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diff --git a/4520-h/4520-h.htm b/4520-h/4520-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..50e3df8 --- /dev/null +++ b/4520-h/4520-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,18567 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Aaron's Rod, by D. H. Lawrence + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +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: December 3, 2009 [EBook #4520] +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, and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + AARON'S ROD + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + by D. H. Lawrence + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a> THE BLUE BALL + <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a> ROYAL + OAK <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a> "THE + LIGHTED TREE” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a> "THE + PILLAR OF SALT” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a> AT + THE OPERA <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a> TALK + <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a> THE + DARK SQUARE GARDEN <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. + </a> A PUNCH IN THE WIND <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0009"> + CHAPTER IX. </a> LOW-WATER MARK <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a> THE WAR AGAIN <br /><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a> MORE PILLAR OF SALT + <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a> NOVARA + <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a> WIE ES + IHNEN GEFAELLT <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a> XX + SETTEMBRE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. </a> A + RAILWAY JOURNEY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. </a> FLORENCE + <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. </a> HIGH + UP OVER THE CATHEDRAL SQUARE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER + XVIII. </a> THE MARCHESA <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. </a> CLEOPATRA, BUT NOT + ANTHONY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. </a> THE + BROKEN ROD <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. </a> WORDS + <br /><br /> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. THE BLUE BALL + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Father, shall you set the Christmas Tree?” they cried. “We've got one!” + </p> + <p> + “Afore I have my dinner?” he answered amiably. + </p> + <p> + “Set it now. Set it now.—We got it through Fred Alton.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is it?” + </p> + <p> + The little girls were dragging a rough, dark object out of a corner of the + passage into the light of the kitchen door. + </p> + <p> + “It's a beauty!” exclaimed Millicent. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is,” said Marjory. + </p> + <p> + “I should think so,” he replied, striding over the dark bough. He went to + the back kitchen to take off his coat. + </p> + <p> + “Set it now, Father. Set it now,” clamoured the girls. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Aaron Sisson had taken off his coat and waistcoat and his cap. He stood + bare-headed in his shirt and braces, contemplating the tree. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Isn't it a beauty!” repeated Millicent. + </p> + <p> + “Ay!—lop-sided though.” + </p> + <p> + “Put something on, you two!” came the woman's high imperative voice, from + the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + “We aren't cold,” protested the girls from the yard. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Is it very heavy?” asked Millicent. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going to have it?” he called. + </p> + <p> + “Put it in the back kitchen,” cried his wife. + </p> + <p> + “You'd better have it where it's going to stop. I don't want to hawk it + about.” + </p> + <p> + “Put it on the floor against the dresser, Father. Put it there,” urged + Millicent. + </p> + <p> + “You come and put some paper down, then,” called the mother hastily. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Mind where you make a lot of dirt,” she said. + </p> + <p> + He lowered the box with a little jerk on to the spread-out newspaper on + the floor. Soil scattered. + </p> + <p> + “Sweep it up,” he said to Millicent. + </p> + <p> + His ear was lingering over the sudden, clutching hiss of the tree-boughs. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You stopped confabbing long enough tonight,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he answered, going to the back kitchen to wash his hands. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What were they on about today, then?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “About the throw-in.” + </p> + <p> + “And did they settle anything?” + </p> + <p> + “They're going to try it—and they'll come out if it isn't + satisfactory.” + </p> + <p> + “The butties won't have it, I know,” she said. He gave a short laugh, and + went on with his meal. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, we'll take them ALL out first,” re-echoed Marjory. + </p> + <p> + “And what are they going to do about Job Arthur Freer? Do they want him?” + A faint smile came on her husband's face. + </p> + <p> + “Nay, I don't know what they want.—Some of 'em want him—whether + they're a majority, I don't know.” + </p> + <p> + She watched him closely. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed silently. + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” he said. “I s'll never break my heart.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You'd rather have self without ignorance?” he said, smiling finely. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + They had laid all the little packets on the floor, and Millicent was + saying: + </p> + <p> + “Now I'll undo the first, and you can have the second. I'll take this—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + But Marjory drew back with resentment. + </p> + <p> + “Don't, Millicent!—Don't!” came the childish cry. But Millicent's + fingers itched. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Marjory was shaking the bell against her ear. But it was dumb, it made no + sound. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “LET HER ALONE,” said the father. + </p> + <p> + Millicent let go as if she had been stung, but still her brassy, impudent + voice persisted: + </p> + <p> + “She'll break it. She'll break it. It's mine—” + </p> + <p> + “You undo another,” said the mother, politic. + </p> + <p> + Millicent began with hasty, itching fingers to unclose another package. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Look, Mother, isn't it a beauty?” + </p> + <p> + “Mind the ring doesn't come out,” said her mother. “Yes, it's lovely!” The + girl passed on to her father. + </p> + <p> + “Look, Father, don't you love it!” + </p> + <p> + “Love it?” he re-echoed, ironical over the word love. + </p> + <p> + She stood for some moments, trying to force his attention. Then she went + back to her place. + </p> + <p> + Marjory had brought forth a golden apple, red on one cheek, rather garish. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Now!” she exclaimed loudly, to attract attention. “Now! What's this?—What's + this? What will this beauty be?” + </p> + <p> + With finicky fingers she removed the newspaper. Marjory watched her + wide-eyed. Millicent was self-important. + </p> + <p> + “The blue ball!” she cried in a climax of rapture. “I've got THE BLUE + BALL.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It was your blue ball, wasn't it, father?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And you had it when you were a little boy, and now I have it when I'm a + little girl.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” he replied drily. + </p> + <p> + “And it's never been broken all those years.” + </p> + <p> + “No, not yet.” + </p> + <p> + “And perhaps it never will be broken.” To this she received no answer. + </p> + <p> + “Won't it break?” she persisted. “Can't you break it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, if you hit it with a hammer,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say it won't.” + </p> + <p> + “But WILL it?” + </p> + <p> + “I sh'd think not.” + </p> + <p> + “Should I try?” + </p> + <p> + She proceeded gingerly to let the blue ball drop, it bounced dully on the + floor-covering. + </p> + <p> + “Oh-h-h!” she cried, catching it up. “I love it.” + </p> + <p> + “Let ME drop it,” cried Marjory, and there was a performance of admonition + and demonstration from the elder sister. + </p> + <p> + But Millicent must go further. She became excited. + </p> + <p> + “It won't break,” she said, “even if you toss it up in the air.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “NOW what have you done!” cried the mother. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “She wanted to break it,” said the father. + </p> + <p> + “No, she didn't! What do you say that for!” said the mother. And Millicent + burst into a flood of tears. + </p> + <p> + He rose to look at the fragments that lay splashed on the floor. + </p> + <p> + “You must mind the bits,” he said, “and pick 'em all up.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “While Shep-ep-ep-ep-herds watched—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Tie it at the top?” he said, looking down. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. At the very top—because it's just come down from the sky.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay my word!” he laughed. And he tied the angel. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going out, Father?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Are you going out?” She twisted nervously. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want to know for?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Are you?” persisted the child, balancing on one foot. + </p> + <p> + He looked at her, and his eyes were angry under knitted brows. + </p> + <p> + “What are you bothering about?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not bothering—I only wanted to know if you were going out,” she + pouted, quivering to cry. + </p> + <p> + “I expect I am,” he said quietly. + </p> + <p> + She recovered at once, but still with timidity asked: + </p> + <p> + “We haven't got any candles for the Christmas tree—shall you buy + some, because mother isn't going out?” + </p> + <p> + “Candles!” he repeated, settling his music and taking up the piccolo. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—shall you buy us some, Father? Shall you?” + </p> + <p> + “Candles!” he repeated, putting the piccolo to his mouth and blowing a few + piercing, preparatory notes. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, little Christmas-tree candles—blue ones and red ones, in boxes—Shall + you, Father?” + </p> + <p> + “We'll see—if I see any—” + </p> + <p> + “But SHALL you?” she insisted desperately. She wisely mistrusted his + vagueness. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You won't forget our candles, will you, Father?” asked Millicent, with + assurance now. + </p> + <p> + “I'll see,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “There's no knowing what time you'll be home,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I shan't be late,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “It's easy to say so,” she retorted, with some contempt. He took his + stick, and turned towards the door. + </p> + <p> + “Bring the children some candles for their tree, and don't be so selfish,” + she said. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” he said, going out. + </p> + <p> + “Don't say ALL RIGHT if you never mean to do it,” she cried, with sudden + anger, following him to the door. + </p> + <p> + His figure stood large and shadowy in the darkness. + </p> + <p> + “How many do you want?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “A dozen,” she said. “And holders too, if you can get them,” she added, + with barren bitterness. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—all right,” he turned and melted into the darkness. She went + indoors, worn with a strange and bitter flame. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>could not</i> buy the things + made him hesitate, and try. + </p> + <p> + “Have you got any Christmas-tree candles?” he asked as he entered the + shop. + </p> + <p> + “How many do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “A dozen.” + </p> + <p> + “Can't let you have a dozen. You can have two boxes—four in a box—eight. + Six-pence a box.” + </p> + <p> + “Got any holders?” + </p> + <p> + “Holders? Don't ask. Haven't seen one this year.” + </p> + <p> + “Got any toffee—?” + </p> + <p> + “Cough-drops—two-pence an ounce—nothing else left.” + </p> + <p> + “Give me four ounces.” + </p> + <p> + He watched her weighing them in the little brass scales. + </p> + <p> + “You've not got much of a Christmas show,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Time we had a bit of enjoyment, THIS Christmas. They ought to have made + things more plentiful.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, stuffing his package in his pocket. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. ROYAL OAK + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's you,” she said, bobbing down to look at the newcomer. None + entered her bar-parlour unless invited. + </p> + <p> + “Come in,” said the landlady. There was a peculiar intonation in her + complacent voice, which showed she had been expecting him, a little + irritably. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I began to think you weren't coming,” said the landlady, bringing him a + whiskey. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not so late, am I?” asked Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you are late, I should think.” She Looked up at the little clock. + “Close on nine.” + </p> + <p> + “I did some shopping,” said Aaron, with a quick smile. + </p> + <p> + “Did you indeed? That's news, I'm sure. May we ask what you bought?” + </p> + <p> + This he did not like. But he had to answer. + </p> + <p> + “Christmas-tree candles, and toffee.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It's warm in here,” he said, when he had swallowed the liquor. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is. You won't want to keep that thick good overcoat on,” replied + the landlady. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said, “I think I'll take it off.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You're very quiet all at once, Doctor,” said the landlady in her slow, + laconic voice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.—May I have another whiskey, please?” She rose at once, + powerfully energetic. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'm sorry,” she said. And she went to the bar. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said the little Hindu doctor, “and how are things going now, with + the men?” + </p> + <p> + “The same as ever,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “But what do you call wisdom?” asked Sherardy, the Hindu. He spoke with a + little, childish lisp. + </p> + <p> + “What do I call wisdom?” repeated the landlady. “Why all acting together + for the common good. That is wisdom in my idea.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, very well, that is so. But what do you call the common good?” + replied the little doctor, with childish pertinence. + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” said Aaron, with a laugh, “that's it.” The miners were all stirring + now, to take part in the discussion. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “They are not to study their own welfare?” said the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that I did not say,” replied the landlady. “Let them study their own + welfare, and that of others also.” + </p> + <p> + “Well then,” said the doctor, “what is the welfare of a collier?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “You can always get it,” she said patronizing. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “He is that,” assented the men in chorus. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” said Kirk. “He can ma'e more money than I can—that's about a' + as it comes to.” + </p> + <p> + “He can make more money,” said the landlady. “And when he's made it, he + knows better how to use it.” + </p> + <p> + “'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—” + </p> + <p> + “No,” reiterated the landlady. “He not only eats and drinks. He can read, + and he can converse.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “An' what difference would there be?” asked Tom Kirk. “He'd go home to his + bed just the same.” + </p> + <p> + “There, you are mistaken. He would be the better, and so should I, a great + deal better, for a little genuine conversation.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I can see it's no use talking about it any further,” said the landlady, + lifting her head dangerously. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And where does it come in?” asked Kirk. + </p> + <p> + “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?—” + </p> + <p> + “For all the purposes of his life,” replied the landlady. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, an' what's the purpose of his life?” insisted Aaron Sisson. + </p> + <p> + “The purpose of his life,” repeated the landlady, at a loss. “I should + think he knows that best himself.” + </p> + <p> + “No better than I know it—and you know it,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said the landlady, “if you know, then speak out. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “To make more money for the firm—and so make his own chance of a + rise better.” + </p> + <p> + The landlady was baffled for some moments. Then she said: + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “But they've got th' long end o' th' rope, th' masters has,” said Brewitt. + </p> + <p> + “For as long as one holds, the other will pull,” concluded Aaron Sisson + philosophically. + </p> + <p> + “An' I'm almighty sure o' that,” said Kirk. There was a little pause. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, that's it,” said Brewitt. “I've pulled at th' short end, an' my lads + may do th' same.” + </p> + <p> + “A selfish policy,” put in the landlady. + </p> + <p> + “Selfish or not, they may do it.” + </p> + <p> + “Till the crack o' doom,” said Aaron, with a glistening smile. + </p> + <p> + “Or the crack o' th' rope,” said Brewitt. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and THEN WHAT?” cried the landlady. + </p> + <p> + “Then we all drop on our backsides,” said Kirk. There was a general laugh, + and an uneasy silence. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “We hang on, British bulldog breed,” said Brewitt. There was a general + laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and little wiser than dogs, wrangling for a bone,” said the + landlady. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Women waste nothing—they couldn't if they tried,” said Aaron + Sisson. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>wanted</i> to let himself go, to + feel rosy and loving and all that. But at the very thought, the black dog + showed its teeth. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Is it pretty much the same out there in India?” he asked of the doctor, + suddenly. + </p> + <p> + The doctor started, and attended to him on his own level. + </p> + <p> + “Probably,” he answered. “It is worse.” + </p> + <p> + “Worse!” exclaimed Aaron Sisson. “How's that?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “They have to earn their living?” said Sisson. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “If it is a good government, doctor, how can it be so bad for the people?” + said the landlady. + </p> + <p> + The doctor's eyes quivered for the fraction of a second, as he watched the + other man. He did not look at the landlady. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Again his eyes dilated, utterly black, to the eyes of the other man, and + an arch little smile flickered on his face. + </p> + <p> + “I think it would matter very much indeed,” said the landlady. “They had + far better NOT govern themselves.” + </p> + <p> + She was, for some reason, becoming angry. The little greenish doctor + emptied his glass, and smiled again. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + The doctor was nonplussed for a moment. Then he gathered himself together. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + The landlady looked at the clock. + </p> + <p> + “Ten minutes to, gentlemen,” she said coldly. For she too knew that Aaron + was spoiled for her for that night. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You'll eat a mince-pie in the kitchen with us, for luck?” she said to + him, detaining him till last. + </p> + <p> + But he turned laughing to her. + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” he said, “I must be getting home.” + </p> + <p> + He turned and went straight out of the house. Watching him, the landlady's + face became yellow with passion and rage. + </p> + <p> + “That little poisonous Indian viper,” she said aloud, attributing Aaron's + mood to the doctor. Her husband was noisily bolting the door. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. “THE LIGHTED TREE” + </h2> + <p> + 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 <i>en masse</i> the metal is all Britannia. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>chic</i> would certainly not have been looked for + up Shottle Lane. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I say,” said Robert suddenly, from the rear—“anybody have a drink? + Don't you find it rather hot?” + </p> + <p> + “Is there another bottle of beer there?” said Jim, without moving, too + settled even to stir an eye-lid. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—I think there is,” said Robert. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks—don't open it yet,” murmured Jim. + </p> + <p> + “Have a drink, Josephine?” said Robert. + </p> + <p> + “No thank you,” said Josephine, bowing slightly. + </p> + <p> + Finding the drinks did not go, Robert went round with the cigarettes. + Josephine Ford looked at the white rolls. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Cigarette, Julia?” said Robert to his wife. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean I'm greedy, Julia?” said Robert. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm quite happy,” he returned. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Robert went round with the matches. Julia sucked her cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “Give us a light, Robbie, if you ARE happy!” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “It's coming,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I say,” said Jim, from the remote depths of his sprawling. “Isn't there + something we could do to while the time away?” + </p> + <p> + Everybody suddenly laughed—it sounded so remote and absurd. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I like looking at you,” said Jim, his smile becoming more malicious. + </p> + <p> + “But you shouldn't, when I tell you not,” she returned. + </p> + <p> + Jim twisted round to look at the state of the bottles. The father also + came awake. He sat up. + </p> + <p> + “Isn't it time,” he said, “that you all put away your glasses and + cigarettes and thought of bed?” + </p> + <p> + Jim rolled slowly round towards his father, sprawling in the long chair. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “No, we won't stay long, Mr. Bricknell,” she said gravely. + </p> + <p> + “Good night, Dad,” said Jim, as his father left the room. + </p> + <p> + Josephine went to the window. She had rather a stiff, <i>poupee</i> walk. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that's only the pit-bank on fire,” said Robert, who had followed her. + </p> + <p> + “How strange!—Why is it burning now?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “How very curious! May we look at it?” Josephine now turned the handle of + the French windows, and stepped out. + </p> + <p> + “Beautiful!” they heard her voice exclaim from outside. + </p> + <p> + In the room, Julia laid her hand gently, protectively over the hand of + Cyril Scott. + </p> + <p> + “Josephine and Robert are admiring the night together!” she said, smiling + with subtle tenderness to him. + </p> + <p> + “Naturally! Young people always do these romantic things,” replied Cyril + Scott. He was twenty-two years old, so he could afford to be cynical. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I do. I envy them enormously. One only needs to be sufficiently naive,” + he said. + </p> + <p> + “One does, doesn't one!” cooed Julia. + </p> + <p> + “I say, do you hear the bells?” said Robert, poking his head into the + room. + </p> + <p> + “No, dear! Do you?” replied Julia. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Pretty cool night!” he said aloud, when he felt the air on his almost + bald head. The darkness smelt of sulphur. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Josephine, WOULDN'T that be AWFULLY ROMANTIC!”—she suddenly + called shrilly. + </p> + <p> + The pair in the distance started. + </p> + <p> + “What—!” they heard Josephine's sharp exclamation. + </p> + <p> + “What's that?—What would be romantic?” said Jim as he lurched up and + caught hold of Cyril Scott's arm. + </p> + <p> + “Josephine wants to make a great illumination of the grounds of the + estate,” said Julia, magniloquent. + </p> + <p> + “No—no—I didn't say it,” remonstrated Josephine. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Josephine, how sweet of you!” cried Julia. + </p> + <p> + Cyril Scott giggled. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no!” expostulated Josephine. “It all sounds so silly now. No. Let us + go indoors and go to bed.” + </p> + <p> + “NO, Josephine dear—No! It's a LOVELY IDEA!” cried Julia. “Let's get + candles and lanterns and things—” + </p> + <p> + “Let's!” grinned Jim. “Let's, everybody—let's.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall we really?” asked Robert. “Shall we illuminate one of the fir-trees + by the lawn?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes! How lovely!” cried Julia. “I'll fetch the candles.” + </p> + <p> + “The women must put on warm cloaks,” said Robert. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we light them as we fix them,” asked Robert, “or save them for one + grand rocket at the end?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, as we do them,” said Cyril Scott, who had lacerated his fingers and + wanted to see some reward. + </p> + <p> + A match spluttered. One naked little flame sprang alight among the dark + foliage. The candle burned tremulously, naked. They all were silent. + </p> + <p> + “We ought to do a ritual dance! We ought to worship the tree,” sang Julia, + in her high voice. + </p> + <p> + “Hold on a minute. We'll have a little more illumination,” said Robert. + </p> + <p> + “Why yes. We want more than one candle,” said Josephine. + </p> + <p> + But Julia had dropped the cloak in which she was huddled, and with arms + slung asunder was sliding, waving, crouching in a <i>pas seul</i> before + the tree, looking like an animated bough herself. + </p> + <p> + Jim, who was hugging his pipe in the background, broke into a short, + harsh, cackling laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Aren't we fools!” he cried. “What? Oh, God's love, aren't we fools!” + </p> + <p> + “No—why?” cried Josephine, amused but resentful. + </p> + <p> + But Jim vouchsafed nothing further, only stood like a Red Indian gripping + his pipe. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Josephine suddenly looked round. + </p> + <p> + “Why-y-y!” came her long note of alarm. + </p> + <p> + A man in a bowler hat and a black overcoat stood on the edge of the + twilight. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” cried Julia. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Homo sapiens</i>!” 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. + </p> + <p> + “Did you want anything?” asked Robert, from behind the light. + </p> + <p> + Aaron Sisson blinked, trying to see who addressed him. To him, they were + all illusory. He did not answer. + </p> + <p> + “Anything you wanted?” repeated Robert, military, rather peremptory. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The others all began to laugh, unavoidably. It was a contagion. They + laughed helplessly and foolishly. Only Robert was anxious. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Or not enough,” put in Cyril Scott. He twigged Jim's condition. + </p> + <p> + “No—no!” cried Josephine, weak with laughing in spite of herself. + “No—it's too long—I'm like to die laughing—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I say, you know, you'll bring the old man down.” Then he went off again + into spasms. + </p> + <p> + “Hu! Hu!” whooped Jim, subsiding. “Hu!” + </p> + <p> + He rolled over on to his back, and lay silent. The others also became + weakly silent. + </p> + <p> + “What's amiss?” said Aaron Sisson, breaking this spell. + </p> + <p> + They all began to laugh again, except Jim, who lay on his back looking up + at the strange sky. + </p> + <p> + “What're you laughing at?” repeated Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “We're laughing at the man on the ground,” replied Josephine. “I think + he's drunk a little too much.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” said Aaron, standing mute and obstinate. + </p> + <p> + “Did you want anything?” Robert enquired once more. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Another!” said Cyril Scott cynically. + </p> + <p> + They wished he would go away. There was a pause. + </p> + <p> + “What do you reckon stars are?” asked the sepulchral voice of Jim. He + still lay flat on his back on the grass. + </p> + <p> + Josephine went to him and pulled at his coat. + </p> + <p> + “Get up,” she said. “You'll take cold. Get up now, we're going indoors.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you reckon stars are?” he persisted. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Get up now,” said Josephine. “We've had enough.” But Jim would not move. + </p> + <p> + Robert went with the bicycle lamp and stood at Aaron's side. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I show you a light to the road—you're off your track,” he + said. “You're in the grounds of Shottle House.” + </p> + <p> + “I can find my road,” said Aaron. “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + Jim suddenly got up and went to peer at the stranger, poking his face + close to Aaron's face. + </p> + <p> + “Right-o,” he replied. “You're not half a bad sort of chap—Cheery-o! + What's your drink?” + </p> + <p> + “Mine—whiskey,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Come in and have one. We're the only sober couple in the bunch—what?” + cried Jim. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “A Christmas tree,” he said, jerking his head and smiling. + </p> + <p> + “That's right, old man,” said Jim, seeming thoroughly sober now. “Come + indoors and have a drink.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Mind the step,” said Jim affectionately. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do you feel quite well?” Josephine asked him. + </p> + <p> + He looked at her quickly. + </p> + <p> + “Me?” he said. He smiled faintly. “Yes, I'm all right.” Then he dropped + his head again and seemed oblivious. + </p> + <p> + “Tell us your name,” said Jim affectionately. + </p> + <p> + The stranger looked up. + </p> + <p> + “My name's Aaron Sisson, if it's anything to you,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Jim began to grin. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Were you on your way home?” asked Robert, huffy. + </p> + <p> + The stranger lifted his head and looked at him. + </p> + <p> + “Home!” he repeated. “No. The other road—” He indicated the + direction with his head, and smiled faintly. + </p> + <p> + “Beldover?” inquired Robert. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + He had dropped his head again, as if he did not want to look at them. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Are you a miner?” Robert asked, <i>de haute en bas</i>. + </p> + <p> + “No,” cried Josephine. She had looked at his hands. + </p> + <p> + “Men's checkweighman,” replied Aaron. He had emptied his glass. He put it + on the table. + </p> + <p> + “Have another?” said Jim, who was attending fixedly, with curious + absorption, to the stranger. + </p> + <p> + “No,” cried Josephine, “no more.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What about the wife?” said Robert—the young lieutenant. + </p> + <p> + “What about the wife and kiddies? You're a married man, aren't you?” + </p> + <p> + The sardonic look of the stranger rested on the subaltern. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Won't they be expecting you?” said Robert, trying to keep his temper and + his tone of authority. + </p> + <p> + “I expect they will—” + </p> + <p> + “Then you'd better be getting along, hadn't you?” + </p> + <p> + The eyes of the intruder rested all the time on the flushed subaltern. The + look on Aaron's face became slowly satirical. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Aaron gave a brief laugh of acknowledgement. + </p> + <p> + “How many children have you?” sang Julia from her distance. + </p> + <p> + “Three.” + </p> + <p> + “Girls or boys?” + </p> + <p> + “Girls.” + </p> + <p> + “All girls? Dear little things! How old?” + </p> + <p> + “Oldest eight—youngest nine months—” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Not tonight,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “But why? You're wrong!” cried Josephine. + </p> + <p> + He dropped his head and became oblivious. + </p> + <p> + “Well!” said Cyril Scott, rising at last with a bored exclamation. “I + think I'll retire.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you?” said Julia, also rising. “You'll find your candle outside.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Don't you go back to 'em. Have a night out. You stop here tonight,” Jim + said suddenly, in a quiet intimate tone. + </p> + <p> + The stranger turned his head and looked at him, considering. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” he said. He seemed to be smiling coldly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but!” cried Josephine. “Your wife and your children! Won't they be + awfully bothered? Isn't it awfully unkind to them?” + </p> + <p> + She rose in her eagerness. He sat turning up his face to her. She could + not understand his expression. + </p> + <p> + “Won't you go home to them?” she said, hysterical. + </p> + <p> + “Not tonight,” he replied quietly, again smiling. + </p> + <p> + “You're wrong!” she cried. “You're wrong!” And so she hurried out of the + room in tears. + </p> + <p> + “Er—what bed do you propose to put him in?” asked Robert rather + officer-like. + </p> + <p> + “Don't propose at all, my lad,” replied Jim, ironically—he did not + like Robert. Then to the stranger he said: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Aaron looked at him, and nodded. + </p> + <p> + They had another drink each, and at last the two set off, rather + stumbling, upstairs. Aaron carried his bowler hat with him. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + There was a thin film of snow, a lovely Christmas morning. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. “THE PILLAR OF SALT” + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 “<i>de</i> + moon,” just as ever.—Marjory must be ill. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + So he heard voices coming nearer from upstairs, feet moving. They were + coming down. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, when she has those bouts I can't bear it,” Aaron heard his wife's + voice. + </p> + <p> + They were downstairs. Their feet click-clicked on the tiled passage. They + had gone into the middle room. Aaron sat and listened. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “If she does, I s'll go off my head, I know I shall.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “But it nearly drives me mad.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Smitham's coming in. But it's no good—I shall have to sit up. + I shall HAVE to.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I can't bear it. I can't bear it,” wept the woman. + </p> + <p> + Another silence, another nose-blowing, and again the doctor: + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>there</i> oddly, not quite <i>dhere</i>. + </p> + <p> + “You haven't heard from your husband?” he added. + </p> + <p> + “I had a letter—“—sobs—“from the bank this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “FROM DE BANK?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well then, why not let him travel? You can live.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well I wouldn't trouble about him. Aren't you better off without him?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well-well, well-well, don't fret. Don't be angry, it won't make it any + better, I tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Well-well, well-well, never mind. You will be all right, don't you + bother. Your hair is beautiful anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Were you ever happy together?” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + There was a pause. + </p> + <p> + “Ah well,” sighed the doctor. “Marriage is a mystery. I'm glad I'm not + entangled in it.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “I think I knew him. A fair man? Yes?” said the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + At that moment his wife came into the passage, holding a candle. She was + red-eyed with weeping, and looked frail. + </p> + <p> + “Did YOU leave the parlour door open?” she asked of Millicent, + suspiciously. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Millicent from the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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—-” + </p> + <p> + But a tear came from his eye, and he blew his nose vigorously on a large + white silk handkerchief, and began to polish his <i>pince nez</i>. Then he + turned, and they all bundled out of the room. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. AT THE OPERA + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Not being fashionable, they were in the box when the overture began. The + opera was Verdi—<i>Aida</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Aida</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>nearly</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Merde!</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “Isn't it nasty?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh-ho-ho!” laughed Julia. “It's so fu-nny—so funny!” + </p> + <p> + “Of course we are too near,” said Robert. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the fondant—exactly—the fondant! Yes, I admire her + immensely! Isn't she exactly IT!” sang Julia. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, isn't it too wonderful!” cried Julia. “I am wild with excitement. Are + you all of you?” + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely wild,” said Lilly laconically. + </p> + <p> + “Where is Scott to-night?” asked Struthers. + </p> + <p> + Julia turned to him and gave him a long, queer look from her dark blue + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “He's in the country,” she said, rather enigmatic. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Is she going?” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “She hasn't decided,” replied Robert. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! What's the objection?” asked Struthers. + </p> + <p> + “Well, none whatsoever, as far as can be seen, except that she can't make + up her mind,” replied Robert. + </p> + <p> + “Julia's got no mind,” said Jim rudely. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Hear the brotherly verdict!” laughed Julia hurriedly. + </p> + <p> + “You mean to go down to Dorset alone!” said Struthers. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” replied Robert, answering for her. + </p> + <p> + “And stay how long?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—as long as it lasts,” said Robert again. + </p> + <p> + “Starting with eternity,” said Lilly, “and working back to a fortnight.” + </p> + <p> + “And what's the matter?—looks bad in the eyes of the world?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—about that. Afraid of compromising herself—” + </p> + <p> + Lilly looked at them. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think, Lilly, that we're the world?” said Robert ironically. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But WON'T they?” said Struthers. + </p> + <p> + “Not unless you put your head in their hands,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know—” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + But the curtain had risen, they hushed him into silence. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>amour</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + When the curtain dropped she turned. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Julia, can't you believe that I'm tired of being thought of,” + cried Robert, flushing. + </p> + <p> + Julia screwed up her eyes in a slow smile, oddly cogitating. + </p> + <p> + “Well, who AM I to think of?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yourself,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Which of them will find you the greatest treat,” said Lilly + sarcastically. + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow,” interjected Robert nervously, “it will be something new for + Scott.” + </p> + <p> + “Stale buns for you, old boy,” said Jim drily. + </p> + <p> + “I don't say so. But—” exclaimed the flushed, full-blooded Robert, + who was nothing if not courteous to women. + </p> + <p> + “How long ha' you been married? Eh?” asked Jim. + </p> + <p> + “Six years!” sang Julia sweetly. + </p> + <p> + “Good God!” + </p> + <p> + “You see,” said Robert, “Julia can't decide anything for herself. She + waits for someone else to decide, then she puts her spoke in.” + </p> + <p> + “Put it plainly—” began Struthers. + </p> + <p> + “But don't you know, it's no USE putting it plainly,” cried Julia. + </p> + <p> + “But DO you want to be with Scott, out and out, or DON'T you?” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “Exactly!” chimed Robert. “That's the question for you to answer Julia.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + The men looked at one another in some comic consternation. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He gave his malevolent grin round the company, then went out. He did not + reappear for the next scene. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, if she loves Scott—” began Struthers. + </p> + <p> + Julia suddenly turned with wild desperation, and cried: + </p> + <p> + “I like him tremendously—tre-men-dous-ly! He DOES understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Which we don't,” said Robert. + </p> + <p> + Julia smiled her long, odd smile in their faces: one might almost say she + smiled in their teeth. + </p> + <p> + “What do YOU think, Josephine?” asked Lilly. + </p> + <p> + Josephine was leaning froward. She started. Her tongue went rapidly over + her lips. “Who—? I—?” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I think Julia should go with Scott,” said Josephine. “She'll bother with + the idea till she's done it. She loves him, really.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course she does,” cried Robert. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Would you like tea or anything?” Lilly asked. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” she replied, “one can't decide such a thing like drinking a + cup of tea.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, one can't, dear Tanny,” said Julia. + </p> + <p> + “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—.” + </p> + <p> + “It's difficult!” cried Julia. “It's difficult! I feel they all want to + FORCE me to decide. It's cruel.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But you like Scott better,” said Tanny. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I don't think that matters,” she replied. + </p> + <p> + “But it does, it matters tremendously, dear Tanny, tremendously.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” Tanny sheered off. “I can see Scott has great attractions—a + great warmth somewhere—” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly!” cried Julia. “He UNDERSTANDS!” + </p> + <p> + “And I believe he's a real artist. You might even work together. You might + write his librettos.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes!—Yes!—” Julia spoke with a long, pondering hiss. + </p> + <p> + “It might be AWFULLY nice,” said Tanny rapturously. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “And wouldn't Robert be an AWFULLY nice lover for Josephine! Oh, wouldn't + that be splendid!” she cried, with her high laugh. + </p> + <p> + Josephine, who had been gazing down into the orchestra, turned now, + flushing darkly. + </p> + <p> + “But I don't want a lover, Julia,” she said, hurt. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “A great difference,” said Tanny. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + She screwed up her eyes, looking at Tanny. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps it would do Robert good to be hurt a little,” said Tanny. “He's + so well-nourished.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes!—Yes!—I see what you mean, Tanny!—Poor old ROB-ert! + Oh, poor old Rob-ert, he's so young!” + </p> + <p> + “He DOES seem young,” said Tanny. “One doesn't forgive it.” + </p> + <p> + “He is young,” said Julia. “I'm five years older than he. He's only + twenty-seven. Poor Old Robert.” + </p> + <p> + “Robert is young, and inexperienced,” said Josephine, suddenly turning + with anger. “But I don't know why you talk about him.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he inexperienced, Josephine dear? IS he?” sang Julia. Josephine + flushed darkly, and turned away. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Below, the orchestra was coming in. Josephine was watching closely. Julia + became aware of this. + </p> + <p> + “Do you see anybody we know, Josephine?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + Josephine started. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said, looking at her friends quickly and furtively. + </p> + <p> + “Dear old Josephine, she knows all sorts of people,” sang Julia. + </p> + <p> + At that moment the men returned. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “But we ALL love you,” said Josephine, laughing uneasily. “Why aren't you + satisfied?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not satisfied. I'm not satisfied,” murmured Jim. + </p> + <p> + “Would you like to be wrapped in swaddling bands and laid at the breast?” + asked Lilly, disagreeably. + </p> + <p> + Jim opened his mouth in a grin, and gazed long and malevolently at his + questioner. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said. Then he sprawled his long six foot of limb and body across + the box again. + </p> + <p> + “You should try loving somebody, for a change,” said Tanny. “You've been + loved too often. Why not try and love somebody?” + </p> + <p> + Jim eyed her narrowly. + </p> + <p> + “I couldn't love YOU,” he said, in vicious tones. + </p> + <p> + “<i>A la bonne heure</i>!” said Tanny. + </p> + <p> + But Jim sank his chin on his chest, and repeated obstinately: + </p> + <p> + “I want to be loved.” + </p> + <p> + “How many times have you been loved?” Robert asked him. “It would be + rather interesting to know.” + </p> + <p> + Jim looked at Robert long and slow, but did not answer. + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever keep count?” Tanny persisted. + </p> + <p> + Jim looked up at her, malevolent. + </p> + <p> + “I believe I did,” he replied. + </p> + <p> + “Forty is the age when a man should begin to reckon up,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + Jim suddenly sprang to his feet, and brandished his fists. + </p> + <p> + “I'll pitch the lot of you over the bloody rail,” he said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do you recognise anyone in the orchestra?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It IS the chap—What?” he exclaimed excitedly, looking round at his + friends. + </p> + <p> + “Who?” said Tanny. + </p> + <p> + “It IS he?” said Josephine quietly, meeting Jim's eye. + </p> + <p> + “Sure!” he barked. + </p> + <p> + He was leaning forward over the ledge, rattling a programme in his hand, + as if trying to attract attention. Then he made signals. + </p> + <p> + “There you are!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “That's the chap.” + </p> + <p> + “Who? Who?” they cried. + </p> + <p> + But neither Jim nor Josephine would vouchsafe an answer. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Is it that man Aaron Sisson?” asked Robert. + </p> + <p> + “Where? Where?” cried Julia. “It can't be.” + </p> + <p> + But Josephine's face was closed and silent. She did not answer. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well!” cried Josephine to him. “How do you come here?” + </p> + <p> + “I play the flute,” he answered, as he shook hands. + </p> + <p> + The little crowd stood in the gangway and talked. + </p> + <p> + “How wonderful of you to be here!” cried Julia. + </p> + <p> + He laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think so?” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I do.—It seems so FAR from Shottle House and Christmas Eve.—Oh, + wasn't it exciting!” cried Julia. + </p> + <p> + Aaron looked at her, but did not answer. + </p> + <p> + “We've heard all about you,” said Tanny playfully. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes,” he replied. + </p> + <p> + “Come!” said Josephine, rather irritated. “We crowd up the gangway.” And + she led the way inside the box. + </p> + <p> + Aaron stood and looked down at the dishevelled theatre. + </p> + <p> + “You get all the view,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “We do, don't we!” cried Julia. + </p> + <p> + “More than's good for us,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “Tell us what you are doing. You've got a permanent job?” asked Josephine. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—at present.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! It's more interesting for you than at Beldover.” + </p> + <p> + She had taken her seat. He looked down at her dusky young face. Her voice + was always clear and measured. + </p> + <p> + “It's a change,” he said, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it must be more than that,” she said. “Why, you must feel a whole + difference. It's a whole new life.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled, as if he were laughing at her silently. She flushed. + </p> + <p> + “But isn't it?” she persisted. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. It can be,” he replied. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>perceive + her</i>. The men remained practically silent. + </p> + <p> + “You're a chap I always hoped would turn up again,” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes!” replied Aaron, smiling as if amused. + </p> + <p> + “But perhaps he doesn't like us! Perhaps he's not glad that we turned up,” + said Julia, leaving her sting. + </p> + <p> + The flautist turned and looked at her. + </p> + <p> + “You can't REMEMBER us, can you?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said. “I can remember you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” she laughed. “You are unflattering.” + </p> + <p> + He was annoyed. He did not know what she was getting at. + </p> + <p> + “How are your wife and children?” she asked spitefully. + </p> + <p> + “All right, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “But you've been back to them?” cried Josephine in dismay. + </p> + <p> + He looked at her, a slow, half smiling look, but did not speak. + </p> + <p> + “Come and have a drink. Damn the women,” said Jim uncouthly, seizing Aaron + by the arm and dragging him off. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. TALK + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>fons et origo</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Aida</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “How are you, darling?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—I'm happy,” said Julia, giving her odd, screwed-up smile. + </p> + <p> + The pianola stopped, they all chatted indiscriminately. Jim was watching + the new-comer—Mrs. Browning—with a concentrated wolfish grin. + </p> + <p> + “I like her,” he said at last. “I've seen her before, haven't I?—I + like her awfully.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Josephine, with a slight grunt of a laugh. “He wants to be + loved.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” cried Clariss. “So do I!” + </p> + <p> + “Then there you are!” cried Tanny. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Doesn't SHE love you?” said Aaron to Jim amused, indicating Josephine. “I + thought you were engaged.” + </p> + <p> + “HER!” leered Jim vindictively, glancing at Josephine. “She doesn't love + me.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that true?” asked Robert hastily, of Josephine. + </p> + <p> + “Why,” she said, “yes. Why should he make me say out here that I don't + love him!” + </p> + <p> + “Got you my girl,” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + “Then it's no engagement?” said Robert. + </p> + <p> + “Listen to the row fools make, rushing in,” said Jim maliciously. + </p> + <p> + “No, the engagement is broken,” said Josephine. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I like it, damn you,” barked Jim. “Because I'm in need of it.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Am I though?” said Jim. “I'm losing life. I'm getting thin.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't look as if you were losing life,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “Don't I? I am, though. I'm dying.” + </p> + <p> + “What of? Lack of life?” + </p> + <p> + “That's about it, my young cock. Life's leaving me.” + </p> + <p> + “Better sing Tosti's Farewell to it.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You're a funny customer, you are,” he said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I like HER,” said Jim. “What's her name?” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Browning. Don't be so rude,” said Josephine. + </p> + <p> + “Browning for gravies. Any relation of Robert?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes! You ask my husband,” came the slow, plangent voice of Clariss. + </p> + <p> + “You've got a husband, have you?” + </p> + <p> + “Rather! Haven't I, Juley?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Julia, vaguely and wispily. “Yes, dear, you have.” + </p> + <p> + “And two fine children,” put in Robert. + </p> + <p> + “No! You don't mean it!” said Jim. “Who's your husband? Anybody?” + </p> + <p> + “Rather!” came the deep voice of Clariss. “He sees to that.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I like you awfully, I say,” he repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks, I'm sure,” she said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Josephine took her cigarette from her lips again. + </p> + <p> + “Tell us about yourself, Mr. Sisson,” she said. “How do you like being in + London?” + </p> + <p> + “I like London,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What do you make of the miners?” said Jim, suddenly taking a new line. + </p> + <p> + “Me?” said Sisson. “I don't make anything of them.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think they'll make a stand against the government?” + </p> + <p> + “What for?” + </p> + <p> + “Nationalisation.” + </p> + <p> + “They might, one day.” + </p> + <p> + “Think they'd fight?” + </p> + <p> + “Fight?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Aaron sat laughing. + </p> + <p> + “What have they to fight for?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Aaron sat smiling, slowly shaking his head. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But won't they ACT?” cried Josephine. + </p> + <p> + “Act?” said Aaron. “How, act?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, defy the government, and take things in their own hands,” said + Josephine. + </p> + <p> + “They might, some time,” said Aaron, rather indifferent. + </p> + <p> + “I wish they would!” cried Josephine. “My, wouldn't I love it if they'd + make a bloody revolution!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Must it be bloody, Josephine?” said Robert. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It would be rather fun,” said Tanny. + </p> + <p> + “Wouldn't it!” cried Josephine. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Josey, dear!” cried Julia hysterically. “Isn't she a red-hot Bolsher! + <i>I</i> should be frightened.” + </p> + <p> + “No!” cried Josephine. “I should love it.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Ha! Ha!” laughed Clariss, with her deep laugh. “We'd all Bolsh together. + I'd give the cheers.” + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn't mind getting killed. I'd love it, in a real fight,” said + Josephine. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but a civil war would be different. I've no interest in fighting + Germans. But a civil war would be different.” + </p> + <p> + “That's a fact, it would,” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + “Only rather worse,” said Robert. + </p> + <p> + “No, I don't agree,” cried Josephine. “You'd feel you were doing + something, in a civil war.” + </p> + <p> + “Pulling the house down,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she cried. “Don't you hate it, the house we live in—London—England—America! + Don't you hate them?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't like them. But I can't get much fire in my hatred. They pall on + me rather,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “Ay!” said Aaron, suddenly stirring in his chair. + </p> + <p> + Lilly and he glanced at one another with a look of recognition. + </p> + <p> + “Still,” said Tanny, “there's got to be a clearance some day or other.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “May I come to dinner?” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. You'd find it rather domestic.” + </p> + <p> + “Where do you live?” + </p> + <p> + “Rather far out now—Amersham.” + </p> + <p> + “Amersham? Where's that—?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's on the map.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Hello you!” said Jim. “Have one?” + </p> + <p> + Aaron shook his head, and Jim did not press him. It saved the drinks. + </p> + <p> + “You believe in love, don't you?” said Jim, sitting down near Aaron, and + grinning at him. + </p> + <p> + “Love!” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “LOVE! he says,” mocked Jim, grinning at the company. + </p> + <p> + “What about it, then?” asked Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “It's life! Love is life,” said Jim fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “It's a vice, like drink,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “Eh? A vice!” said Jim. “May be for you, old bird.” + </p> + <p> + “More so still for you,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “It's life. It's life!” reiterated Jim. “Don't you agree?” He turned + wolfishly to Clariss. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes—every time—” she drawled, nonchalant. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Julia suddenly rose and flung her arms asunder wildly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I hate love. I hate it,” she protested. + </p> + <p> + Jim watched her sardonically. + </p> + <p> + “Look at her!” he said. “Look at Lesbia who hates love.” + </p> + <p> + “No, but perhaps it is a disease. Perhaps we are all wrong, and we can't + love properly,” put in Josephine. + </p> + <p> + “Have another try,” said Jim,—“I know what love is. I've thought + about it. Love is the soul's respiration.” + </p> + <p> + “Let's have that down,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + LOVE IS THE SOUL'S RESPIRATION. He printed it on the old mantel-piece. + </p> + <p> + Jim eyed the letters. + </p> + <p> + “It's right,” he said. “Quite right. When you love, your soul breathes in. + If you don't breathe in, you suffocate.” + </p> + <p> + “What about breathing out?” said Robert. “If you don't breathe out, you + asphyxiate.” + </p> + <p> + “Right you are, Mock Turtle—” said Jim maliciously. + </p> + <p> + “Breathing out is a bloody revolution,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “You've hit the nail on the head,” said Jim solemnly. + </p> + <p> + “Let's record it then,” said Lilly. And with the blue pencil he printed: + </p> + <p> + WHEN YOU LOVE, YOUR SOUL BREATHES IN— WHEN YOUR SOUL BREATHES OUT, + IT'S A BLOODY REVOLUTION. + </p> + <p> + “I say Jim,” he said. “You must be busting yourself, trying to breathe + in.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke the last words with sudden ferocity and desperation. + </p> + <p> + “All <i>I</i> know is,” said Tanny, “you don't look it.” + </p> + <p> + “I AM. I am.” Jim protested. “I'm dying. Life's leaving me.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You're a bloody young sucking pig, you are,” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + “Even at that age, I've learned my manners,” replied Robert. + </p> + <p> + Jim looked round the party. Then he turned to Aaron Sisson. + </p> + <p> + “What do you make of 'em, eh?” he said. + </p> + <p> + Aaron shook his head, and laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Me?” he said. + </p> + <p> + But Jim did not wait for an answer. + </p> + <p> + “I've had enough,” said Tanny suddenly rising. “I think you're all silly. + Besides, it's getting late.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “No, I don't think I have,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “I hope personification is right.—Ought to be <i>allegory</i> or + something else?” This from Clariss to Robert. + </p> + <p> + “Or a parable, Clariss,” laughed the young lieutenant. + </p> + <p> + “Goodbye,” said Tanny. “I've been awfully bored.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you?” grinned Jim. “Goodbye! Better luck next time.” + </p> + <p> + “We'd better look sharp,” said Robert, “if we want to get the tube.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” said Robert, on the stairs—“Mr. Sisson will see you to + your door, Josephine. He lives your way.” + </p> + <p> + “There's no need at all,” said Josephine. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Friday,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “How lovely for you!—And when will you go to Norway, Tanny?” + </p> + <p> + “In about a month,” said Tanny. + </p> + <p> + “You must be awfully pleased.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—thankful—THANKFUL to get out of England—” + </p> + <p> + “I know. That's how I feel. Everything is so awful—so dismal and + dreary, I find it—” + </p> + <p> + They crowded into the train. Men were still yelling like wild beasts—others + were asleep—soldiers were singing. + </p> + <p> + “Have you really broken your engagement with Jim?” shrilled Tanny in a + high voice, as the train roared. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he's impossible,” said Josephine. “Perfectly hysterical and + impossible.” + </p> + <p> + “And SELFISH—” cried Tanny. + </p> + <p> + “Oh terribly—” cried Josephine. + </p> + <p> + “Come up to Hampstead to lunch with us,” said Lilly to Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Ay—thank you,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + Lilly scribbled directions on a card. The hot, jaded midnight underground + rattled on. Aaron and Josephine got down to change trains. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. THE DARK SQUARE GARDEN + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But why?” said Josephine. + </p> + <p> + “I couldn't tell you. I felt more like it.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “And do you send her money?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't mind what I say, do you?” said Josephine. + </p> + <p> + “No I don't mind,” he laughed. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Will you tell me why you left your wife and children?—Didn't you + love them?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Why I left her?” he said. “For no particular reason. They're all right + without me.” + </p> + <p> + Josephine watched his face. She saw a pallor of suffering under its + freshness, and a strange tension in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “But you couldn't leave your little girls for no reason at all—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I did. For no reason—except I wanted to have some free room + round me—to loose myself—” + </p> + <p> + “You mean you wanted love?” flashed Josephine, thinking he said <i>lose</i>. + </p> + <p> + “No, I wanted fresh air. I don't know what I wanted. Why should I know?” + </p> + <p> + “But we must know: especially when other people will be hurt,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you wanted more than your wife could give you,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps less. She's made up her mind she loves me, and she's not going to + let me off.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you never love her?” said Josephine. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The fat, aproned French waiter was hovering near. Josephine let him remove + the plates and the empty bottle. + </p> + <p> + “Have more wine,” she said to Aaron. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She ordered coffee and brandies. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Haven't you got relations?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you get married?” he said. “How old are you?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm twenty-five. How old are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Thirty-three.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing now?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm painting scenery for a new play—rather fun—I enjoy it. + But I often wonder what will become of me.” + </p> + <p> + “In what way?” + </p> + <p> + She was almost affronted. + </p> + <p> + “What becomes of me? Oh, I don't know. And it doesn't matter, not to + anybody but myself.” + </p> + <p> + “What becomes of anybody, anyhow? We live till we die. What do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You shouldn't bother yourself,” he said. “You should just let it go on + and on—” + </p> + <p> + “But I MUST bother,” she said. “I must think and feel—” + </p> + <p> + “You've no occasion,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “How—?” she said, with a sudden grunting, unhappy laugh. Then she + lit a cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed, and poured his drops of brandy down his throat. + </p> + <p> + “It won't, for wishing,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her and shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “You see it doesn't concern me,” he said. “So long as I can float by + myself.” + </p> + <p> + “But ARE you SATISFIED!” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “I like being by myself—I hate feeling and caring, and being forced + into it. I want to be left alone—” + </p> + <p> + “You aren't very polite to your hostess of the evening,” she said, + laughing a bit miserably. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we're all right,” he said. “You know what I mean—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said. “No. I only want to be left alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Not to have anything to do with anybody?” she queried ironically. + </p> + <p> + “Not to any extent.” + </p> + <p> + She watched him—and then she bubbled with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “I think you're funny,” she said. “You don't mind?” + </p> + <p> + “No—why—It's just as you see it.—Jim Bricknell's a rare + comic, to my eye.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, him!—no, not actually. He's self-conscious and selfish and + hysterical. It isn't a bit funny after a while.” + </p> + <p> + “I only know what I've seen,” said Aaron. “You'd both of you like a bloody + revolution, though.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Only when it came he wouldn't be there.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you'll get it, when you die,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but I don't want to die and leave all this standing. I hate it so.” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you?” + </p> + <p> + “But don't you?” + </p> + <p> + “No, it doesn't really bother me.” + </p> + <p> + “It makes me feel I can't live.” + </p> + <p> + “I can't see that.” + </p> + <p> + “But you always disagree with one!” said Josephine. “How do you like + Lilly? What do you think of him?” + </p> + <p> + “He seems sharp,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “But he's more than sharp.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes! He's got his finger in most pies.” + </p> + <p> + “And doesn't like the plums in any of them,” said Josephine tartly. + </p> + <p> + “What does he do?” + </p> + <p> + “Writes—stories and plays.” + </p> + <p> + “And makes it pay?” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>chic</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + Aaron pressed his bowler hat down on his brow. + </p> + <p> + “Would you rather take a bus?” she said in a high voice, because of the + wind. + </p> + <p> + “I'd rather walk.” + </p> + <p> + “So would I.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + When they came to the corner, she held out her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Look!” she said. “Don't come any further: don't trouble.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll walk round with you: unless you'd rather not.” + </p> + <p> + “No—But do you want to bother?” + </p> + <p> + “It's no bother.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Josephine opened the gate of the square garden with her key, and let it + slam to behind him. + </p> + <p> + “How wonderful the wind is!” she shrilled. “Shall we listen to it for a + minute?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Give me your hand,” she said to him, subduedly. + </p> + <p> + He took her cold hand in his warm, living grasp. She wept more bitterly. + He noticed at last. + </p> + <p> + “Why are you crying?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” she replied, rather matter-of-fact, through her tears. + </p> + <p> + So he let her cry, and said no more, but sat with her cold hand in his + warm, easy clasp. + </p> + <p> + “You'll think me a fool,” she said. “I don't know why I cry.” + </p> + <p> + “You can cry for nothing, can't you?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes, but it's not very sensible.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed shortly. + </p> + <p> + “Sensible!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “You are a strange man,” she said. + </p> + <p> + But he took no notice. + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever intend to marry Jim Bricknell?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “I can't imagine it,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + Both were watching blankly the roaring night of mid-London, the + phantasmagoric old Bloomsbury Square. They were still hand in hand. + </p> + <p> + “Such as you shouldn't marry,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “But why not? I want to.” + </p> + <p> + “You think you do.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes indeed I do.” + </p> + <p> + He did not say any more. + </p> + <p> + “Why shouldn't I?” she persisted. “I don't know—” + </p> + <p> + And again he was silent. + </p> + <p> + “You've known some life, haven't you?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Me? Why?” + </p> + <p> + “You seem to.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I wasn't thinking.” + </p> + <p> + “But what do you mean? What are you thinking?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. Nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't be so irritating,” said she. + </p> + <p> + But he did not answer, and she became silent also. They sat hand in hand. + </p> + <p> + “Won't you kiss me?” came her voice out of the darkness. + </p> + <p> + He waited some moments, then his voice sounded gently, half mocking, half + reproachful. + </p> + <p> + “Nay!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't want to.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + He laughed, but did not reply. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Ill go in now,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “You're not offended, are you?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “No. Why?” + </p> + <p> + They stepped down in the darkness from their perch. + </p> + <p> + “I wondered.” + </p> + <p> + She strode off for some little way. Then she turned and said: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I think it is rather insulting.” + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” he said. “Not it! Not it!” + </p> + <p> + And he followed her to the gate. + </p> + <p> + She opened with her key, and they crossed the road to her door. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night,” she said, turning and giving him her hand. + </p> + <p> + “You'll come and have dinner with me—or lunch—will you? When + shall we make it?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I can't say for certain—I'm very busy just now. I'll let you + know.” + </p> + <p> + A policeman shed his light on the pair of them as they stood on the step. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Aaron, dropping back, and she hastily opened the big + door, and entered. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. A PUNCH IN THE WIND + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Good lad!” he exclaimed, as Lilly came up. “Thought you wouldn't mind.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all. Let me carry your bag.” Jim had a bag and a knapsack. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Save you from what?” asked Lilly, rather abashed. + </p> + <p> + “Eh—?” and Jim stooped, grinning at the smaller man. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Tanny was in the doorway as they came up the garden path. + </p> + <p> + “So nice to see you! Are you all right?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “A-one!” said Jim, grinning. “Nice of you to have me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we're awfully pleased.” + </p> + <p> + Jim dropped his knapsack on the broad sofa. + </p> + <p> + “I've brought some food,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Have you! That's sensible of you. We can't get a great deal here, except + just at week-ends,” said Tanny. + </p> + <p> + Jim fished out a pound of sausages and a pot of fish paste. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + But Jim had already opened his bag, taken off his coat, and put on an old + one. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Lilly made the tea, and at length all sat down. + </p> + <p> + “Well how unexpected this is—and how nice,” said Tanny. + </p> + <p> + “Jolly—eh?” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + He ate rapidly, stuffing his mouth too full. + </p> + <p> + “How is everybody?” asked Tanny. + </p> + <p> + “All right. Julia's gone with Cyril Scott. Can't stand that fellow, can + you? What?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I think he's rather nice,” said Tanny. “What will Robert do?” + </p> + <p> + “Have a shot at Josephine, apparently.” + </p> + <p> + “Really? Is he in love with her? I thought so. And she likes him too, + doesn't she?” said Tanny. + </p> + <p> + “Very likely,” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you're jealous,” laughed Tanny. + </p> + <p> + “Me!” Jim shook his head. “Not a bit. Like to see the ball kept rolling.” + </p> + <p> + “What have you been doing lately?” + </p> + <p> + “Been staying a few days with my wife.” + </p> + <p> + “No, really! I can't believe it.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But what do you really think will happen to the world?” Lilly asked Jim, + amid much talk. + </p> + <p> + “What? There's something big coming,” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + “Where from?” + </p> + <p> + “Watch Ireland, and watch Japan—they're the two poles of the world,” + said Jim. + </p> + <p> + “I thought Russia and America,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't see how,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “I don't see HOW—But I had a vision of it.” + </p> + <p> + “What sort of vision?” + </p> + <p> + “Couldn't describe it.” + </p> + <p> + “But you don't think much of the Japanese, do you?” asked Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “Don't I! Don't I!” said Jim. “What, don't you think they're wonderful?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I think they're rather unpleasant.” + </p> + <p> + “I think the salvation of the world lies with them.” + </p> + <p> + “Funny salvation,” said Lilly. “I think they're anything but angels.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you though? Now that's funny. Why?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Jim watched Lilly, and smiled as if he were pleased. + </p> + <p> + “No—really—!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow they're more demon than angel, I believe,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, Rawdon, but you always exaggerate,” said Tanny. + </p> + <p> + “Maybe,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “I think Japanese are fascinating—fascinating—so quick, and + such FORCE in them—” + </p> + <p> + “Rather!—eh?” said Jim, looking with a quick smile at Tanny. + </p> + <p> + “I think a Japanese lover would be marvellous,” she laughed riskily. + </p> + <p> + “I s'd think he would,” said Jim, screwing up his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Do you hate the normal British as much as I do?” she asked him. + </p> + <p> + “Hate them! Hate them!” he said, with an intimate grin. + </p> + <p> + “Their beastly virtue,” said she. “And I believe there's nobody more + vicious underneath.” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody!” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + “But you're British yourself,” said Lilly to Jim. + </p> + <p> + “No, I'm Irish. Family's Irish—my mother was a Fitz-patrick.” + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow you live in England.” + </p> + <p> + “Because they won't let me go to Ireland.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Will you have supper?” said Lilly. He was surprised, because Jim had + eaten strangely much at dinner. + </p> + <p> + “No—where's the loaf?” And he cut himself about half of it. There + was no cheese. + </p> + <p> + “Bread'll do,” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down and eat it. Have cocoa with it,” said Tanny. + </p> + <p> + “No, I like to have it in my bedroom.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't eat bread in the night?” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “I do.” + </p> + <p> + “What a funny thing to do.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Short was busy in the kitchen when Lilly went down. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I say, Bricknell,” said Lilly at breakfast time, “why do you eat so much + bread?” + </p> + <p> + “I've got to feed up. I've been starved during this damned war.” + </p> + <p> + “But hunks of bread won't feed you up.” + </p> + <p> + “Gives the stomach something to work at, and prevents it grinding on the + nerves,” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + “But surely you don't want to keep your stomach always full and heavy.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe bread's any use.” + </p> + <p> + During breakfast Jim talked about the future of the world. + </p> + <p> + “I reckon Christ's the finest thing time has ever produced,” said he; “and + will remain it.” + </p> + <p> + “But you don't want crucifixions <i>ad infinitum</i>,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “What? Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Once is enough—and have done.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you think love and sacrifice are the finest things in life?” said + Jim, over his bacon. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I think it is. Love and only love,” said Jim. “I think the greatest joy + is sacrificing oneself to love.” + </p> + <p> + “To SOMEONE you love, you mean,” said Tanny. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But you can't sacrifice yourself to an abstract principle,” said Tanny. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ha, I think Love and your Christ detestable,” said Lilly—“a sheer + ignominy.” + </p> + <p> + “Finest thing the world has produced,” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>manque</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Jesus certainly encouraged him in his Judas tricks,” said Tanny. + </p> + <p> + Jim grinned knowingly at Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “The finest thing the world has produced, or ever will produce—Christ + and Judas—” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + “Not to me,” said Lilly. “Foul combination.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Jolly nice here,” said Jim. “Mind if I stay till Saturday?” + </p> + <p> + There was a pause. Lilly felt he was being bullied, almost obscenely + bullied. Was he going to agree? Suddenly he looked up at Jim. + </p> + <p> + “I'd rather you went tomorrow,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Tanny, who was sitting opposite Jim, dropped her head in confusion. + </p> + <p> + “What's tomorrow?” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + “Thursday,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “Thursday,” repeated Jim. And he looked up and got Lilly's eye. He wanted + to say “Friday then?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I'd rather you went Thursday,” repeated Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “But Rawdon—!” broke in Tanny, who was suffering. She stopped, + however. + </p> + <p> + “We can walk across country with you some way if you like,” said Lilly to + Jim. It was a sort of compromise. + </p> + <p> + “Fine!” said Jim. “We'll do that, then.” + </p> + <p> + It was lovely sunshine, and they wandered through the woods. Between Jim + and Tanny was a sort of growing <i>rapprochement</i>, which got on Lilly's + nerves. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “But I'm not personal at all, am I, Mr. Bricknell?” said Tanny. + </p> + <p> + Jim watched Lilly, and grinned pleasedly. + </p> + <p> + “Why shouldn't you be, anyhow?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” she retorted. “Why not!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “But I MEAN it,” cried Tanny. “It is lovely.” + </p> + <p> + “Dirty messing,” said Lilly angrily. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I must get a wire to her to meet me tomorrow,” he said. “Where shall I + say?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Lilly. “We'll go to the station.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “What, to fall in love?” asked Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why not leave off trying! What do you want to poke yourself and prod + yourself into love, for?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I'm DEAD without it. I'm dead. I'm dying.” + </p> + <p> + “Only because you force yourself. If you drop working yourself up—” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “All right for what?—for making love?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, man, I was.” + </p> + <p> + “And now you aren't?—Oh, well, leave love alone, as any twopenny + doctor would tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “You should leave yourself and your inrushes alone.” + </p> + <p> + “But you can't. It's a sort of ache.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Jim mused a bit. + </p> + <p> + “Think they have?” he laughed. It seemed comic to him. + </p> + <p> + “Sure! Look at them. Why can't you gather yourself there?” + </p> + <p> + “At the tail?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Hold yourself firm there.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + After dinner they sat once more talking round the fire. + </p> + <p> + Lilly sat in a small chair facing the fire, the other two in the armchairs + on either side the hearth. + </p> + <p> + “How nice it will be for you, walking with Lois towards London tomorrow,” + gushed Tanny sentimentally. + </p> + <p> + “Good God!” said Lilly. “Why the dickens doesn't he walk by himself, + without wanting a woman always there, to hold his hand.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't be so spiteful,” said Tanny. “YOU see that you have a woman always + there, to hold YOUR hand.” + </p> + <p> + “My hand doesn't need holding,” snapped Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Why shouldn't I, if I like it?” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, why not?” said Tanny. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you?” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Think that's it?” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “I don't see it. I believe in love—” said Jim, watching and grinning + oddly. + </p> + <p> + “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—-” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I knew I should have to do it, if he said any more.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “There's a great silence, suddenly!” said Tanny. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Jim jerked in his chair, and looked round. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Tanny looked at Lilly, puzzled, bewildered, but still rather pleased, as + if she demanded an answer. None being forthcoming, she said: + </p> + <p> + “Of course, you mustn't expect to say all those things without rousing a + man.” + </p> + <p> + Still Lilly did not answer. Jim glanced at him, then looked at Tanny. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Judas!” flashed through Lilly's mind. + </p> + <p> + Again Tanny looked for her husband's answer. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Rawdon,” she said. “You can't say the things you do without their + having an effect. You really ask for it, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “It's no matter.” Lilly squeezed the words out coldly. “He wanted to do + it, and he did it.” + </p> + <p> + A dead silence ensued now. Tanny looked from man to man. + </p> + <p> + “I could feel it coming on me,” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I like the man,” said Jim. “Never liked a man more than I like him.” He + spoke as if with difficulty. + </p> + <p> + “The man” stuck safely in Lilly's ears. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well,” he managed to say. “It's nothing. I've done my talking and had + an answer, for once.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite!” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “<i>I</i> don't feel anything. I don't mind what he says,” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't mind what he says. I don't mind a bit,” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + “Nor do I mind,” said Lilly indifferently. “I say what I feel—You do + as you feel—There's an end of it.” + </p> + <p> + A sheepish sort of silence followed this speech. It was broken by a sudden + laugh from Tanny. + </p> + <p> + “The things that happen to us!” she said, laughing rather shrilly. + “Suddenly, like a thunderbolt, we're all struck into silence!” + </p> + <p> + “Rum game, eh!” said Jim, grinning. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Lilly's stiff face did not change. + </p> + <p> + “Why FAULT!” he said, looking at her coldly. “What is there to talk + about?” + </p> + <p> + “Usually there's so much,” she said sarcastically. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What was the interesting topic?” he said cuttingly. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing at all!” said Tanny, nettled. “Why must you interfere?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I intend to,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + And the two others fell apart, as if severed with a knife. Jim walked + rather sheepishly, as if cut out. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Goodbye,” he said to Jim. “Hope Lois will be there all right. Third + station on. Goodbye! Goodbye!” + </p> + <p> + “You'll come to Rackham?” said Jim, leaning out of the train. + </p> + <p> + “We should love to,” called Tanny, after the receding train. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Lilly, non-committal. + </p> + <p> + But he and his wife never saw Jim again. Lilly never intended to see him: + a devil sat in the little man's breast. + </p> + <p> + “You shouldn't play at little Jesus, coming so near to people, wanting to + help them,” was Tanny's last word. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. LOW-WATER MARK + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I'd better go down,” said Lilly to himself. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” he said, to a rather sniffy messenger boy. + </p> + <p> + “Drunk,” said the messenger boy: except that, in unblushing cockney, he + pronounced it “Drank.” + </p> + <p> + Lilly hung further back on the edge of the little crowd. + </p> + <p> + “Come on here. Where d' you want to go?” he heard the hearty tones of the + policeman. + </p> + <p> + “I'm all right. I'm all right,” came the testy drunken answer. + </p> + <p> + “All right, are yer! All right, and then some,—come on, get on your + pins.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm all right! I'm all right.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Lilly was quickly at the centre of the affair, unobtrusive like a shadow, + different from the other people. + </p> + <p> + “Help him up to my room, will you?” he said to the constable. “Friend of + mine.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Which room?” said the policeman, dubious. + </p> + <p> + Lilly pointed quickly round. Then he said to Aaron: + </p> + <p> + “Were you coming to see me, Sisson? You'll come in, won't you?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Not so much of this sort of thing these days,” said the policeman. + </p> + <p> + “Not so much opportunity,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “More than there was, though. Coming back to the old days, like. Working + round, bit by bit.” + </p> + <p> + They had arrived at the stairs. Aaron stumbled up. + </p> + <p> + “Steady now! Steady does it!” said the policeman, steering his charge. + There was a curious breach of distance between Lilly and the constable. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The policeman looked round curiously. + </p> + <p> + “More cosy here than in the lock-up, sir!” he said. + </p> + <p> + Lilly laughed. He was hastily clearing the sofa. + </p> + <p> + “Sit on the sofa, Sisson,” he said. + </p> + <p> + The policeman lowered his charge, with a— + </p> + <p> + “Right we are, then!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do you feel ill, Sisson?” he said sharply. + </p> + <p> + Aaron looked back at him with heavy eyes, and shook his head slightly. + </p> + <p> + “I believe you are,” said Lilly, taking his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Might be a bit o' this flu, you know,” said the policeman. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Lilly. “Where is there a doctor?” he added, on reflection. + </p> + <p> + “The nearest?” said the policeman. And he told him. “Leave a message for + you, Sir?” + </p> + <p> + Lilly wrote his address on a card, then changed his mind. + </p> + <p> + “No, I'll run round myself if necessary,” he said. + </p> + <p> + And the policeman departed. + </p> + <p> + “You'll go to bed, won't you?” said Lilly to Aaron, when the door was + shut. Aaron shook his head sulkily. + </p> + <p> + “I would if I were you. You can stay here till you're all right. I'm + alone, so it doesn't matter.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I gave in, I gave in to her, else I should ha' been all right,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “To whom?” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “To whom?” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't bother now. Get warm and still—” + </p> + <p> + “I felt it—I felt it go, inside me, the minute I gave in to her. + It's perhaps killed me.” + </p> + <p> + “No, not it. Never mind, be still. Be still, and you'll be all right in + the morning.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind now. Have you drunk your tea? Lie down. Lie down, and go to + sleep.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Have a little hot milk,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + Aaron shook his head faintly, not noticing. + </p> + <p> + “A little Bovril?” + </p> + <p> + The same faint shake. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Are you here by yourself?” asked the sick man. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. My wife's gone to Norway.” + </p> + <p> + “For good?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” laughed Lilly. “For a couple of months or so. She'll come back here: + unless she joins me in Switzerland or somewhere.” + </p> + <p> + Aaron was still for a while. + </p> + <p> + “You've not gone with her,” he said at length. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay!” said Aaron, watching the other man with fever-darkened eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I hate married people who are two in one—stuck together like two + jujube lozenges,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “Me an' all. I hate 'em myself,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Josephine seduced you?” laughed Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, right enough,” replied Aaron grimly. “She won't be coming here, will + she?” + </p> + <p> + “Not unless I ask her.” + </p> + <p> + “You won't ask her, though?” + </p> + <p> + “No, not if you don't want her.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I'll stop here the night then, if you don't mind,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “You'll have to,” said Lilly. “I've sent for the doctor. I believe you've + got the flu.” + </p> + <p> + “Think I have?” said Aaron frightened. + </p> + <p> + “Don't be scared,” laughed Lilly. + </p> + <p> + There was a long pause. Lilly stood at the window looking at the darkening + market, beneath the street-lamps. + </p> + <p> + “I s'll have to go to the hospital, if I have,” came Aaron's voice. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “There's no occasion for you to saddle yourself with me,” said Aaron + dejectedly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “No use going back to my lodgings,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “I'll send a telegram to your wife if you like,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + Aaron was silent, dead silent, for some time. + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” he said at length, in a decided voice. “Not if I die for it.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Not much fun for you, doing this for somebody who is nothing to you,” + said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn't if you were unsympathetic to me,” said Lilly. “As it is, it's + happened so, and so we'll let be.” + </p> + <p> + “What time is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Nearly eight o'clock.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my Lord, the opera.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps we ought to let them know,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + But Aaron, blank with stupid misery, sat huddled there on the bedside + without answering. + </p> + <p> + “Ill run round with a note,” said Lilly. “I suppose others have had flu, + besides you. Lie down!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Lie down! Lie down!” said Lilly. “And keep still while I'm gone. I shan't + be more than ten minutes.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't care if I die,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + Lilly laughed. + </p> + <p> + “You're a long way from dying,” said he, “or you wouldn't say it.” + </p> + <p> + But Aaron only looked up at him with queer, far-off, haggard eyes, + something like a criminal who is just being executed. + </p> + <p> + “Lie down!” said Lilly, pushing him gently into the bed. “You won't + improve yourself sitting there, anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + Aaron lay down, turned away, and was quite still. Lilly quietly left the + room on his errand. + </p> + <p> + The doctor did not come until ten o'clock: and worn out with work when he + did come. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “How long shall I have to be in bed?” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—depends. A week at least.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In the morning he was worse. The doctor gave him injections against + pneumonia. + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn't like me to wire to your wife?” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Aaron abruptly. “You can send me to the hospital. I'm nothing + but a piece of carrion.” + </p> + <p> + “Carrion!” said Lilly. “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I know it. I feel like it.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that's only the sort of nauseated feeling you get with flu.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm only fit to be thrown underground, and made an end of. I can't stand + myself—” + </p> + <p> + He had a ghastly, grey look of self-repulsion. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + At evening he was no better, the fever was still high. Yet there were no + complications—except that the heart was irregular. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It makes no difference to me,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You'll feel better now,” said Lilly, “after the operation.” + </p> + <p> + “It's done me harm,” cried Aaron fretfully. “Send me to the hospital, or + you'll repent it. Get rid of me in time.” + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” said Lilly. “You get better. Damn it, you're only one among a + million.” + </p> + <p> + Again over Aaron's face went the ghastly grimace of self-repulsion. + </p> + <p> + “My soul's gone rotten,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Lilly. “Only toxin in the blood.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Keep your courage up, man,” said the doctor sharply. “You give way.” + </p> + <p> + Aaron looked at him blackly, and did not answer. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “No, I won't let you.” + </p> + <p> + And now Lilly was continually crossing over and pulling Aaron on to his + side, whenever he found him slipped down on his back. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The doctor frowned when he came. He talked with the nurse, and wrote + another prescription. Then he drew Lilly away to the door. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + He was thinking of his garden. He loved it. Never in his life had he been + away from a garden before. + </p> + <p> + “Make haste and get better, and we'll go.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Hampshire. Or Berkshire. Or perhaps you'd like to go home? Would you?” + </p> + <p> + Aaron lay still, and did not answer. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you want to, and you don't want to,” said Lilly. “You can please + yourself, anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + There was no getting anything definite out of the sick man—his soul + seemed stuck, as if it would not move. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Lilly rose and went to the dressing-table. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Aaron frowned slightly as he glanced at the dark, self-possessed face of + the little man. + </p> + <p> + “What's the good of that?” he said irritably. “I'd rather be left alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you won't be.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>pro bono publico</i> 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! + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “All right, Aaron. Last time I break my bread for anybody, this is. So get + better, my flautist, so that I can go away. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I'll make some tea—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + As he was making the tea he saw Aaron rouse up in bed. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Lilly. “You've slept for a good two hours.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe I have,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Would you like a little tea?” + </p> + <p> + “Ay—and a bit of toast.” + </p> + <p> + “You're not supposed to have solid food. Let me take your temperature.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In the evening the two men talked. + </p> + <p> + “You do everything for yourself, then?” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I prefer it.” + </p> + <p> + “You like living all alone?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You miss her then?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “She'll come back,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she'll come back. But I'd rather meet her abroad than here—and + get on a different footing.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't know. There's something with marriage altogether, I think. <i>Egoisme + a deux</i>—” + </p> + <p> + “What's that mean?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Egoisme a deux</i>? Two people, one egoism. Marriage is a + self-conscious egoistic state, it seems to me.” + </p> + <p> + “You've got no children?” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “No. Tanny wants children badly. I don't. I'm thankful we have none.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Ay!” laughed Aaron, with a curt acquiescence. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, that's DAMNED true,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “When they don't give themselves airs,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Be damned and blasted to women and all their importances,” cried Aaron. + “They want to get you under, and children is their chief weapon.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It's a fact,” said Aaron. But he glanced at Lilly oddly, as if + suspiciously. And Lilly caught the look. But he continued: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Lilly's lips were curling; he was dark and bitter. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, it is like that,” said Aaron, rather subduedly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Aaron, watching with keen, half-amused eyes. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “She will that,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + After which Lilly was silent. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. THE WAR AGAIN + </h2> + <p> + “One is a fool,” said Lilly, “to be lachrymose. The thing to do is to get + a move on.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” he said rather sourly. “A move back to Guilford Street.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Aaron briefly. + </p> + <p> + “They would have arrived the next day, like a forwarded letter.” + </p> + <p> + “I should have had to get a considerable move on, at that rate,” grinned + Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no. You might quite like them here.” But Lilly saw the white frown of + determined revulsion on the convalescent's face. + </p> + <p> + “Wouldn't you?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Aaron shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said. And it was obvious he objected to the topic. “What are you + going to do about your move on?” + </p> + <p> + “Me!” said Lilly. “I'm going to sail away next week—or steam dirtily + away on a tramp called the <i>Maud Allen Wing</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Where to?” + </p> + <p> + “Malta.” + </p> + <p> + “Where from?” + </p> + <p> + “London Dock. I fixed up my passage this morning for ten pounds. I am + cook's assistant, signed on.” + </p> + <p> + Aaron looked at him with a little admiration. + </p> + <p> + “You can take a sudden jump, can't you?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “The difficulty is to refrain from jumping: overboard or anywhere.” + </p> + <p> + Aaron smoked his pipe slowly. + </p> + <p> + “And what good will Malta do you?” he asked, envious. + </p> + <p> + “Heaven knows. I shall cross to Syracuse, and move up Italy.” + </p> + <p> + “Sounds as if you were a millionaire.” + </p> + <p> + “I've got thirty-five pounds in all the world. But something will come + along.” + </p> + <p> + “I've got more than that,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Good for you,” replied Lilly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “How am I here?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, you're all the time grinding yourself against something inside you. + You're never free. You're never content. You never stop chafing.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I don't,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “Then what's the use of going somewhere else? You won't change yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “I may in the end,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “You'll be yourself, whether it's Malta or London,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “The man in the middle of you doesn't change,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Do you find it so?” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “Ay. Every time.” + </p> + <p> + “Then what's to be done?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, as far as I can see. You get as much amusement out of life as + possible, and there's the end of it.” + </p> + <p> + “All right then, I'll get the amusement.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It isn't quite true,” said Lilly, leaning on the mantelpiece and staring + down into the fire. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Lilly was motionless and inscrutable like a shadow. + </p> + <p> + “Does it, Aaron!” he said, in a colorless voice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. What else is there to it?” Aaron sounded testy. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “And what—?” + </p> + <p> + The question fell into the twilight like a drop of water falling down a + deep shaft into a well. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes,” said Aaron. “But I don't understand all that word-splitting.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Sort of sit on a mountain top, back to back with somebody else, like a + couple of idols.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What wouldn't?” + </p> + <p> + “The possessing one's own soul—and the being together with someone + else in silence, beyond speech.” + </p> + <p> + “And you've got them?” + </p> + <p> + “I've got a BIT of the real quietness inside me.” + </p> + <p> + “So has a dog on a mat.” + </p> + <p> + “So I believe, too.” + </p> + <p> + “Or a man in a pub.” + </p> + <p> + “Which I don't believe.” + </p> + <p> + “You prefer the dog?” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe.” + </p> + <p> + There was silence for a few moments. + </p> + <p> + “And I'm the man in the pub,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “You aren't the dog on the mat, anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + “And you're the idol on the mountain top, worshipping yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “You talk to me like a woman, Aaron.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you talk to ME, do you think?” + </p> + <p> + “How do I?” + </p> + <p> + “Are the potatoes done?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “When are you going?” he asked irritably, looking up at Lilly, whose face + hovered in that green shadow above, and worried him. + </p> + <p> + “One day next week. They'll send me a telegram. Not later than Thursday.” + </p> + <p> + “You're looking forward to going?” The question was half bitter. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I want to get a new tune out of myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Had enough of this?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + A flush of anger came on Aaron's face. + </p> + <p> + “You're easily on, and easily off,” he said, rather insulting. + </p> + <p> + “Am I?” said Lilly. “What makes you think so?” + </p> + <p> + “Circumstances,” replied Aaron sourly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I shall never see you again, once you've gone,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “It's your choice. I will leave you an address.” + </p> + <p> + After this, the pudding was eaten in silence. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know hedonistic. And supposing I am as you say—are you any + different?” + </p> + <p> + “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.'” + </p> + <p> + “What by that?” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “You agree?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, on the whole.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—what I said before: getting as much amusement out of life as + possible,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “You amuse me—and I'll amuse you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—just about that.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, Aaron,” said Lilly. “I'm not going to amuse you, or try to + amuse you any more.” + </p> + <p> + “Going to try somebody else; and Malta.” + </p> + <p> + “Malta, anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, and somebody else—in the next five minutes.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—that also.” + </p> + <p> + “Goodbye and good luck to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Goodbye and good luck to you, Aaron.” + </p> + <p> + With which Lilly went aside to wash the dishes. Aaron sat alone under the + zone of light, turning over a score of <i>Pelleas</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Aaron's rod is putting forth again,” he said, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “What?” said Aaron, looking up. + </p> + <p> + “I said Aaron's rod is putting forth again.” + </p> + <p> + “What rod?” + </p> + <p> + “Your flute, for the moment.” + </p> + <p> + “It's got to put forth my bread and butter.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that all the buds it's going to have?” + </p> + <p> + “What else!” + </p> + <p> + “Nay—that's for you to show. What flowers do you imagine came out of + the rod of Moses's brother?” + </p> + <p> + “Scarlet runners, I should think if he'd got to live on them.” + </p> + <p> + “Scarlet enough, I'll bet.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It's all one to you, then,” said Aaron suddenly, “whether we ever see one + another again?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit,” said Lilly, looking up over his spectacles. “I very much wish + there might be something that held us together.” + </p> + <p> + “Then if you wish it, why isn't there?” + </p> + <p> + “You might wish your flute to put out scarlet-runner flowers at the + joints.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay—I might. And it would be all the same.” + </p> + <p> + The moment of silence that followed was extraordinary in its hostility. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we shall run across one another again some time,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But how can I live in Italy?” he said. “You can shift about. I'm tied to + a job.” + </p> + <p> + “You—with your budding rod, your flute—and your charm—you + can always do as you like.” + </p> + <p> + “My what?” + </p> + <p> + “Your flute and your charm.” + </p> + <p> + “What charm?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It's news to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Not it.” + </p> + <p> + “Fact, it is.” + </p> + <p> + “Ha! Somebody will always take a fancy to you. And you can live on that, + as well as on anything else.” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you always speak so despisingly?” + </p> + <p> + “Why shouldn't I?” + </p> + <p> + “Have you any right to despise another man?” + </p> + <p> + “When did it go by rights?” + </p> + <p> + “No, not with you.” + </p> + <p> + “You answer me like a woman, Aaron.” + </p> + <p> + Again there was a space of silence. And again it was Aaron who at last + broke it. + </p> + <p> + “We're in different positions, you and me,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “You can live by your writing—but I've got to have a job.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that all?” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “Ay. And plenty. You've got the advantage of me.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You've got your freedom.” + </p> + <p> + “I make it and I take it.” + </p> + <p> + “Circumstances make it for you.” + </p> + <p> + “As you like.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't do a man justice,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Does a man care?” + </p> + <p> + “He might.” + </p> + <p> + “Then he's no man.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks again, old fellow.” + </p> + <p> + “Welcome,” said Lilly, grimacing. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You can't say there isn't a difference between your position and mine,” + he said pertinently. + </p> + <p> + Lilly looked darkly over his spectacles. + </p> + <p> + “No, by God,” he said. “I should be in a poor way otherwise.” + </p> + <p> + “You can't say you haven't the advantage—your JOB gives you the + advantage.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. Then leave it out with my job, and leave me alone.” + </p> + <p> + “That's your way of dodging it.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Aaron. “That's about it.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean you want to be rid of me,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I do mean that,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + And after a few minutes more staring at the score of <i>Pelleas</i>, 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? + </p> + <p> + But no, persistent as a jealous God himself, Aaron reappeared in his + pyjamas, and seated himself in his chair. + </p> + <p> + “What is the difference then between you and me, Lilly?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Haven't we shaken hands on it—a difference of jobs.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't believe that, though, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “Nay, now I reckon you're trespassing.” + </p> + <p> + “Why am I? I know you don't believe it.” + </p> + <p> + “What do I believe then?” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “You believe you know something better than me—and that you are + something better than me. Don't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Do YOU believe it?” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “That I AM something better than you, and that I KNOW something better?” + </p> + <p> + “No, because I don't see it,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Am I badgering you?” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed you are.” + </p> + <p> + “So I'm in the wrong again?” + </p> + <p> + “Once more, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “You're a God-Almighty in your way, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “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— + </p> + <p> + “I want to catch the post,” he added, rising. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It was a man called Herbertson. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, why, there you are!” exclaimed Herbertson, as Lilly drew near. “Can I + come up and have a chat?” + </p> + <p> + “I've got that man who's had flu. I should think he is gone to bed.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Malta.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + The taxi was paid, the two men went upstairs. Aaron was in bed, but he + called as Lilly entered the room. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo!” said Lilly. “Not asleep? Captain Herbertson has come in for a + minute.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Been to 'Rosemary,'” he said. “Rotten play, you know—but passes the + time awfully well. Oh, I quite enjoyed it.” + </p> + <p> + Lilly offered him Sauterne—the only thing in the house. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “For a change,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Mount Battens,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + The talk flowed on: about royalty and the Guards, Buckingham Palace and + St. James. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.... + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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— + </p> + <p> + “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.... + </p> + <p> + “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....” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “It's obviously not the brain,” said Lilly. “It's deeper than the brain.” + </p> + <p> + “Deeper,” said Herbertson, nodding. + </p> + <p> + “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.... + </p> + <p> + “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.... + </p> + <p> + “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? + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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....” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It gives me the bellyache, that damned war,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “So it does me,” said Lilly. “All unreal.” + </p> + <p> + “Real enough for those that had to go through it.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “That's a fact,” said Aaron. “They're hypnotised by it.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It was a fact—you can't bust that. You can't bust the fact that it + happened.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But the war did happen, right enough,” smiled Aaron palely. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You tell 'em so,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Lilly stared at Aaron with black eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Do you believe in them less than I do, Aaron?” he asked slowly. + </p> + <p> + “I don't even want to believe in them.” + </p> + <p> + “But in yourself?” Lilly was almost wistful—and Aaron uneasy. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know that I've any more right to believe in myself than in them,” + he replied. Lilly watched and pondered. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And not you?” asked Aaron shrewishly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ha—well,” said Aaron. “It's the wide-awake ones that invent the + poison gas, and use it. Where should we be without it?” + </p> + <p> + Lilly started, went stiff and hostile. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean that, Aaron?” he said, looking into Aaron's face with a hard, + inflexible look. + </p> + <p> + Aaron turned aside half sheepishly. + </p> + <p> + “That's how it looks on the face of it, isn't it?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Aaron looked at him in cold amazement. + </p> + <p> + “It'll do tomorrow morning, won't it?” he asked rather mocking. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Lilly coldly. “But please go tomorrow morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'll go all right,” said Aaron. “Everybody's got to agree with you—that's + your price.” + </p> + <p> + But Lilly did not answer. Aaron turned into bed, his satirical smile under + his nose. Somewhat surprised, however, at this sudden turn of affairs. + </p> + <p> + As he was just going to sleep, dismissing the matter, Lilly came once more + to his bedside, and said, in a hard voice: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “What could they have seen, anyhow?” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>had</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Aaron. “I suppose we shall meet again.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, sure to,” said Lilly, rising from his chair. “We are sure to run + across one another.” + </p> + <p> + “When are you going?” asked Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “In a few days' time.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, I'll run in and see you before you go, shall I?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, do.” + </p> + <p> + Lilly escorted his guest to the top of the stairs, shook hands, and then + returned into his own room, closing the door on himself. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. MORE PILLAR OF SALT + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What have you come for!” was her involuntary ejaculation. + </p> + <p> + But he, with the familiar odd jerk of his head towards the garden, asked + with a faint smile: + </p> + <p> + “Who planted the garden?” + </p> + <p> + And he felt himself dropping into the twang of the vernacular, which he + had discarded. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + This time he turned to look at her. The old dagger was drawn in her. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder,” he said, “myself.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + After a time she put down her sewing, and sat again in her chair. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know how vilely you've treated me?” she said, staring across the + space at him. He averted his face. + </p> + <p> + Yet he answered, not without irony. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so.” + </p> + <p> + “And why?” she cried. “I should like to know why.” + </p> + <p> + He did not answer. The way she rushed in made him go vague. + </p> + <p> + “Justify yourself. Say why you've been so vile to me. Say what you had + against me,” she demanded. + </p> + <p> + “What I HAD against her,” he mused to himself: and he wondered that she + used the past tense. He made no answer. + </p> + <p> + “Accuse me,” she insisted. “Say what I've done to make you treat me like + this. Say it. You must THINK it hard enough.” + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” he said. “I don't think it.” + </p> + <p> + This speech, by which he merely meant that he did not trouble to formulate + any injuries he had against her, puzzled her. + </p> + <p> + “Don't come pretending you love me, NOW. It's too late,” she said with + contempt. Yet perhaps also hope. + </p> + <p> + “You might wait till I start pretending,” he said. + </p> + <p> + This enraged her. + </p> + <p> + “You vile creature!” she exclaimed. “Go! What have you come for?” + </p> + <p> + “To look at YOU,” he said sarcastically. + </p> + <p> + After a few minutes she began to cry, sobbing violently into her apron. + And again his bowels stirred and boiled. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me,” she challenged. “Tell me! Tell me what I've done. Tell me what + you have against me. Tell me.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>tell</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She watched him, watched. And he sat in the chair near the door, without + moving. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “When you've had enough, you go away and you don't care what you do,” he + said, epigrammatic. + </p> + <p> + She paused a moment. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “No wonder,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she cried. “It IS no wonder, with a nature like yours: weak and + unnatural and evil. It IS no wonder.” + </p> + <p> + She became quiet—and then started to cry again, into her apron. + Aaron waited. He felt physically weak. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I should be sorry,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You can wait till you're asked, anyhow,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Again she suddenly burst into tears, weeping bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “What HAVE you told them?” he asked coldly. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + He wondered what exactly the vile truth would have been, had she <i>started</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You know you've been wrong to me, don't you?” she said, half wistfully, + half menacing. + </p> + <p> + He felt her wistfulness and her menace tearing him in his bowels and + loins. + </p> + <p> + “You do know, don't you?” she insisted, still with the wistful appeal, and + the veiled threat. + </p> + <p> + “You do, or you would answer,” she said. “You've still got enough that's + right in you, for you to know.” + </p> + <p> + She waited. He sat still, as if drawn by hot wires. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said. “I don't feel wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I'll go,” he said, putting his hand on the latch. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she sprang to her feet and clutched him by the shirt-neck, her + hand inside his soft collar, half strangling him. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She was faint with weariness, and would be glad to get to bed and sleep. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Henceforth, life single, not life double. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. NOVARA + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do you love playing?” she asked him. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, with that shadow of irony which seemed like a smile on his + face. + </p> + <p> + “Live for it, so to speak,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I make my living by it,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I don't think about it,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You think I go down easy?” he laughed. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I—I shouldn't like to say, off-hand,” came the small-voiced, + self-conscious answer. And Jimmy bridled himself and glanced at Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Do you find it a tight squeeze, then?” she said, turning to Aaron once + more. + </p> + <p> + “No, I can't say that,” he answered. “What of me goes down goes down easy + enough. It's what doesn't go down.” + </p> + <p> + “And how much is that?” she asked, eying him. + </p> + <p> + “A good bit, maybe,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Depends,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Having got him a few steps too far upon the personal ground, she left him + to get off by himself. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + One carriage stood there in the rain—yes, and it was free. + </p> + <p> + “Keb? Yes—orright—sir. Whe'to? Where you go? Sir William + Franks? Yes, I know. Long way go—go long way. Sir William Franks.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What you give—he? One franc?” asked the driver. + </p> + <p> + “A shilling,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Orright. He know—sheeling—orright. English moneys, eh? Yes, + he know. You get up, sir.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + They stopped at last outside a sort of park wall with trees above. The big + gates were just beyond. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “How much?” said Aaron to the driver. + </p> + <p> + “Ten franc,” said the fat driver. + </p> + <p> + But it was his turn now to screw down and scrutinise the pink ten-shilling + note. He waved it in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Not good, eh? Not good moneys?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Aaron, rather indignantly. “Good English money. Ten shillings. + Better than ten francs, a good deal. Better—better—” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Sir William Franks?” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Si, signore.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Is Mr. Lilly here? Mr. Lilly?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Signor Lillee. No, Signore—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He made out that the woman was asking him for his name—“Meester—? + Meester—?” she kept saying, with a note of interrogation. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Go up there?” said Aaron, pointing. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “How do you do, Mr. Sisson. You come straight from England?” + </p> + <p> + Sir William held out his hand courteously and benevolently, smiling an old + man's smile of hospitality. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Lilly has gone away?” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He left us several days ago.” + </p> + <p> + Aaron hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “You didn't expect me, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, oh, yes. Yes, oh, yes. Very glad to see you—well, now, come in + and have some dinner—” + </p> + <p> + At this moment Lady Franks appeared—short, rather plump, but erect + and definite, in a black silk dress and pearls round her throat. + </p> + <p> + “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—?” + </p> + <p> + It was evident the Franks had dispensed much hospitality: much of it + charitable. Aaron felt it. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said. “I'll wash my hands and come straight in, shall I?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, perhaps that would be better—” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid I am a nuisance.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all—Beppe—” and she gave instructions in Italian. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>The Graphic</i> or of <i>Country Life</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. <i>Connu</i>! <i>Connu</i>! Everything life has to + offer is known to us, couldn't be known better, from the film. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I hear you are a musician. That's what I should have been if I had had my + way.” + </p> + <p> + “What instrument?” asked Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Which do you like best?” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the Russian. I think <i>Ivan</i>. It is such fine music.” + </p> + <p> + “I find <i>Ivan</i> artificial.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you? Oh, I don't think so. No, I don't think you can say that.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “Of course I myself prefer Moussorgsky,” said Aaron. “I think he is a + greater artist. But perhaps it is just personal preference.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. <i>Boris</i> is wonderful. Oh, some of the scenes in <i>Boris</i>!” + </p> + <p> + “And even more <i>Kovantchina</i>,” said Aaron. “I wish we could go back + to melody pure and simple. Yet I find <i>Kovantchina</i>, which is all + mass music practically, gives me more satisfaction than any other opera.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>cachet</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Sir,” said the well-nourished young man in nice evening + clothes. “You'll take another glass yourself, Sir?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks, Sir William,” drawled the young major with the black patch. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Colonel—I hope you are in good health and spirits.” + </p> + <p> + “Never better, Sir William, never better.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + And the old man sipped his brown wine, and smiled again. He made quite a + handsome picture: but he was frail. + </p> + <p> + “And where are you bound, Mr. Sisson? Towards Rome?” + </p> + <p> + “I came to meet Lilly,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Where has he gone?” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “I think to Geneva for the moment. But he certainly talked of Venice. You + yourself have no definite goal?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! You have not come to Italy to practice your art?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall HAVE to practice it: or else—no, I haven't come for that.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite. I've got a family depending on me.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, then you must practice your art: you must practice your art. Well—shall + we join the ladies? Coffee will no doubt be served.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you take my arm, Sir?” said the well-nourished Arthur. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, thank you,” the old man motioned him away. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Coffee appeared—and Sir William doled out <i>creme de menthe</i>. + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “What, am I to appear in all my vanities?” And he laughed shortly. + </p> + <p> + “Of course you are. We want to see you,” said the white girl. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed we do! We shouldn't mind all appearing in such vanities—what, + Lady Franks!” boomed the Colonel. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “This one first, Sir,” said Arthur. + </p> + <p> + Sir William stood very still, half tremulous, like a man undergoing an + operation. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “That is the first—and very becoming,” said Lady Franks. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, very becoming! Very becoming!” said the tall wife of the Major—she + was a handsome young woman of the tall, frail type. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think so, my dear?” said the old man, with his eternal smile: the + curious smile of old people when they are dead. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “And now the Ruritanian,” said Lady Franks eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “That doesn't go on the same level with the others, Lady Franks,” said + Arthur. “That goes much lower down—about here.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure?” said Lady Franks. “Doesn't it go more here?” + </p> + <p> + “No no, no no, not at all. Here! Isn't it so, Sybil?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I think so,” said Sybil. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “What's more, all thoroughly deserved,” said Arthur. + </p> + <p> + “I should think so,” said the Colonel, fidgetting. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes, nobody has deserved them better,” cooed Sybil. + </p> + <p> + “Nor on more humane and generous grounds,” said the Major, <i>sotto voce.</i> + </p> + <p> + “The effort to save life, indeed,” returned the Major's young wife: + “splendid!” + </p> + <p> + Sir William stood naively before the mirror and looked at his three stars + on his black velvet dinner-jacket. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I assure you it is in position, Sir,” said Arthur. “Absolutely correct. I + will read it out to you later.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my dear. I AM a proud man. Three countries have honoured me—” + There was a little, breathless pause. + </p> + <p> + “And not more than they ought to have done,” said Sybil. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>console</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The orders were put away, the party sat round the fire in the comfortable + library, the men sipping more <i>creme de menthe</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “And so, Mr. Sisson, you have no definite purpose in coming to Italy?” + </p> + <p> + “No, none,” said Aaron. “I wanted to join Lilly.” + </p> + <p> + “But when you had joined him—?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, nothing—stay here a time, in this country, if I could earn my + keep.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!—earn your keep? So you hope to earn your keep here? May I ask + how?” + </p> + <p> + “By my flute.” + </p> + <p> + “Italy is a poor country.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't want much.” + </p> + <p> + “You have a family to provide for.” + </p> + <p> + “They are provided for—for a couple of years.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, indeed! Is that so?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I see you are like Lilly—you trust to Providence,” said Sir + William. + </p> + <p> + “Providence or fate,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What can you be sure of, then?” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Well, in moderation, I can believe in a little hard cash, and in my own + ability to earn a little hard cash.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps Lilly believes in his own ability, too.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “The spirit generally does move him dead against the market,” said Aaron. + “But he manages to scrape along.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Aaron. “But every man according to his belief.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But on what do you base such a very unwarrantable belief?” + </p> + <p> + “I just feel like that.” + </p> + <p> + “And if you are ever quite without success—and nothing to fall back + on?” + </p> + <p> + “I can work at something.” + </p> + <p> + “In case of illness, for example?” + </p> + <p> + “I can go to a hospital—or die.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I don't suppose he will do much falling back,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Well, he is young yet. You are both young. You are squandering your + youth. I am an old man, and I see the end.” + </p> + <p> + “What end, Sir William?” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>trains de luxe</i>. 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What I can't see,” he said, “is the place that others have in your + scheme.” + </p> + <p> + “Is isn't a scheme,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Other people can please themselves,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Every right, I should say. All the more since you are improvident.” + </p> + <p> + “Then she must manage her rights for herself. It's no good her foisting + her rights on to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn't that pure selfishness?” + </p> + <p> + “It may be. I shall send my wife money as long as I've money to send.” + </p> + <p> + “And supposing you have none?” + </p> + <p> + “Then I can't send it—and she must look out for herself.” + </p> + <p> + “I call that almost criminal selfishness.” + </p> + <p> + “I can't help it.” + </p> + <p> + The conversation with the young Major broke off. + </p> + <p> + “It is certainly a good thing for society that men like you and Mr. Lilly + are not common,” said Sir William, laughing. + </p> + <p> + “Becoming commoner every day, you'll find,” interjaculated the Colonel. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed! Indeed! Well. May we ask you another question, Mr. Sisson? I hope + you don't object to our catechism?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Nor your judgment afterwards,” said Aaron, grinning. + </p> + <p> + “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....” + </p> + <p> + “There were no grounds,” said Aaron. “No, there weren't I just left them.” + </p> + <p> + “Mere caprice?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Like birth or death? I don't follow.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The old, tremulous man, and the young man were watching one another. + </p> + <p> + “A natural event,” said Sir William. + </p> + <p> + “A natural event,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Not that you loved any other woman?” + </p> + <p> + “God save me from it.” + </p> + <p> + “You just left off loving?” + </p> + <p> + “Not even that. I went away.” + </p> + <p> + “What from?” + </p> + <p> + “From it all.” + </p> + <p> + “From the woman in particular?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. Yes. Yes, that.” + </p> + <p> + “And you couldn't go back?” + </p> + <p> + Aaron shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Yet you can give no reasons?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But that is a natural process.” + </p> + <p> + “So is this—or nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” interposed the Major. “Because birth is a universal process—and + yours is a specific, almost unique event.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It may,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “And it will, mark my word, it will.” + </p> + <p> + “You almost wish it might, as a judgment on me,” smiled Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, indeed. I should only be too sorry. But I feel it will, unless + you are careful.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll be careful, then.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and you can't be too careful.” + </p> + <p> + “You make me frightened.” + </p> + <p> + “I would like to make you very frightened indeed, so that you went back + humbly to your wife and family.” + </p> + <p> + “It would HAVE to be a big fright then, I assure you.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you are really heartless. It makes me angry.” + </p> + <p> + She turned angrily aside. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, delighted, Sir William,” said the Colonel, bouncing up. + </p> + <p> + “A night-cap, and then we retire,” said Lady Franks. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why are you so WRONG, so wrong in your behaviour?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I've got to have my bout out: and when it's out, I can alter.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I hope you've almost had your bout out,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “The best thing you can do is to go straight back to England, and to her.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I'd better ask her if she wants me, first,” he said drily. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Say when,” shouted the Colonel, who was manipulating the syphon. + </p> + <p> + “When,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + The men stood up to their drinks. + </p> + <p> + “Will you be leaving in the morning, Mr. Sisson?” asked Lady Franks. + </p> + <p> + “May I stay till Monday morning?” said Aaron. They were at Saturday + evening. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. And you will take breakfast in your room: we all do. At what + time? Half past eight?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you very much.” + </p> + <p> + “Then at half past eight the man will bring it in. Goodnight.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Tell me in English.” + </p> + <p> + The man went softly to the window curtains, and motioned them with his + hand. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, do,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “The Alps,” he said in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Gli Alpi—si, signore.” The man bowed, gathered up Aaron's clothes, + and silently retired. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. WIE ES IHNEN GEFAELLT + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Graphic</i>. + 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 <i>The Queen</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>might</i> by some chance meet with, perhaps, a harsh word + or look. Queenie apparently fattened on the secret detestation of the male + human species. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Are they better than they used to be?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, much. They have learnt it from us.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “There's one for you and your jawing last night, Aaron, my boy!” said our + hero to himself. + </p> + <p> + “I thought Sir William seemed so full of life and energy,” he said, aloud. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry to hear that.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well, and how have you spent your morning?” asked the host. + </p> + <p> + “I went first to look at the garden.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “To the top—where the vines are? I never expected the mountains.” + </p> + <p> + “You never expected the mountains? Pray, why not? They are always there!” + </p> + <p> + “But I was never there before. I never knew they were there, round the + town. I didn't expect it like that.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! So you found our city impressive?” + </p> + <p> + “Very! Ah, very! A new world to me. I feel I've come out of myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is a wonderful sight—a wonderful sight— But you have + not been INTO the town?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Come,” said the hostess. “Luncheon.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What was it?” said Aaron. “Tell it, and break it.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me what the words are in English,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it was almost more real to me than real life,” said his hostess. + </p> + <p> + “Then it will never happen in real life,” he said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Rather tired and dispirited in this alien place, he wondered if he wished + himself back. But the moment he actually <i>realised</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>anything</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Why? Why? He never gave himself. He never came to her, <i>really</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>fully</i> possessed him, not once. No, + not once. As time went on, she learned it for inevitable. Not once! + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>will</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>had</i> 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. <i>He</i> must + yield. That was written in eternal letters, on the iron tablet of her + will. <i>He</i> 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, <i>he</i> must yield. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>hated</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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' <i>Invisible Man</i>. He had no longer a + mask to present to people: he was present and invisible: they <i>could</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In his own powerful but subconscious fashion Aaron realized this. He was a + musician. And hence even his deepest <i>ideas</i>: 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>away</i>. The more generous and the more passionate a soul, the more it + <i>gives</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + The <i>idee fixe</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>cannot</i> + 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 <i>idee fixe</i>, + never to be in the grip of a monomania for happiness or love or + fulfilment. It is not <i>laisser aller</i>. 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. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ............... +</pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I hope,” said Aaron, “that we shall have some music tonight.” + </p> + <p> + “I want so much to hear your flute,” said his hostess. + </p> + <p> + “And I your piano,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Aaron, “I am not a man to be afraid of.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we will see,” said Lady Franks. “But I am afraid of music itself.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Aaron. “I think it is risky.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I often find it makes me feel diabolical,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “That is your misfortune, I am sure,” said Lady Franks. “Please do take + another—but perhaps you don't like mushrooms?” + </p> + <p> + Aaron quite liked mushrooms, and helped himself to the <i>entree</i>. + </p> + <p> + “But perhaps,” said she, “you are too modern. You don't care for Bach or + Beethoven or Chopin—dear Chopin.” + </p> + <p> + “I find them all quite as modern as I am.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “They don't care for depths,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “He makes you feel that all will be well with you at last?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And you can trust to it?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But do you mean when you lose things—or in your life?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Finds your cloak for you.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “How very unfortunate! Whereas my fur cloak was just the thing that gets + stolen most.” + </p> + <p> + “I wished some power would trace my music: but apparently we aren't all + gifted alike with guardian angels.” + </p> + <p> + “Apparently not. And that is how I regard it: almost as a gift, you know, + that my fairy godmother gave me in my cradle.” + </p> + <p> + “For always recovering your property?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—and succeeding in my undertakings.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid I had no fairy godmother.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—I think I had. And very glad I am of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes,” said Aaron, looking at his hostess. + </p> + <p> + So the dinner sailed merrily on. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And your life has been always successful?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—almost always. We have succeeded with almost everything.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes,” said Aaron, looking at her again. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Colonel,” said the host, “send round the bottle.” + </p> + <p> + With a flourish of the elbow and shoulder, the Colonel sent on the port, + actually port, in those bleak, post-war days! + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>bonne bouchee</i> for + a finely-discriminating cannibal. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes, indeed! A much more ingratiating lady to lift our glasses to. + Mr. Sisson's kindly fortune. <i>Fortuna gentil-issima</i>! Well, Mr. + Sisson, and may your Lady Fortune ever smile on you.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But,” said Aaron, “if Fortune is a female—-” + </p> + <p> + “Fortune! Fortune! Why, Fortune is a lady. What do you say, Major?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “And all the graces,” capped Sir William, delighted with himself. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, quite!” said the Major. “For some, all the airs, and for others, all + the graces.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe it, sir: and the kind of stout heart which I am afraid I + haven't got,” said the Major. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't want to carry all before me,” said Aaron. “I should be sorry. I + want to walk past most of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Can you tell us where to? I am intrigued, as Sybil says, to know where + you will walk to. Come now. Enlighten us.” + </p> + <p> + “Nowhere, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “But is that satisfactory? Can you find it satisfactory?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But you can't,” said the Major. + </p> + <p> + “What can't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Choose. Either your direction or your destination.” The Major was + obstinate. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And we,” said the Major, “have no choice, except between this or + nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Really! I am afraid,” said Sir William, “I am afraid I am too old—or + too young—which shall I say?—to understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Too young, sir,” said Arthur sweetly. “The child was always father to the + man, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + “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—-” + </p> + <p> + “I prefer the NOTHING part of it to the THIS part of it,” said Aaron, + grinning. + </p> + <p> + “Colonel,” said the old man, “throw a little light on this nothingness.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Sir William,” said the Colonel. “I am all right as I am.” + </p> + <p> + “As a matter of fact, so are we all, perfectly A-one,” said Arthur. + </p> + <p> + Aaron broke into a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Luck to you,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “You're going in the morning?” said Arthur. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “What train?” said Arthur. + </p> + <p> + “Eight-forty.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—then we shan't see you again. Well—best of luck.” + </p> + <p> + “Best of luck—” echoed the Colonel. + </p> + <p> + “Same to you,” said Aaron, and they all peered over their glasses and + quite loved one another for a rosy minute. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I mean I don't really care—I don't a damn—let the devil take + it all.” + </p> + <p> + “The devil doesn't want it, either,” said the Major. + </p> + <p> + “Then let him leave it. I don't care one single little curse about it + all.” + </p> + <p> + “Be damned. What is there to care about?” said the Colonel. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, what?” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “It's all the same, whether you care or don't care. So I say it's much + easier not to care,” said Arthur. + </p> + <p> + “Of course it is,” said the Colonel gaily. + </p> + <p> + “And I think so, too,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Right you are! We're all as right as ninepence—what? Good old + sport! Here's yours!” cried the Colonel. + </p> + <p> + “We shall have to be going up,” said Arthur, wise in his generation. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>coeur a coeur</i>. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>creme de menthe</i>! 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>creme de menthe</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + His eye is on the sparrow + So I know He watches me. +</pre> + <p> + For a long time he had failed to catch the word <i>sparrow</i>, and had + heard: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + His eye is on the spy-hole + So I know He watches me. +</pre> + <p> + Which was just how it had all seemed to him, as a boy. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>aude</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Lady Franks started with a <i>vivace</i> 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 <i>vivace</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + And the game went on while the <i>vivace</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + But Lady Franks must have twigged. Her playing went rather stiff. She came + to the end of the <i>vivace</i> movement, and abandoned her piece. + </p> + <p> + “I always prefer Schumann in his <i>vivace</i> moods,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Do you?” said Lady Franks. “Oh, I don't know.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Ye Banks + and Braes</i>, and <i>Caro mio ben</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + Then he had to play the flute. Arthur strolled upstairs with him, + arm-in-arm, where he went to fetch his instrument. + </p> + <p> + “I find music in the home rather a strain, you know,” said Arthur. + </p> + <p> + “Cruel strain. I quite agree,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “It's medicine,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. XX SETTEMBRE + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>towards</i> anything: he was moving almost violently + away from everything. And that was what he wanted. Only that. Only let him + <i>not</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I can walk,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Milady ha comandato l'automobile,” said the man softly. + </p> + <p> + It was evident that if Milady had ordered it, so it must be. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What was it? What were the shots?” Aaron asked him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—somebody shooting at a dog,” said the man negligently. + </p> + <p> + “At a dog!” said Aaron, with round eyes. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>ennui</i> of the big town on a + holiday came over our hero. He felt he must get out, whatever happened. He + could not bear it. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>heard</i> nothing any more. He only saw. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Did you see him fall!” replied Angus, with another strange gleam. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But was he HURT—?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. I should think so. He fell right back out of that on to + those stones!” + </p> + <p> + “But how perfectly AWFUL! Did you ever see anything like it?” + </p> + <p> + “No. It's one of the funniest things I ever did see. I saw nothing quite + like it, even in the war—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>looked</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + The waiter who had brought Aaron his soup now came very free and easy, to + ask for further orders. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “What SHOULD I drink?” said Aaron, whose acquaintance with wines was not + very large. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>all right</i>. It is <i>Or-rye</i>—and one word at that. + The blow that would be given to most foreign waiters, if they were forced + to realize that the famous <i>orye</i> was really composed of two words, + and spelt <i>all right</i>, would be too cruel, perhaps. + </p> + <p> + “Half litre Chianti. Orye,” said the waiter. And we'll let him say it. + </p> + <p> + “ENGLISH!” whispered Francis melodramatically in the ear of Angus. “I + THOUGHT so. The flautist.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but I heard him,” whispered Francis emphatically. “Quite,” said + Angus. “But quite inoffensive.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. So do I,” said Angus, again looking archly through the monocle, and + seeing nothing. “I wonder what he's doing here.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Quite a musician,” said Francis. + </p> + <p> + “The hired sort,” said Angus, “most probably.” + </p> + <p> + “But he PLAYS—he plays most marvellously. THAT you can't get away + from, Angus.” + </p> + <p> + “I quite agree,” said Angus. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I should, too,” said Angus. “You might ask him to coffee and a + liqueur.” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to—most awfully. But do you think I might?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Where's the wine list? What liqueurs have you got?” demanded Angus + abruptly. + </p> + <p> + The waiter rattled off a list, beginning with Strega and ending with + cherry brandy. + </p> + <p> + “Grand Marnier,” said Angus. “And leave the bottle.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Frutte</i>, 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 <i>Natura Morta</i> arrangement. + </p> + <p> + “But do you think I might—?” said Francis moodily. Angus pursed his + lips with a reckless brightness. + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “Do excuse me. But I MUST ask you if it was you we heard playing the flute + so perfectly wonderfully, just before dinner.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I saw you on the balcony as well.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, did you notice us?” plunged Francis. “But wasn't it an extraordinary + affair?” + </p> + <p> + “Very,” said Aaron. “I couldn't make it out, could you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” cried Francis. “I never try. It's all much too new and complicated + for me.—But perhaps you know Italy?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don't,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He here allowed himself to sink friendlily into the vacant chair opposite + Aaron's. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I thought it was a bit exciting,” said Aaron. “I wonder what will + become of him—” + </p> + <p> + “—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.” + </p> + <p> + “If you mean I play for a living,” said Aaron. “I have played in + orchestras in London.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course! Of course! I knew you must be a professional. But don't you + give private recitals, too?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I never have.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Did it,” said Aaron, rather grimly. + </p> + <p> + “But won't you come and have coffee with us at our table?” said Francis. + “We should like it most awfully if you would.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, thank you,” said Aaron, half-rising. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + The two went across to Angus' table. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I'm very glad,” said Angus. Let us give the show away: he was being + wilfully nice. But he <i>was</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Aaron sat down in a chair at their table. + </p> + <p> + “But let us introduce ourselves,” said Francis. “I am Francis—or + really Franz Dekker—And this is Angus Guest, my friend.” + </p> + <p> + “And my name is Aaron Sisson.” + </p> + <p> + “What! What did you say?” said Francis, leaning forward. He, too, had + sharp ears. + </p> + <p> + “Aaron Sisson.” + </p> + <p> + “Aaron Sisson! Oh, but how amusing! What a nice name!” + </p> + <p> + “No better than yours, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Mine! Franz Dekker! Oh, much more amusing, <i>I</i> think,” said Francis + archly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, it's a matter of opinion. You're the double decker, not me.” + </p> + <p> + “The double decker!” said Francis archly. “Why, what do you mean!—” + He rolled his eyes significantly. “But may I introduce my friend Angus + Guest.” + </p> + <p> + “You've introduced me already, Francesco,” said Angus. + </p> + <p> + “So sorry,” said Francis. + </p> + <p> + “Guest!” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + Francis suddenly began to laugh. + </p> + <p> + “May he not be Guest?” he asked, fatherly. + </p> + <p> + “Very likely,” said Aaron. “Not that I was ever good at guessing.” + </p> + <p> + Francis tilted his eyebrows. Fortunately the waiter arrived with the + coffee. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me,” said Francis, “will you have your coffee black, or with milk?” + He was determined to restore a tone of sobriety. + </p> + <p> + The coffee was sipped in sober solemnity. + </p> + <p> + “Is music your line as well, then?” asked Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “No, we're painters. We're going to work in Rome.” + </p> + <p> + “To earn your living?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me,” said Francis to Aaron. “Where were YOU all the time during the + war?” + </p> + <p> + “I was doing my job,” said Aaron. Which led to his explaining his origins. + </p> + <p> + “Really! So your music is quite new! But how interesting!” cried Francis. + </p> + <p> + Aaron explained further. + </p> + <p> + “And so the war hardly affected you? But what did you FEEL about it, + privately?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It was quite late before this seance broke up: and the waiter itching to + get rid of the fellows. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Aaron. “I only was going to look for a friend—Rawdon + Lilly.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know where he is.” + </p> + <p> + “Angus! Didn't we hear that Lilly was in Germany?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, in Munich, being psychoanalysed, I believe it was.” + </p> + <p> + Aaron looked rather blank. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Aaron wavered. He really did not know what to do. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Any time,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The two young men went elegantly upstairs. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. A RAILWAY JOURNEY + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + So behold them setting off for Florence in the early morning. Angus and + Francis had first-class tickets: Aaron took a third-class. + </p> + <p> + “Come and have lunch with us on the train,” said Angus. “I'll order three + places, and we can lunch together.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I can buy a bit of food at the station,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “No, come and lunch with us. It will be much nicer. And we shall enjoy it + as well,” said Angus. + </p> + <p> + “Of course! Ever so much nicer! Of course!” cried Francis. “Yes, why not, + indeed! Why should you hesitate?” + </p> + <p> + “All right, then,” said Aaron, not without some feeling of constraint. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, <i>au revoir</i>, till luncheon,” cried Francis. + </p> + <p> + 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, <i>au revoir</i> till luncheon,” was + peculiarly unsettling: though they did not intend it so. + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “Well, then—<i>au revoir</i> till luncheon.” + </p> + <p> + 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, <i>le + style, c'est l'homme</i>. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>bella + figura</i>. It was just what the Italians loved. Those in the first class + regions thought he might even be an Italian, he was so attractive. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Sitting there in the third-class carriage, he became happy again. The <i>presence</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But where is YOUR SEAT?” cried Francis, peering into the packed and + jammed compartments of the third class. + </p> + <p> + “That man's sitting in it.” + </p> + <p> + “Which?” cried Francis, indignant. + </p> + <p> + “The fat one there—with the collar on his knee.” + </p> + <p> + “But it was your seat—!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “And he's TAKEN it—!” cried Francis in indignation. + </p> + <p> + “And knows it, too,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh well—something must be done,” said he decisively. “But didn't + you put something in the seat to RESERVE it?” + </p> + <p> + “Only that <i>New Statesman</i>—but he's moved it.” + </p> + <p> + The man still sat with the invisible sneer-grin on his face, and that + peculiar and immovable plant of his Italian posterior. + </p> + <p> + “Mais—cette place etait RESERVEE—” said Francis, moving to the + direct attack. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Francis was not so easily foiled. He touched the man on the arm. The man + looked round threateningly, as if he had been struck. + </p> + <p> + “Cette place est reservee—par ce Monsieur—” said Francis with + hauteur, though still in an explanatory tone, and pointing to Aaron. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Gia! Gia!” barked the other passengers in the carriage. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “C'e posto la,” said one of the men, shrugging his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + He knew there was one solution—and only one—Money. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>have</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Then I propose we make tea,” said Angus, beaming. + </p> + <p> + “Why not! Of course. Let us make tea. And I will look for water.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I knew,” said Francis, “we should love it.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then,” said Francis, “you will be in to lunch here, won't you? Then + we'll see you at lunch.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Perhaps it was right your love to dissemble + But why did you kick me down stairs?...” + </pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Angus! Do come and look! OH, so lovely!” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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; <i>Mentana</i>—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. + </p> + <p> + He waited some time before anybody appeared. Then a maid-servant. + </p> + <p> + “Can I have a room?” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” she said as she entered, not knowing what else to say. + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning,” said Aaron awkwardly. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Can I have a room?” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “A room! Yes, you can.” + </p> + <p> + “What terms?” + </p> + <p> + “Terms! Oh! Why, ten francs a day, you know, pension—if you stay—How + long will you stay?” + </p> + <p> + “At least a month, I expect.” + </p> + <p> + “A month! Oh yes. Yes, ten francs a day.” + </p> + <p> + “For everything?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Here he would settle. The signorina would send a man for his bags, at half + past two in the afternoon. + </p> + <p> + At luncheon Aaron found the two friends, and told them of his move. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “At half-past two.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI. FLORENCE + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Aaron sat and listened and wondered at the wisdom and the genuine kindness + of the young <i>beau</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I think that's the best way,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well now,” said Francis. “What are you doing today?” + </p> + <p> + Aaron was not doing anything in particular. + </p> + <p> + “Then will you come and have dinner with us—?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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, <i>a + rivederci</i> till this evening.—So glad you like Florence! I'm + simply loving it—revelling. And the pictures!—Oh—” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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—?” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “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 + <i>moue</i>, 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—” + </p> + <p> + “We were talking of souls, not wicks, Argyle,” said Algy. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Then there ought to be a good deal of it about,” said Algy. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Aaron, non-committal. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, I will.” + </p> + <p> + “And perhaps you'll bring your flute along.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow,” he said at length, “you'll come, won't you? And bring the flute + if you feel like it.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you for your courtesy, Algy. Won't you lend me your arm?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Afraid I can't tonight. Good-night—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + When he, too, had gone, Argyle arched his brows at Aaron, saying: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>mots</i>. 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?” + </p> + <p> + “I think you got him,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “And what are you going to do in Florence?” asked Argyle. + </p> + <p> + Aaron explained. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'm coming, I'm coming,” said Argyle. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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! <i>Avanti!</i>” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Aaron said he would on Monday. + </p> + <p> + “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>I</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. <i>Siamo nel paradiso</i>. But he's a + <i>cretin</i>. 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.” + </p> + <p> + And Argyle pinched Aaron's arm fast, then went unsteadily up the steps to + his hotel door. + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>plaint</i> 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 <i>beau</i> was + supremely satisfied. He loved talking English, and holding his listeners + spell-bound. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Won't you smoke?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Turkish that side—Virginia there—you see.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Turkish,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + The little officer in his dove-grey and yellow uniform snapped his box + shut again, and presented a light. + </p> + <p> + “You are new in Florence?” he said, as he presented the match. + </p> + <p> + “Four days,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “And I hear you are musical.” + </p> + <p> + “I play the flute—no more.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes—but then you play it as an artist, not as an + accomplishment.” + </p> + <p> + “But how do you know?” laughed Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “I was told so—and I believe it.” + </p> + <p> + “That's nice of you, anyhow—But you are a musician too.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—we are both musicians—my wife and I.” + </p> + <p> + Manfredi looked at his wife. She flicked the ash off her cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “What sort?” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Why, how do you mean, what sort? We are dilettanti, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “No—what is your instrument? The piano?” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “But you will begin again?” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Would you care to come and hear—?” + </p> + <p> + “Awfully nice if you would—” suddenly said the wife, quite simply, + as if she had merely been tired, and not talking before. + </p> + <p> + “I should like to very much—” + </p> + <p> + “Do come then.” + </p> + <p> + While they were making the arrangements, Algy came up in his blandest + manner. + </p> + <p> + “Now Marchesa—might we hope for a song?” + </p> + <p> + “No—I don't sing any more,” came the slow, contralto reply. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but you can't mean you say that deliberately—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, quite deliberately—” She threw away her cigarette and opened + her little gold case to take another. + </p> + <p> + “But what can have brought you to such a disastrous decision?” + </p> + <p> + “I can't say,” she replied, with a little laugh. “The war, probably.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but don't let the war deprive us of this, as of everything else.” + </p> + <p> + “Can't be helped,” she said. “I have no choice in the matter. The bird has + flown—” She spoke with a certain heavy languor. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid you can't get him to do any more than call out of the leaves.” + </p> + <p> + “But—but—pardon me—is it because you don't intend there + should be any more song? Is that your intention?” + </p> + <p> + “That I couldn't say,” said the Marchesa, smoking, smoking. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Manfredi. “At the present time it is because she WILL not—not + because she cannot. It is her will, as you say.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” said she. “That will be as it must be.” + </p> + <p> + “Then can't we say it must be SONG once more?” + </p> + <p> + To this sally she merely laughed, and pressed out her half-smoked + cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “How very disappointing! How very cruel of—of fate—and the war—and—and + all the sum total of evils,” said Algy. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps—” here the little and piquant host turned to Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I have no idea,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “But you, Marchesa. Won't you give us hope that it might be so?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “There now. You see you may work the miracle, Mr. Sisson. Won't you play + to us?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid I didn't bring my flute along,” said Aaron “I didn't want to + arrive with a little bag.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite!” said Algy. “What a pity it wouldn't go in your pocket.” + </p> + <p> + “Not music and all,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Dear me! What a <i>comble</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't do that,” said the Marchesa. “It isn't worth the effort.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! I'm glad you find it so. Then I have hope.” + </p> + <p> + She merely smiled, indifferent. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “How shall we go home, dear? Tram or carriage—?” It was evident he + was economical. + </p> + <p> + “Walk,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at Aaron. “We are all going + the same way, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + Aaron said where he lived. They were just across the river. And so all + three proceeded to walk through the town. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “No, I feel like walking.” + </p> + <p> + “So long as you don't have to pay for it afterwards.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I am sure you had better take a carriage,” said Manfredi. + </p> + <p> + “No—I don't mind it.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you feel at home in Florence?” Aaron asked her. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—as much as anywhere. Oh, yes—quite at home.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you like it as well as anywhere?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—for a time. Paris for the most part.” + </p> + <p> + “Never America?” + </p> + <p> + “No, never America. I came when I was quite a little girl to Europe—Madrid—Constantinople—Paris. + I hardly knew America at all.” + </p> + <p> + Aaron remembered that Francis had told him, the Marchesa's father had been + ambassador to Paris. + </p> + <p> + “So you feel you have no country of your own?” + </p> + <p> + “I have Italy. I am Italian now, you know.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + They came towards the bridge where they should part. + </p> + <p> + “Won't you come and have a cocktail?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Now?” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. This is the right time for a cocktail. What time is it, Manfredi?” + </p> + <p> + “Half past six. Do come and have one with us,” said the Italian. “We + always take one about this time.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “If only it will be warm,” she said. “The apartment is almost impossible + to keep warm. We will sit in the little room.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Make the cocktails then, Manfredi,” she said. “Do you find this room very + cold?” she asked of Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit cold,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “The stove goes all the time,” she said, “but without much effect.” + </p> + <p> + “You wear such thin clothes,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, no, the stove should give heat enough. Do sit down. Will you smoke? + There are cigarettes—and cigars, if you prefer them.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I've got my own, thanks.” + </p> + <p> + She took her own cigarette from her gold case. + </p> + <p> + “It is a fine room, for music, the big room,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, quite. Would you like to play for us some time, do you think?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you want me to? I mean does it interest you?” + </p> + <p> + “What—the flute?” + </p> + <p> + “No—music altogether—” + </p> + <p> + “Music altogether—! Well! I used to love it. Now—I'm not sure. + Manfredi lives for it, almost.” + </p> + <p> + “For that and nothing else?” asked Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “No, no! No, no! Other things as well.” + </p> + <p> + “But you don't like it much any more?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. Perhaps I don't. I'm not sure.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't look forward to the Saturday mornings?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “A crowd of people in one's house—” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Too emotional? Too much feeling for you?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What—do you want discords?—dissonances?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But then why do you have the music—the Saturdays—then?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I've got it now in my overcoat pocket,” he said, “if you like.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And you will tell me what you feel?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Listen, Manfredi,” she said. “Mr. Sisson is going to play, quite alone in + the sala. And I am going to sit here and listen.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” said Manfredi. “Drink your cocktail first. Are you going to + play without music?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “I'll just put on the lights for you.” + </p> + <p> + “No—leave it dark. Enough light will come in from here.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure?” said Manfredi. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down, Manfredi. Sit still,” said the Marchesa. + </p> + <p> + “Won't you let me try some accompaniment?” said the soldier. + </p> + <p> + “No. I shall just play a little thing from memory,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down, dear. Sit down,” said the Marchesa to her husband. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + After a little while, when he entered the smaller room again, the Marchesa + looked full into his face. + </p> + <p> + “Good!” she said. “Good!” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Charming!” said the Marchese. “Truly charming! But what was it you + played?” + </p> + <p> + Aaron told him. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Do drink another cocktail,” said his hostess. + </p> + <p> + He did so. And then he rose to leave. + </p> + <p> + “Will you stay to dinner?” said the Marchesa. “We have two people coming—two + Italian relatives of my husband. But—” + </p> + <p> + No, Aaron declined to stay to dinner. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>got</i> + him. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In vain, truly enough. For he <i>knew</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.... + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII. HIGH UP OVER THE CATHEDRAL SQUARE + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “If it's going to, it will,” said Aaron. “Our deciding about it won't + alter it.” + </p> + <p> + “The decision is part of the business.” + </p> + <p> + Here they were interrupted by Argyle, who put his head through one of the + windows. He had flecks of lather on his reddened face. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think you're wise now,” he said, “to sit in that sun?” + </p> + <p> + “In November?” laughed Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “Always fear the sun when there's an 'r' in the month,” said Argyle. + “Always fear it 'r' or no 'r,' <i>I</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—” + </p> + <p> + “It won't last much longer, anyhow,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Go ahead, my boys, go ahead with that whiskey!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “We'll wait for you,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Now then—<i>siamo nel paradiso</i>, eh? Paradisal enough for you, + is it?” + </p> + <p> + “The devil looking over Lincoln,” said Lilly laughing, glancing up into + Argyle's face. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Lilly eyed the suit. + </p> + <p> + “Very nice. Very nice indeed. Such a good cloth! That makes all the + difference.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “It looks quite wonderfully expensive and smart now,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “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. <i>Siamo nel paradiso</i>, remember.” + </p> + <p> + “But why should we drink your whiskey? Tea would do for us just as well.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “When,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “You know you don't like people unless you expect them.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, Argyle.—Hoflichkeiten.” + </p> + <p> + “What? Gar keine Hoflichkeiten. Wahrhaftiger Kerl bin ich.—When am I + going to see Tanny? When are you coming to dine with me?” + </p> + <p> + “After you've dined with us—say the day after tomorrow.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Look,” said Lilly. “There's Del Torre!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Del Torre's coming out of it as soon as he can,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “I should think so, too.” + </p> + <p> + “I like him myself—very much. Look, he's seen us! He wants to come + up, Argyle.” + </p> + <p> + “What, in that uniform! I'll see him in his grandmother's crinoline + first.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't be fanatical, it's bad taste. Let him come up a minute.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I'll rinse one of these glasses for him,” said Argyle. + </p> + <p> + The Marchese's step was heard on the stone stairs: then his knock. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + There was a little explanation. Argyle shoved the last chair—it was + a luggage stool—through the window. + </p> + <p> + “All I can do for you in the way of a chair,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “You made that start long ago, my dear fellow. Don't play the <i>ingenue</i> + with me, you know it won't work. Say when, my man, say when!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, when,” said Del Torre. “When did I make that start, then?” + </p> + <p> + “At some unmentionably young age. Chickens such as you soon learn to + cheep.” + </p> + <p> + “Chickens such as I soon learn to cheap,” repeated Del Torre, pleased with + the verbal play. “What is cheap, please? What is TO CHEAP?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Are chickens naughty? Oh! I thought they could only be good!” + </p> + <p> + “Featherless chickens like yourself, my boy.” + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “Well, and how long will you stay in Florence?” + </p> + <p> + Lilly did not know: but he was not leaving immediately. + </p> + <p> + “Good! Then you will come and see us at once....” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The Marchese cut the cake, and offered pieces. The two men took and ate. + </p> + <p> + “So you have already found Mr. Sisson!” said Del Torre to Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “Ran straight into him in the Via Nazionale,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, one always runs into everybody in Florence. We are all already + acquainted: also with the flute. That is a great pleasure.” + </p> + <p> + “So I think.—Does your wife like it, too?” + </p> + <p> + “Very much, indeed! She is quite <i>eprise</i>. I, too, shall have to + learn to play it.” + </p> + <p> + “And run the risk of spoiling the shape of your mouth—like + Alcibiades.” + </p> + <p> + “Is there a risk? Yes! Then I shan't play it. My mouth is too beautiful.—But + Mr. Sisson has not spoilt his mouth.” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet,” said Lilly. “Give him time.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he also afraid—like Alcibiades?” + </p> + <p> + “Are you, Aaron?” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Afraid of spoiling your beauty by screwing your mouth to the flute?” + </p> + <p> + “I look a fool, do I, when I'm playing?” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Only the least little bit in the world,” said Lilly. “The way you prance + your head, you know, like a horse.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well,” said Aaron. “I've nothing to lose.” + </p> + <p> + “And were you surprised, Lilly, to find your friend here?” asked Del + Torre. + </p> + <p> + “I ought to have been. But I wasn't really.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you expected him?” + </p> + <p> + “No. It came naturally, though.—But why did you come, Aaron? What + exactly brought you?” + </p> + <p> + “Accident,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, no! No! There is no such thing as accident,” said the Italian. “A man + is drawn by his fate, where he goes.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Or a lover,” said the Marchese, grinning. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “And never finding?” said Lilly, laughing. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “And you will go on till you die, Argyle?” said Lilly. “Always seeking a + friend—and always a new one?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Argyle, there is a time to leave off.” + </p> + <p> + “To leave off what, to leave off what?” + </p> + <p> + “Having friends: or a friend, rather: or seeking to have one.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” said Lilly. “There is a time to love, and a time to leave off + loving.” + </p> + <p> + “All I can say to that is that my time to leave off hasn't come yet,” said + Argyle, with obstinate feeling. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes, it has. It is only a habit and an idea you stick to.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “An obstinate persistency, you mean,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Impossible! Completely impossible!” said Argyle. “Man is a seeker, and + except as such, he has no significance, no importance.” + </p> + <p> + “He bores me with his seeking,” said Lilly. “He should learn to possess + himself—to be himself—and keep still.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, perhaps so,” said Aaron. “Only—” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Argyle,” said Lilly. “I know you're an obstinate love-apostle.” + </p> + <p> + “I am! I am! And I have certain standards, my boy, and certain ideals + which I never transgress. Never transgress. And never abandon.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, then, you are an incurable love-maker.” + </p> + <p> + “Pray God I am,” said Argyle. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't vitally care either about money or my work or—” Lilly + faltered. + </p> + <p> + “Or what, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Or anything. I don't really care about anything. Except that—” + </p> + <p> + “You don't care about anything? But what is that for a life?” cried the + Marchese, with a hollow mockery. + </p> + <p> + “What do YOU care for?” asked Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You are well off for cares,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “And you seem to me so very poor,” said Del Torre. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “A man can't live,” said the Italian, “without an object.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—and that object?” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I have had only one objective all my life,” said Argyle. “And that was + love. For that I have spent my life.” + </p> + <p> + “And the lives of a number of other people, too,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “Admitted. Oh, admitted. It takes two to make love: unless you're a + miserable—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “No matter how many mistakes you've made—you can't really be alone—?” + asked Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you not seeking any more, Lilly?” asked the Marchese. “Do you seek + nothing?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And what have we there?” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But what is the something?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “But why should it? Is that the nature of love?” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Why should you be?” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But does it matter?” said Lilly slowly, “in which of you the desire + initiates? Isn't the result the same?” + </p> + <p> + “It matters. It matters—” cried the Marchese. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my dear fellow, how MUCH it matters—” interrupted Argyle + sagely. + </p> + <p> + “Ay!” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + The Marchese looked from one to the other of them. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Then why not let it be so, and be satisfied?” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Knuckling-under sort. Yes. That is it,” said the Marchese. + </p> + <p> + “But can't there be a balancing of wills?” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “But why can't man accept it as the natural order of things?” said Lilly. + “Science makes it the natural order.” + </p> + <p> + “All my —— to science,” said Argyle. “No man with one drop of + real spunk in him can stand it long.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Lilly. “And then what?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “What was yours?” asked Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “Mine was the same. Mine was the same, if ever it was,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “And mine was EXTREMELY similar,” said Argyle with a grimace. + </p> + <p> + “And yours, Lilly?” asked the Marchese anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “Not very different,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” cried Del Torre, jerking up erect as if he had found something. + </p> + <p> + “And what's your way out?” Aaron asked him. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “The way out is that it should change: that the man should be the asker + and the woman the answerer. It must change.” + </p> + <p> + “But it doesn't. Prrr!” Argyle made his trumpeting noise. + </p> + <p> + “Does it?” asked Lilly of the Marchese. + </p> + <p> + “No. I think it does not.” + </p> + <p> + “And will it ever again?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps never.” + </p> + <p> + “And then what?” + </p> + <p> + “Then? Why then man seeks a <i>pis-aller</i>. 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.” + </p> + <p> + “And so young girls are no good, even as a <i>pis-aller</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “No good—because they are all modern women. Every one, a modern + woman. Not one who isn't.” + </p> + <p> + “Terrible thing, the modern woman,” put in Argyle. + </p> + <p> + “And then—?” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>pis-aller</i>, + you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Not by any means, my boy,” cried Argyle. + </p> + <p> + “And then a man naturally loves his own wife, too, even if it is not + bearable to love her.” + </p> + <p> + “Or one leaves her, like Aaron,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “And seeks another woman, so,” said the Marchese. + </p> + <p> + “Does he seek another woman?” said Lilly. “Do you, Aaron?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Can't one be alone—quite alone?” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “But no—it is absurd. Like Saint Simeon Stylites on a pillar. But it + is absurd!” cried the Italian. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “One is alone,” said Argyle, “in all but love. In all but love, my dear + fellow. And then I agree with you.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Lilly, “in love most intensely of all, alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Completely incomprehensible,” said Argyle. “Amounts to nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “One man is but a part. How can he be so alone?” said the Marchese. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear boy, you are becoming metaphysical, and that is as bad as + softening of the brain,” said Argyle. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It beats alone in its own silence,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + The Italian shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “We'd better be going inside, anyhow,” said Argyle. “Some of you will be + taking cold.” + </p> + <p> + “Aaron,” said Lilly. “Is it true for you?” + </p> + <p> + “Nearly,” said Aaron, looking into the quiet, half-amused, yet frightening + eyes of the other man. “Or it has been.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>there</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII. THE MARCHESA + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She must have seen his face, seen that he was <i>ebloui</i>. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I shall sing later on, if you'll accompany me. Will you?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you hated accompaniments.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I'll try.” + </p> + <p> + “Manfredi is just bringing the cocktails. Do you think you'd prefer orange + in yours?” + </p> + <p> + “Ill have mine as you have yours.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't take orange in mine. Won't you smoke?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Manfredi came in with the little tray. He was still in uniform. + </p> + <p> + “Hello!” cried the little Italian. “Glad to see you—well, everything + all right? Glad to hear it. How is the cocktail, Nan?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said. “All right.” + </p> + <p> + “One drop too much peach, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “No, all right.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Well, and what have you been doing with yourself?” said he. “What did you + do yesterday?” + </p> + <p> + “Yesterday?” said Aaron. “I went to the Uffizi.” + </p> + <p> + “To the Uffizi? Well! And what did you think of it?” + </p> + <p> + “Very fine.” + </p> + <p> + “I think it is. I think it is. What pictures did you look at?” + </p> + <p> + “I was with Dekker. We looked at most, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + “And what do you remember best?” + </p> + <p> + “I remember Botticelli's Venus on the Shell.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes! Yes!—” said Manfredi. “I like her. But I like others better. + You thought her a pretty woman, yes?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And her face?” asked the Marchesa, with a slow, ironic smile. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—she's a bit baby-faced,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Trying to be more innocent than her own common-sense will let her,” said + the Marchesa. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all. I hate Misters, always.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, so do I. I like one name only.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite! A sort of sea-scape of a woman. With a perfectly sham innocence. + Are you as keen on innocence as Manfredi is?” + </p> + <p> + “Innocence?” said Aaron. “It's the sort of thing I don't have much feeling + about.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, I know you,” laughed the soldier wickedly. “You are the sort of man + who wants to be Anthony to Cleopatra. Ha-ha!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And she became Cleopatra to him. “Age cannot wither, nor custom stale—” + To his instinctive, unwilled fancy, she was Cleopatra. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “We've got such a fine terrace—you can see it from your house where + you are,” said Manfredi. “Have you noticed it?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Near that tuft of palm-trees. Don't you know?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Let us go out and show it him,” said the Marchesa. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, the top floor—one of the middle windows, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “One that is always open now—and the others are shut. I have noticed + it, not connecting it with you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my window is always open.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Don't take cold,” said Manfredi. + </p> + <p> + She turned at once indoors. Aaron caught a faint whiff of perfume from the + little orange trees in tubs round the wall. + </p> + <p> + “Will you get the flute?” she said as they entered. + </p> + <p> + “And will you sing?” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “Play first,” she said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Will you really come? And will you practise with me, so that I can + accompany you?” said Manfredi eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I will,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, good! Oh, good! Look here, come in on Friday morning and let us both + look through the music.” + </p> + <p> + “If Mr. Sisson plays for the public,” said the Marchesa, “he must not do + it for charity. He must have the proper fee.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don't want it,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “But you must earn money, mustn't you?” said she. + </p> + <p> + “I must,” said Aaron. “But I can do it somewhere else.” + </p> + <p> + “No. If you play for the public, you must have your earnings. When you + play for me, it is different.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said Manfredi. “Every man must have his wage. I have mine + from the Italian government—-” + </p> + <p> + After a while, Aaron asked the Marchesa if she would sing. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, do.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She went near the door, and stood with heir hands by her side. There was + something wistful, almost pathetic now, in her elegance. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Derriere chez mon pere + <i>Vole vole mon coeur, vole</i>! + Derriere chez mon pere + Il y a un pommier doux. + <i>Tout doux, et iou + Et iou, tout doux. + Il y a unpommier doux</i>. + + Trois belles princesses + <i>Vole vole mon coeur, vole</i>! + Trois belles princesses + Sont assis dessous. + <i>Tout doux, et iou + Et iou, tout doux. + Sont asses dessous.</i>” + </pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said. “It's no good. I can't sing.” And she dropped in her + chair. + </p> + <p> + “A lovely little tune,” said Aaron. “Haven't you got the music?” + </p> + <p> + She rose, not answering, and found him a little book. + </p> + <p> + “What do the words mean?” he asked her. + </p> + <p> + She told him. And then he took his flute. + </p> + <p> + “You don't mind if I play it, do you?” he said. + </p> + <p> + So he played the tune. It was so simple. And he seemed to catch the lilt + and the timbre of her voice. + </p> + <p> + “Come and sing it while I play—” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I can't sing,” she said, shaking her head rather bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “But let us try,” said he, disappointed. + </p> + <p> + “I know I can't,” she said. But she rose. + </p> + <p> + He remained sitting at the little table, the book propped up under the + reading lamp. She stood at a little distance, unhappy. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Bravo, Nan! That was what you wanted,” said her husband. + </p> + <p> + “It was, wasn't it?” she said, turning a wondering, glowing face to him. + </p> + <p> + His face looked strange and withered and gnome-like, at the moment. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He rose, therefore, and took his leave. + </p> + <p> + “But you'll let us do that again, won't you?” said she. + </p> + <p> + “When you tell me, I'll come,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “Then I'll tell you soon,” said she. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “So you blossom, do you?—and thorn as well,” said he. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You wanted the book of <i>chansons</i>?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I wanted to learn your tunes,” he replied. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + He opened the leaves at random. + </p> + <p> + “But I ought to know which ones you sing,” said he, rising and standing by + her side with the open book. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said, looking over his arm. He turned the pages one by one. “<i>Trois + jeunes tambours</i>,” said she. “Yes, that.... Yes, <i>En passant par la + Lorraine</i>.... <i>Aupres de ma blonde</i>.... Oh, I like that one so + much—” He stood and went over the tune in his mind. + </p> + <p> + “Would you like me to play it?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Very much,” said she. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “What have you to do this morning?” she asked him. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing,” he said. “Have you?” He lifted his head and looked at her. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing at all,” said she. + </p> + <p> + And then they sat in silence, he with his head dropped. Then again he + looked at her. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we be lovers?” he said. + </p> + <p> + She sat with her face averted, and did not answer. His heart struck + heavily, but he did not relax. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we be lovers?” came his voice once more, with the faintest touch of + irony. + </p> + <p> + Her face gradually grew dusky. And he wondered very much to see it. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said she, still not looking at him. “If you wish.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Now?” he said. “And where?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You don't want emotions? You don't want me to say things, do you?” he + said. + </p> + <p> + A faint ironic smile came on her face. + </p> + <p> + “I know what all that is worth,” she said, with curious calm equanimity. + “No, I want none of that.” + </p> + <p> + “Then—?” + </p> + <p> + But now she sat gazing on him with wide, heavy, incomprehensible eyes. It + annoyed him. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want to see in me?” he asked, with a smile, looking steadily + back again. + </p> + <p> + And now she turned aside her face once more, and once more the dusky + colour came in her cheek. He waited. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I go away?” he said at length. + </p> + <p> + “Would you rather?” she said, keeping her face averted. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Then again she was silent. + </p> + <p> + “Where shall I come to you?” he said. + </p> + <p> + She paused a moment still, then answered: + </p> + <p> + “I'll go to my room.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know which it is,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I'll show it you,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “And then I shall come to you in ten minutes. In ten minutes,” he + reiterated. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Quarter past four,” he said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You'll come again. We'll be like this again?” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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—-” + </p> + <p> + 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....” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX. CLEOPATRA, BUT NOT ANTHONY + </h2> + <p> + 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 <i>did</i> + like her. He did <i>esteem</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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—-” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + However, the visitors left fairly early, so Aaron stayed them out. When + they had gone, he asked: + </p> + <p> + “Where is Manfredi?” + </p> + <p> + “He will come in soon. At about seven o'clock.” + </p> + <p> + Then there was a silence again. + </p> + <p> + “You are dressed fine today,” he said to her. + </p> + <p> + “Am I?” she smiled. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You will stay to dinner tonight, won't you?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “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—-” + </p> + <p> + She bent her head and was silent for some moments. Then she lifted her + face and looked at him oddly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said. “I am sure you love your wife.” + </p> + <p> + The reply rather staggered him—and to tell the truth, annoyed him. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + She paused a moment. Then, very softly, almost gently, she said: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I do. I know so well what you mean.” + </p> + <p> + He was really surprised at her soft acquiescence. What <i>did</i> she + mean? + </p> + <p> + “But we can be friends, can't we?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I hope so. Why, yes! Goodness, yes! I should be sorry if we couldn't + be friends.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I should love to,” replied the husband. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>some</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes. That must be very interesting. They are very exclusive still, + the Venetian <i>noblesse</i>?” said Miss Wade. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Mr. French. “Perhaps you know the rhyme: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “'Veneziano gran' Signore + Padovano buon' dotore. + Vicenzese mangia il gatto + Veronese tutto matto—-'” + </pre> + <p> + “How very amusing!” said Miss Wade. “<i>Veneziana</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “To be born a Venetian GENTLEMAN, is to be born a great gentleman,” said + Mr. French, rather fussily. + </p> + <p> + “You seriously think so?” said Miss Wade. “Well now, what do you base your + opinion on?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. French gave various bases for his opinion. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What time is Manfredi coming back?” said he. + </p> + <p> + “Tomorrow,” replied she. + </p> + <p> + There was a pause. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you have those people?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Who?” + </p> + <p> + “Those two who were here this evening.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Wade and Mr. French?—Oh, I like Miss Wade so very much. She is + so refreshing.” + </p> + <p> + “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—-” + </p> + <p> + “No, don't say anything against her. I like her so much.” + </p> + <p> + “And him?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Matter of taste,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + They had not much to say to one another. The time passed, in the pauses. + He looked at his watch. + </p> + <p> + “I shall have to go,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Won't you stay?” she said, in a small, muted voice. + </p> + <p> + “Stay all night?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Won't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said quietly. Did he not feel the strength of his desire on him. + </p> + <p> + After which she said no more. Only she offered him whiskey and soda, which + he accepted. + </p> + <p> + “Go then,” he said to her. “And I'll come to you.—Shall I come in + fifteen minutes?” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him with strange, slow dark eyes. And he could not + understand. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said. And she went. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + This night he slept with a deeper obliviousness than before. But ah, as it + grew towards morning how he wished he could be alone. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + He did not know. He only knew it had nothing to do with him: and that, + save out of <i>complaisance</i>, he did not want it. It simply blasted his + own central life. It simply blighted him. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX. THE BROKEN ROD + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Aaron was looking for a seat—there was no table to him—when + suddenly someone took him by the arm. It was Argyle. + </p> + <p> + “Come along, now! Come and join us. Here, this way! Come along!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose no one will steal from the overcoat pockets,” he said, as he + sat down. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “My flute,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, they won't steal that,” said Argyle. + </p> + <p> + “Besides,” said Lilly, “we should see anyone who touched it.” + </p> + <p> + And so they settled down to the vermouth. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Or the bitches,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Did you see the row yesterday?” asked Levison. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Aaron. “What was it?” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Seems pretty mean,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Was he dead?” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—killed outright, the Nazione says.” + </p> + <p> + There was a silence. The drinkers in the cafe all continued to talk + vehemently, casting uneasy glances. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Argyle, “if you let loose the dogs of war, you mustn't expect + them to come to heel again in five minutes.” + </p> + <p> + “But there's no fair play about it, not a bit,” said Levison. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, my dear fellow, are you still so young and callow that you cherish + the illusion of fair play?” said Argyle. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am,” said Levison. + </p> + <p> + “Live longer and grow wiser,” said Argyle, rather contemptuously. + </p> + <p> + “Are you a socialist?” asked Levison. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But you haven't got an aunt called Tabitha,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Haven't I? Oh, haven't I? I've got TWO aunts called Tabitha: if not + more.” + </p> + <p> + “They aren't of any vital importance to you, are they?” said Levison. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You must have strained most of the gnats out of your drink, Argyle,” said + Lilly, laughing. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You're a bit of a SOCIALIST though, aren't you?” persisted Levison, now + turning to Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Lilly. “I was.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What kind of slavery?” asked Levison. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Unfortunately no. We are all such fools,” said Argyle. + </p> + <p> + “Besides,” said Levison, “who would you make slaves of?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Then who would be the masters?—the professional classes, doctors + and lawyers and so on?” + </p> + <p> + “What? Masters. They would be the sewerage slaves, as being those who had + made most smells.” There was a moment's silence. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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—” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “There I don't follow you,” said Levison. “Suppose you were in Russia now—” + </p> + <p> + “I watch it I'm not.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Not mine,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “How shall you escape it?” said Levison. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Somewhere else,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, I tell you.—The idea and the ideal has for me gone dead—dead + as carrion—” + </p> + <p> + “Which idea, which ideal precisely?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That may be true for you—” + </p> + <p> + “But it's true for nobody else,” said Lilly. “All the worse for them. Let + them die of the bee-disease.” + </p> + <p> + “Not only that,” persisted Levison, “but what is your alternative? Is it + merely nihilism?” + </p> + <p> + “My alternative,” said Lilly, “is an alternative for no one but myself, so + I'll keep my mouth shut about it.” + </p> + <p> + “That isn't fair.” + </p> + <p> + “I tell you, the ideal of fairness stinks with the rest.—I have no + obligation to say what I think.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, if you enter into conversation, you have—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It'll take a bit of knowing, who are the inferior and which is the + superior,” said Levison sarcastically. + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit. It is written between a man's brows, which he is.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid we shall all read differently.” + </p> + <p> + “So long as we're liars.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean military power?” + </p> + <p> + “I do, of course.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It will take you some time before you'll get your doctrines accepted,” he + said. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I take it you are speaking seriously.” + </p> + <p> + Here Lilly broke into that peculiar, gay, whimsical smile. + </p> + <p> + “But I should say the blank opposite with just as much fervour,” he + declared. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to say you don't MEAN what you've been saying?” said Levison, + now really looking angry. + </p> + <p> + “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—?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Levison unwillingly. “That may be true as well. You have no + doubt, like most of us, got a complex nature which—” + </p> + <p> + C R A S H! + </p> + <p> + There intervened one awful minute of pure shock, when the soul was in + darkness. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Lilly began to look round. He caught Aaron's eye. And then Aaron began to + approach his friend. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “A bomb,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Let us go,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My hat and coat?” he said to Lilly. + </p> + <p> + Lilly, not very tall, stood on tiptoe. Then he climbed on a chair and + looked round. Then he squeezed past the crowd. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Then he became aware of Lilly's eyes on him—and automatically he + joined the little man. + </p> + <p> + “Let us go,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Who threw the bomb?” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose an anarchist.” + </p> + <p> + “It's all the same,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Is that your flute?” asked Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “Bit of it. Smashed.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me look.” + </p> + <p> + He looked, and gave it back. + </p> + <p> + “No good,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Throw it in the river, Aaron,” said Lilly. + </p> + <p> + Aaron turned and looked at him. + </p> + <p> + “Throw it in the river,” repeated Lilly. “It's an end.” + </p> + <p> + Aaron nervelessly dropped the flute into the stream. The two men stood + leaning on the bridge-parapet, as if unable to move. + </p> + <p> + “We shall have to go home,” said Lilly. “Tanny may hear of it and be + anxious.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “There goes Aaron's Rod, then,” he said to Lilly. + </p> + <p> + “It'll grow again. It's a reed, a water-plant—you can't kill it,” + said Lilly, unheeding. + </p> + <p> + “And me?” + </p> + <p> + “You'll have to live without a rod, meanwhile.” + </p> + <p> + To which pleasant remark Aaron made no reply. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI. WORDS + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The next thing he could recall was, that he was in a boat. And now he was + most definitely two people. His invisible, <i>conscious</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + So the naked elbow struck smartly against the stake as the boat passed. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>knew</i>. He + knew, and his soul was against the whole world. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + As he lay pondering this over, escaping from the <i>cul de sac</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Aaron. “I'm all right.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “We're going away on Thursday,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Where to?” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Aaron felt very queer. + </p> + <p> + “But for how long will you settle down—?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps not,” said Aaron, who had risen and was sitting on the side of + the bed. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I guess there are others that feel caged, as well as you,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “I guess there are.” + </p> + <p> + “And maybe they haven't a chance to get out.” + </p> + <p> + Lilly was silent a moment. Then he said: + </p> + <p> + “Well, I didn't make life and society. I can only go my own way.” + </p> + <p> + Aaron too was silent. A deep disappointment was settling over his spirit. + </p> + <p> + “Will you be alone all winter?” + </p> + <p> + “Just myself and Tanny,” he answered. “But people always turn up.” + </p> + <p> + “And then next year, what will you do?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What,” said Aaron rather sarcastically—“those who are looking for a + new religion?” + </p> + <p> + “Religion—and love—and all that. It's a disease now.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't know,” said Aaron. “Perhaps the lack of love and religion is + the disease.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And where should we be if we could?” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “We might begin to be ourselves, anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + “And what does that mean?” said Aaron. “Being yourself—what does it + mean?” + </p> + <p> + “To me, everything.” + </p> + <p> + “And to most folks, nothing. They've got to have a goal.” + </p> + <p> + “There is no goal. I loathe goals more than any other impertinence. Gaols, + they are. Bah—jails and jailers, gaols and gaolers—-” + </p> + <p> + “Wherever you go, you'll find people with their noses tied to some goal,” + said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Their wagon hitched to a star—which goes round and round like an + ass in a gin,” laughed Lilly. “Be damned to it.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + They sat thus still—or lay under the trees—for an hour and a + half. Then Lilly paid the bill, and went on. + </p> + <p> + “What am I going to do this winter, do you think?” Aaron asked. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want to do?” + </p> + <p> + “Nay, that's what I want to know.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you want anything? I mean, does something drive you from inside?” + </p> + <p> + “I can't just rest,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Can't you settle down to something?—to a job, for instance?” + </p> + <p> + “I've not found the job I could settle down to, yet,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “It's just my nature.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you a seeker? Have you got a divine urge, or need?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well then. Now, in life, there are only two great dynamic urges—do + you believe me—?” + </p> + <p> + “How do I know?” laughed Aaron. “Do you want to be believed?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don't care a straw. Only for your own sake, you'd better believe + me.” + </p> + <p> + “All right then—what about it?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, there are only two great dynamic urges in LIFE: love and + power.” + </p> + <p> + “Love and power?” said Aaron. “I don't see power as so very important.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you do. You know that you have got an urge, don't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—” rather unwillingly Aaron admitted it. + </p> + <p> + “Well then, what is it? Is it that you want to love, or to be obeyed?” + </p> + <p> + “A bit of both.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “That's what I started out for, perhaps,” laughed Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “And now you know it's all my eye!” Aaron looked at Lilly, unwilling to + admit it. Lilly began to laugh. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Again Aaron looked at Lilly with that odd double look of mockery and + unwillingness to give himself away. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I won't,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “You must. If you've got a love-urge, then give it its fulfilment.” + </p> + <p> + “I haven't got a love-urge.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Not any more—not any more. I've been had too often,” laughed Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what am I to do then, if I'm not to love?” cried Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “There's probably more hate than love in me,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “All right then. I'm a criminal and a murderer,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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. <i>Niente</i>! 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. + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Trot, trot to market, to buy a penny bun, + And trot, trot back again, as fast as you can run.' +</pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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....” + </p> + <p> + Aaron was silenced for a moment by this flood of words. Then he said + smiling: + </p> + <p> + “So I'd better sit tight on my soul, till it hatches, had I?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I never said it didn't,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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....” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I feel that,” said Aaron. “It's all a lie.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You'll never get it,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “She never will,” persisted Aaron. “Anything else will happen, but not + that.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Woman yield—?” Aaron re-echoed. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You'll never get it,” said Aaron. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “And whom shall I submit to?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Your soul will tell you,” replied the other. + </p> + <p> + THE END <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +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-h.htm or 4520-h.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, and David Widger + + +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. 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