of dying leaves. And the +old limits hate being empassed, and the old leaves hate to fall. But +they must, if the tree-soul says so....” + +They had sat again during this harangue, under a white wall. Aaron +listened more to the voice than the words. It was more the sound value +which entered his soul, the tone, the strange speech-music which sank +into him. The sense he hardly heeded. And yet he understood, he knew. +He understood, oh so much more deeply than if he had listened with his +head. And he answered an objection from the bottom of his soul. + +“But you talk,” he said, “as if we were like trees, alone by ourselves +in the world. We aren't. If we love, it needs another person than +ourselves. And if we hate, and even if we talk.” + +“Quite,” said Lilly. “And that's just the point. We've got to love and +hate moreover--and even talk. But we haven't got to fix on any one of +these modes, and say that's the only mode. It is such imbecility to say +that love and love alone must rule. It is so obviously not the case. Yet +we try and make it so.” + +“I feel that,” said Aaron. “It's all a lie.” + +“It's worse. It's a half lie. But listen. I told you there were two +urges--two great life-urges, didn't I? There may be more. But it comes +on me so strongly, now, that there are two: love, and power. And +we've been trying to work ourselves, at least as individuals, from the +love-urge exclusively, hating the power-urge, and repressing it. And now +I find we've got to accept the very thing we've hated. + +“We've exhausted our love-urge, for the moment. And yet we try to force +it to continue working. So we get inevitably anarchy and murder. It's +no good. We've got to accept the power motive, accept it in deep +responsibility, do you understand me? It is a great life motive. It was +that great dark power-urge which kept Egypt so intensely living for so +many centuries. It is a vast dark source of life and strength in us now, +waiting either to issue into true action, or to burst into cataclysm. +Power--the power-urge. The will-to-power--but not in Nietzsche's sense. +Not intellectual power. Not mental power. Not conscious will-power. Not +even wisdom. But dark, living, fructifying power. Do you know what I +mean?” + +“I don't know,” said Aaron. + +“Take what you call love, for example. In the real way of love, the +positive aim is to make the other person--or persons--happy. It devotes +itself to the other or to others. But change the mode. Let the urge be +the urge of power. Then the great desire is not happiness, neither of +the beloved nor of oneself. Happiness is only one of many states, and it +is horrible to think of fixing us down to one state. The urge of power +does not seek for happiness any more than for any other state. It urges +from within, darkly, for the displacing of the old leaves, the inception +of the new. It is powerful and self-central, not seeking its centre +outside, in some God or some beloved, but acting indomitably from within +itself. + +“And of course there must be one who urges, and one who is impelled. +Just as in love there is a beloved and a lover: The man is supposed to +be the lover, the woman the beloved. Now, in the urge of power, it is +the reverse. The woman must submit, but deeply, deeply submit. Not to +any foolish fixed authority, not to any foolish and arbitrary will. But +to something deep, deeper. To the soul in its dark motion of power and +pride. We must reverse the poles. The woman must now submit--but deeply, +deeply, and richly! No subservience. None of that. No slavery. A deep, +unfathomable free submission.” + +“You'll never get it,” said Aaron. + +“You will, if you abandon the love idea and the love motive, and if +you stand apart, and never bully, never force from the conscious will. +That's where Nietzsche was wrong. His was the conscious and benevolent +will, in fact, the love-will. But the deep power-urge is not conscious +of its aims: and it is certainly not consciously benevolent or +love-directed.--Whatever else happens, somewhere, sometime, the deep +power-urge in man will have to issue forth again, and woman will submit, +livingly, not subjectedly.” + +“She never will,” persisted Aaron. “Anything else will happen, but not +that.” + +“She will,” said Lilly, “once man disengages himself from the love-mode, +and stands clear. Once he stands clear, and the other great urge begins +to flow in him, then the woman won't be able to resist. Her own soul +will wish to yield itself.” + +“Woman yield--?” Aaron re-echoed. + +“Woman--and man too. Yield to the deep power-soul in the individual man, +and obey implicitly. I don't go back on what I said before. I do believe +that every man must fulfil his own soul, every woman must be herself, +herself only, not some man's instrument, or some embodied theory. But +the mode of our being is such that we can only live and have our being +whilst we are implicit in one of the great dynamic modes. We MUST either +love, or rule. And once the love-mode changes, as change it must, for we +are worn out and becoming evil in its persistence, then the other mode +will take place in us. And there will be profound, profound obedience in +place of this love-crying, obedience to the incalculable power-urge. And +men must submit to the greater soul in a man, for their guidance: and +women must submit to the positive power-soul in man, for their being.” + +“You'll never get it,” said Aaron. + +“You will, when all men want it. All men say, they want a leader. Then +let them in their souls submit to some greater soul than theirs. At +present, when they say they want a leader, they mean they want an +instrument, like Lloyd George. A mere instrument for their use. But it's +more than that. It's the reverse. It's the deep, fathomless submission +to the heroic soul in a greater man. You, Aaron, you too have the need +to submit. You, too, have the need livingly to yield to a more heroic +soul, to give yourself. You know you have. And you know it isn't love. +It is life-submission. And you know it. But you kick against the pricks. +And perhaps you'd rather die than yield. And so, die you must. It is +your affair.” + +There was a long pause. Then Aaron looked up into Lilly's face. It was +dark and remote-seeming. It was like a Byzantine eikon at the moment. + +“And whom shall I submit to?” he said. + +“Your soul will tell you,” replied the other. + + +THE END + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Aaron's Rod, by D. H. Lawrence + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AARON'S ROD *** + +***** This file should be named 4520-0.txt or 4520-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/2/4520/ + +Produced by Doug Levy + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” + or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. |