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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ed852f8 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #54895 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54895) diff --git a/old/54895-8.txt b/old/54895-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index df03e58..0000000 --- a/old/54895-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6439 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Limbo, by Aldous Huxley - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Limbo - -Author: Aldous Huxley - -Release Date: June 11, 2017 [EBook #54895] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIMBO *** - - - - -Produced by Paul Haxo from page images generously made -available by the University of Toronto and the Internet -Archive. - - - - - - -LIMBO - - - -BY THE SAME AUTHOR -LEDA; AND OTHER POEMS - - - -LIMBO -BY ALDOUS HUXLEY - -LONDON -CHATTO & WINDUS -1920 - - - -_All rights reserved_ - - - -CONTENTS - - PAGE - -FARCICAL HISTORY OF RICHARD GREENOW 1 - -HAPPILY EVER AFTER 116 - -EUPOMPUS GAVE SPLENDOUR TO ART BY NUMBERS 192 - -HAPPY FAMILIES 211 - -CYNTHIA 245 - -THE BOOKSHOP 259 - -THE DEATH OF LULLY 269 - - - -LIMBO - -FARCICAL HISTORY OF RICHARD GREENOW - -I - -THE most sumptuous present that Millicent received on her seventh -birthday was a doll's house. "With love to darling little Mill from -Aunty Loo." Aunt Loo was immensely rich, and the doll's house was -almost as grandiose and massive as herself. - -It was divided into four rooms, each papered in a different colour and -each furnished as was fitting: beds and washstands and wardrobes in -the upstair rooms, arm-chairs and artificial plants below. "Replete -with every modern convenience; sumptuous appointments." There was even -a cold collation ready spread on the dining-room table--two scarlet -lobsters on a dish, and a ham that had been sliced into just enough to -reveal an internal complexion of the loveliest pink and white. One -might go on talking about the doll's house for ever, it was so -beautiful. Such, at any rate, was the opinion of Millicent's brother -Dick. He would spend hours opening and shutting the front door, -peeping through the windows, arranging and rearranging the furniture. -As for Millicent, the gorgeous present left her cold. She had been -hoping--and, what is more, praying, fervently, every night for a -month--that Aunty Loo would give her a toy sewing-machine (one of the -kind that works, though) for her birthday. - -She was bitterly disappointed when the doll's house came instead. But -she bore it all stoically and managed to be wonderfully polite to -Aunty Loo about the whole affair. She never looked at the doll's -house: it simply didn't interest her. - -Dick had already been at a preparatory school for a couple of terms. -Mr. Killigrew, the headmaster, thought him a promising boy. "Has quite -a remarkable aptitude for mathematics," he wrote in his report. "He -has started Algebra this term and shows a"--"quite remarkable" -scratched out (the language of reports is apt to be somewhat -limited)--"a very unusual grasp of the subject." Mr. Killigrew didn't -know that his pupil also took an interest in dolls: if he had, he -would have gibed at Dick as unmercifully and in nearly the same terms -as Dick's fellow-schoolboys--for shepherds grow to resemble their -sheep and pedagogues their childish charges. But of course Dick would -never have dreamt of telling anyone at school about it. He was chary -of letting even the people at home divine his weakness, and when -anyone came into the room where the doll's house was, he would put his -hands in his pockets and stroll out, whistling the tune of, "There is -a Happy Land far, far away, where they have Ham and Eggs seven times a -day," as though he had merely stepped in to have a look at the beastly -thing--just to give it a kick. - -When he wasn't playing with the doll's house, Dick spent his holiday -time in reading, largely, devouringly. No length or -incomprehensibility could put him off; he had swallowed down _Robert -Elsmere_ in the three-volume edition at the age of eight. When he -wasn't reading he used to sit and think about Things in General and -Nothing in Particular; in fact, as Millicent reproachfully put it, he -just mooned about. Millicent, on the other hand, was always busily -doing something: weeding in the garden, or hoeing, or fruit-picking -(she could be trusted not to eat more than the recognized tariff--one -in twenty raspberries or one in forty plums); helping Kate in the -kitchen; knitting mufflers for those beings known vaguely as The -Cripples, while her mother read aloud in the evenings before bedtime. -She disapproved of Dick's mooning, but Dick mooned all the same. - -When Dick was twelve and a half he knew enough about mathematics and -history and the dead languages to realize that his dear parents were -profoundly ignorant and uncultured. But, what was more pleasing to the -dear parents, he knew enough to win a scholarship at Ćsop College, -which is one of our Greatest Public Schools. - -If this were a Public School story, I should record the fact that, -while at Ćsop, Dick swore, lied, blasphemed, repeated dirty stories, -read the articles in _John Bull_ about brothels disguised as -nursing-homes and satyrs disguised as curates; that he regarded his -masters, with very few exceptions, as fools, not even always -well-meaning. And so on. All which would be quite true, but beside the -point. For this is not one of the conventional studies of those clever -young men who discover Atheism and Art at School, Socialism at the -University, and, passing through the inevitable stage of Sex and -Syphilis after taking their B.A., turn into maturely brilliant -novelists at the age of twenty-five. I prefer, therefore, to pass over -the minor incidents of a difficult pubescence, touching only on those -points which seem to throw a light on the future career of our hero. - -It is possible for those who desire it--incredible as the thing may -appear--to learn something at Ćsop College. Dick even learnt a great -deal. From the beginning he was the young Benjamin of his mathematical -tutor, Mr. Skewbauld, a man of great abilities in his own art, and -who, though wholly incapable of keeping a form in order, could make -his private tuition a source of much profit to a mathematically minded -boy. Mr. Skewbauld's house was the worst in Ćsop: Dick described it as -a mixture between a ghetto and a home for the mentally deficient, and -when he read in Sir Thomas Browne that it was a Vulgar Error to -suppose that Jews stink, he wrote a letter to the _School Magazine_ -exploding that famous doctor as a quack and a charlatan, whose -statements ran counter to the manifest facts of everyday life in Mr. -Skewbauld's house. It may seem surprising that Dick should have read -Sir Thomas Browne at all. But he was more than a mere mathematician. -He filled the ample leisure, which is Ćsop's most precious gift to -those of its Alumni who know how to use it, with much and varied -reading in history, in literature, in physical science, and in more -than one foreign language. Dick was something of a prodigy. - -"Greenow's an intellectual," was Mr. Copthorne-Slazenger's -contemptuous verdict. "I have the misfortune to have two or three -intellectuals in my house. They're all of them friends of his. I think -he's a Bad Influence in the School." Copthorne-Slazenger regarded -himself as the perfect example of _mens sana in corpore sano_, the -soul of an English gentleman in the body of a Greek god. Unfortunately -his legs were rather too short and his lower lip was underhung like a -salmon's. - -Dick had, indeed, collected about him a band of kindred spirits. There -was Partington, who specialized in history; Gay, who had read all the -classical writings of the golden age and was engaged in the study of -medićval Latin; Fletton, who was fantastically clever and had brought -the art of being idle to a pitch never previously reached in the -annals of Ćsop. These were his chief friends, and a queer-looking -group they made--Dick, small and dark and nervous; Partington, all -roundness, and whose spectacles were two moons in a moonface; Gay, -with the stiff walk of a little old man; and Fletton, who looked like -nobody so much as Mr. Jingle, tall and thin with a twisted, comical -face. - -"An ugly skulking crew," Copthorne-Slazenger, conscious of his own -Olympian splendour, would say as he saw them pass. - -With these faithful friends Dick should have been--and indeed for the -most part was--very happy. Between them they mustered up a great stock -of knowledge; they could discuss every subject under the sun. They -were a liberal education and an amusement to one another. There were -times, however, when Dick was filled with a vague, but acute, -discontent. He wanted something which his friends could not give him; -but what, but what? The discontent rankled under the surface, like a -suppressed measles. It was Lord Francis Quarles who brought it out and -made the symptoms manifest. - -Francis Quarles was a superb creature, with the curly forehead of a -bull and the face and limbs of a Grćco-Roman statue. It was a sight -worth seeing when he looked down through half-shut eyelids, in his -usual attitude of sleepy arrogance, on the world about him. He was in -effect what Mr. Copthorne-Slazenger imagined himself to be, and he -shared that gentleman's dislike for Dick and his friends. "Yellow -little atheists," he called them. He always stood up for God and the -Church of England; they were essential adjuncts to the aristocracy. -God, indeed, was almost a member of the Family; lack of belief in Him -amounted to a personal insult to the name of Quarles. - -It was half-way through the summer term, when Dick was sixteen, on one -of those days of brilliant sunshine and cloudless blue, when the sight -of beautiful and ancient buildings is peculiarly poignant. Their age -and quiet stand out in melancholy contrast against the radiant life of -the summer; and at Ćsop the boys go laughing under their antique -shadow; "Little victims"--you feel how right Gray was. Dick was idly -strolling across the quadrangle, engaged in merely observing the -beauty about him--the golden-grey chapel, with its deep geometrical -shadows between the buttresses, the comely rose-coloured shapes of the -brick-built Tudor buildings, the weathercocks glittering in the sun, -the wheeling flurries of pigeons. His old discontent had seized on him -again, and to-day in the presence of all this beauty it had become -almost unbearable. All at once, out of the mouth of one of the dark -little tunnelled doors pierced in the flanks of the sleeping building, -a figure emerged into the light. It was Francis Quarles, clad in white -flannels and the radiance of the sunshine. He appeared like a -revelation, bright, beautiful, and sudden, before Dick's eyes. A -violent emotion seized him; his heart leapt, his bowels were moved -within him; he felt a little sick and faint--he had fallen in love. - -Francis passed by without deigning to notice him. His head was high, -his eyes drowsy under their drooping lids. He was gone, and for Dick -all the light was out, the beloved quadrangle was a prison-yard, the -pigeons a loathsome flock of carrion eaters. Gay and Partington came -up behind him with shouts of invitation. Dick walked rudely away. God! -how he hated them and their wretched, silly talk and their yellow, -ugly faces. - -The weeks that followed were full of strangeness. For the first time -in his life Dick took to writing poetry. There was one sonnet which -began: - - Is it a vision or a waking dream? - Or is it truly Apollo that I see, - Come from his sylvan haunts in Arcady - { laugh and loiter - To { - { sing and saunter by an English stream. . . . - -He kept on repeating the words to himself, "Sylvan haunts in Arcady," -"laugh and loiter" (after much thought he had adopted that as more -liquidly melodious than "sing and saunter"). How beautiful they -sounded!--as beautiful as Keats--more beautiful, for they were his -own. - -He avoided the company of Gay and Fletton and Partington; they had -become odious to him, and their conversation, when he could bring -himself to listen to it, was, somehow, almost incomprehensible. He -would sit for hours alone in his study; not working--for he could not -understand the mathematical problems on which he had been engaged -before the fateful day in the quadrangle--but reading novels and the -poetry of Mrs. Browning, and at intervals writing something rather -ecstatic of his own. After a long preparatory screwing up of his -courage, he dared at last to send a fag with a note to Francis, asking -him to tea; and when Francis rather frigidly refused, he actually -burst into tears. He had not cried like that since he was a child. - -He became suddenly very religious. He would spend an hour on his knees -every night, praying, praying with frenzy. He mortified the flesh with -fasting and watching. He even went so far as to flagellate himself--or -at least tried to; for it is very difficult to flagellate yourself -adequately with a cane in a room so small that any violent gesture -imperils the bric-ŕ-brac. He would pass half the night stark naked, in -absurd postures, trying to hurt himself. And then, after the -dolorously pleasant process of self-maceration was over, he used to -lean out of the window and listen to the murmurs of the night and fill -his spirit with the warm velvet darkness of midsummer. -Copthorne-Slazenger, coming back by the late train from town one -night, happened to see his moon-pale face hanging out of window and -was delighted to be able to give him two hundred Greek lines to remind -him that even a member of the Sixth Form requires sleep sometimes. - -The fit lasted three weeks. "I can't think what's the matter with you, -Greenow," complained Mr. Skewbauld snufflingly. "You seem incapable or -unwilling to do anything at all. I suspect the cause is constipation. -If only everyone would take a little paraffin every night before going -to bed! . . ." Mr. Skewbauld's self-imposed mission in life -was the propagation of the paraffin habit. It was the universal -panacea--the cure for every ill. - -His friends of before the crisis shook their heads and could only -suppose him mad. And then the fit ended as suddenly as it had begun. - -It happened at a dinner-party given by the Cravisters. Dr. Cravister -was the Headmaster of Ćsop--a good, gentle, learned old man, with -snow-white hair and a saintly face which the spirit of comic irony had -embellished with a nose that might, so red and bulbous it was, have -been borrowed from the properties of a music-hall funny man. And then -there was Mrs. Cravister, large and stately as a galleon with all -sails set. Those who met her for the first time might be awed by the -dignity of what an Elizabethan would have called her "swelling port." -But those who knew her well went in terror of the fantastic spirit -which lurked behind the outward majesty. They were afraid of what that -richly modulated voice of hers might utter. It was not merely that she -was malicious--and she had a gift of ever-ready irony; no, what was -alarming in all her conversation was the element of the unexpected. -With most people one feels comfortably secure that they will always -say the obvious and ordinary things; with Mrs. Cravister, never. The -best one could do was to be on guard and to try and look, when she -made a more than usually characteristic remark, less of a bewildered -fool than one felt. - -Mrs. Cravister received her guests--they were all of them boys--with -stately courtesy. They found it pleasant to be taken so seriously, to -be treated as perfectly grown men; but at the same time, they always -had with Mrs. Cravister a faint uncomfortable suspicion that all her -politeness was an irony so exquisite as to be practically -undistinguishable from ingenuousness. - -"Good evening, Mr. Gay," she said, holding out her hand and shutting -her eyes; it was one of her disconcerting habits, this shutting of the -eyes. "What a pleasure it will be to hear you talking to us again -about eschatology." - -Gay, who had never talked about eschatology and did not know the -meaning of the word, smiled a little dimly and made a protesting -noise. - -"Eschatology? What a charming subject!" The fluty voice belonged to -Henry Cravister, the Headmaster's son, a man of about forty who worked -in the British Museum. He was almost too cultured, too erudite. - -"But I don't know anything about it," said Gay desperately. - -"Spare us your modesty," Henry Cravister protested. - -His mother shook hands with the other guests, putting some at their -ease with a charming phrase and embarrassing others by saying -something baffling and unexpected that would have dismayed even the -hardiest diner-out, much more a schoolboy tremblingly on his good -behaviour. At the tail end of the group of boys stood Dick and Francis -Quarles. Mrs. Cravister slowly raised her heavy waxen eyelids and -regarded them a moment in silence. - -"The Grćco-Roman and the Gothic side by side!" she exclaimed. "Lord -Francis is something in the Vatican, a rather late piece of work; and -Mr. Greenow is a little gargoyle from the roof of Notre Dame de Paris. -Two epochs of art--how clearly one sees the difference. And my -husband, I always think, is purely Malayan in design--purely Malayan," -she repeated as she shook hands with the two boys. - -Dick blushed to the roots of his hair, but Francis' impassive -arrogance remained unmoved. Dick stole a glance in his direction, and -at the sight of his calm face he felt a new wave of adoring admiration -sweeping through him. - -The company was assembled and complete, Mrs. Cravister looked round -the room and remarking, "We won't wait for Mr. Copthorne-Slazenger," -sailed majestically in the direction of the door. She particularly -disliked this member of her husband's staff, and lost no opportunity -of being rude to him. Thus, where an ordinary hostess might have said, -"Shall we come in to dinner?" Mrs. Cravister employed the formula, "We -won't wait for Mr. Copthorne-Slazenger"; and a guest unacquainted with -Mrs. Cravister's habits would be surprised on entering the dining-room -to find that all the seats at the table were filled, and that the meal -proceeded smoothly without a single further reference to the missing -Copthorne, who never turned up at all, for the good reason that he had -never been invited. - -Dinner began a little nervously and uncomfortably. At one end of the -table the Headmaster was telling anecdotes of Ćsop in the sixties, at -which the boys in his neighbourhood laughed with a violent nervous -insincerity. Henry Cravister, still talking about eschatology, was -quoting from Sidonius Apollinarius and Commodianus of Gaza. Mrs. -Cravister, who had been engaged in a long colloquy with the butler, -suddenly turned on Dick with the remark, "And so you have a deep, -passionate fondness for cats," as though they had been intimately -discussing the subject for the last hour. Dick had enough presence of -mind to say that, yes, he did like cats--all except those Manx ones -that had no tails. - -"No tails," Mrs. Cravister repeated--"no tails. Like men. How -symbolical everything is!" - -Francis Quarles was sitting opposite him, so that Dick had ample -opportunity to look at his idol. How perfectly he did everything, down -to eating his soup! The first lines of a new poem began to buzz in -Dick's head: - - "All, all I lay at thy proud marble feet-- - My heart, my love and all my future days. - Upon thy brow for ever let me gaze, - For ever touch thy hair: oh (something) sweet . . ." - -Would he be able to find enough rhymes to make it into a sonnet? Mrs. -Cravister, who had been leaning back in her chair for the last few -minutes in a state of exhausted abstraction, opened her eyes and said -to nobody in particular: - -"Ah, how I envy the calm of those Chinese dynasties!" - -"Which Chinese dynasties?" a well-meaning youth inquired. - -"Any Chinese dynasty, the more remote the better. Henry, tell us the -names of some Chinese dynasties." - -In obedience to his mother, Henry delivered a brief disquisition on -the history of politics, art, and letters in the Far East. - -The Headmaster continued his reminiscences. - -An angel of silence passed. The boys, whose shyness had begun to wear -off, became suddenly and painfully conscious of hearing themselves -eating. Mrs. Cravister saved the situation. - -"Lord Francis knows all about birds," she said in her most thrilling -voice. "Perhaps he can tell us why it is the unhappy fate of the -carrion crow to mate for life." - -Conversation again became general. Dick was still thinking about his -sonnet. Oh, these rhymes!--praise, bays, roundelays, amaze: greet, -bleat, defeat, beat, paraclete. . . . - - ". . . to sing the praise - In anthems high and solemn roundelays - Of Holy Father, Son and Paraclete." - -That was good--damned good; but it hardly seemed to fit in with the -first quatrain. It would do for one of his religious poems, though. He -had written a lot of sacred verse lately. - -Then suddenly, cutting across his ecstatic thoughts, came the sound of -Henry Cravister's reedy voice. - -"But I always find Pater's style so _coarse_," it said. - -Something explosive took place in Dick's head. It often happens when -one blows one's nose that some passage in the labyrinth connecting -ears and nose and throat is momentarily blocked, and one becomes deaf -and strangely dizzy. Then, suddenly, the mucous bubble bursts, sound -rushes back to the brain, the head feels clear and stable once more. -It was something like this, but transposed into terms of the spirit, -that seemed now to have happened to Dick. - -It was as though some mysterious obstruction in his brain, which had -dammed up and diverted his faculties from their normal course during -the past three weeks, had been on a sudden overthrown. His life seemed -to be flowing once more along familiar channels. - -He was himself again. - -"But I always find Pater's style so _coarse_." - -These few words of solemn foolery were the spell which had somehow -performed the miracle. It was just the sort of remark he might have -made three weeks ago, before the crisis. For a moment, indeed, he -almost thought it was he himself who had spoken; his own authentic -voice, carried across the separating gulf of days, had woken him again -to life! - -He looked at Francis Quarles. Why, the fellow was nothing but a great -prize ox, a monstrous animal. "There was a Lady loved a Swine. Honey, -said she . . ." It was ignoble, it was ridiculous. He could have -hidden his face in his hands for pure shame; shame tingled through his -body. Goodness, how grotesquely he had behaved! - -He leaned across and began talking to Henry Cravister about Pater and -style and books in general. Cravister was amazed at the maturity of -the boy's mind; for he possessed to a remarkable degree that critical -faculty which in the vast majority of boys is--and from their lack of -experience must be--wholly lacking. - -"You must come and see me some time when you're in London," Henry -Cravister said to him when the time came for the boys to get back to -their houses. Dick was flattered; he had not said that to any of the -others. He walked home with Gay, laughing and talking quite in his old -fashion. Gay marvelled at the change in his companion; strange, -inexplicable fellow! but it was pleasant to have him back again, to -repossess the lost friend. Arrived in his room, Dick sat down to -attack the last set of mathematical problems that had been set him. -Three hours ago they had appeared utterly incomprehensible; now he -understood them perfectly. His mind was like a giant refreshed, -delighting in its strength. - -Next day Mr. Skewbauld congratulated him on his answers. - -"You seem quite to have recovered your old form, Greenow," he said. -"Did you take my advice? Paraffin regularly . . ." - -Looking back on the events of the last weeks, Dick was disquieted. Mr. -Skewbauld might be wrong in recommending paraffin, but he was surely -right in supposing that something was the matter and required a -remedy. What could it be? He felt so well; but that, of course, proved -nothing. He began doing Müller's exercises, and he bought a jar of -malt extract and a bottle of hypophosphites. After much consultation -of medical handbooks and the encyclopćdia, he came to the conclusion -that he was suffering from anćmia of the brain; and for some time one -fixed idea haunted him: Suppose the blood completely ceased to flow to -his brain, suppose he were to fall down suddenly dead or, worse, -become utterly and hopelessly paralysed. . . . Happily the -distractions of Ćsop in the summer term were sufficiently numerous and -delightful to divert his mind from this gloomy brooding, and he felt -so well and in such high spirits that it was impossible to go on -seriously believing that he was at death's door. Still, whenever he -thought of the events of those strange weeks he was troubled. He did -not like being confronted by problems which he could not solve. During -the rest of his stay at school he was troubled by no more than the -merest velleities of a relapse. A fit of moon-gazing and incapacity to -understand the higher mathematics had threatened him one time when he -was working rather too strenuously for a scholarship. But a couple of -days' complete rest had staved off the peril. There had been rather a -painful scene, too, at Dick's last School Concert. Oh, those Ćsop -concerts! Musically speaking, of course, they are deplorable; but how -rich from all other points of view than the merely ćsthetic! The -supreme moment arrives at the very end when three of the most eminent -and popular of those about to leave mount the platform together and -sing the famous "Ćsop, Farewell." Greatest of school songs! The words -are not much, but the tune, which goes swooning along in three-four -time, is perhaps the masterpiece of the late organist, Dr. Pilch. - -Dick was leaving, but he was not a sufficiently heroic figure to have -been asked to sing, "Ćsop, Farewell." He was simply a member of the -audience, and one, moreover, who had come to the concert in a critical -and mocking spirit. For, as he had an ear for music, it was impossible -for him to take the concert very seriously. The choir had clamorously -re-crucified the Messiah; the soloists had all done their worst; and -now it was time for "Ćsop, Farewell." The heroes climbed on to the -stage. They were three demi-gods, but Francis Quarles was the most -splendid of the group as he stood there with head thrown back, eyes -almost closed, calm and apparently unconscious of the crowd that -seethed, actually and metaphorically, beneath him. He was wearing an -enormous pink orchid in the buttonhole of his evening coat; his -shirt-front twinkled with diamond studs; the buttons of his waistcoat -were of fine gold. At the sight of him, Dick felt his heart beating -violently; he was not, he painfully realized, master of himself. - -The music struck up--Dum, dum, dumdidi, dumdidi; dum, dum, dum, and so -on. So like the _Merry Widow._ In two days' time he would have left -Ćsop for ever. The prospect had never affected him very intensely. He -had enjoyed himself at school, but he had never, like so many -Ćsopians, fallen in love with the place. It remained for him an -institution; for others it was almost an adored person. But to-night -his spirit, rocked on a treacly ocean of dominant sevenths, succumbed -utterly to the sweet sorrow of parting. And there on the platform -stood Francis. Oh, how radiantly beautiful! And when he began, in his -rich tenor, the first verse of the Valedictory: - - "Farewell, Mother Ćsop, - Our childhood's home! - Our spirit is with thee, - Though far we roam . . ." - -he found himself hysterically sobbing. - - - -II - -CANTELOUP COLLEGE is perhaps the most frightful building in -Oxford--and to those who know their Oxford well this will mean not a -little. Up till the middle of last century Canteloup possessed two -quadrangles of fifteenth-century buildings, unimpressive and petty, -like so much of College architecture, but at least quiet, unassuming, -decent. After the accession of Victoria the College began to grow in -numbers, wealth, and pride. The old buildings were too small and -unpretentious for what had now become a Great College. In the summer -of 1867 a great madness fell upon the Master and Fellows. They hired a -most distinguished architect, bred up in the school of Ruskin, who -incontinently razed all the existing buildings to the ground and -erected in their stead a vast pile in the approved Mauro-Venetian -Gothic of the period. The New Buildings contained a great number of -rooms, each served by a separate and almost perpendicular staircase; -and if nearly half of them were so dark as to make it necessary to -light them artificially for all but three hours out of the -twenty-four, this slight defect was wholly outweighed by the striking -beauty, from outside, of the Neo-Byzantine loopholes by which they -were, euphemistically, "lighted." - -Prospects in Canteloup may not please; but man, on the other hand, -tends to be less vile there than in many other places. There is an -equal profusion at Canteloup of Firsts and Blues; there are Union -orators of every shade of opinion and young men so languidly well bred -as to take no interest in politics of any kind; there are drinkers of -cocoa and drinkers of champagne. Canteloup is a microcosm, a whole -world in miniature; and whatever your temperament and habits may be, -whether you wish to drink, or row, or work, or hunt, Canteloup will -provide you with congenial companions and a spiritual home. - -Lack of athletic distinction had prevented Dick from being, at Ćsop, a -hero or anything like one. At Canteloup, in a less barbarically -ordered state of society, things were different. His rooms in the -Venetian gazebo over the North Gate became the meeting-place of all -that was most intellectually distinguished in Canteloup and the -University at large. He had had his sitting-room austerely upholstered -and papered in grey. A large white Chinese figure of the best period -stood pedestalled in one corner, and on the walls there hung a few -uncompromisingly good drawings and lithographs by modern artists. -Fletton, who had accompanied Dick from Ćsop to Canteloup, called it -the "cerebral chamber"; and with its prevailing tone of brain-coloured -grey and the rather dry intellectual taste of its decorations it -deserved the name. - -To-night the cerebral chamber had been crammed. The Canteloup branch -of the Fabian Society, under Dick's presidency, had been holding a -meeting. "Art in the Socialist State" was what they had been -discussing. And now the meeting had broken up, leaving nothing but -three empty jugs that had once contained mulled claret and a general -air of untidiness to testify to its having taken place at all. Dick -stood leaning an elbow on the mantelpiece and absent-mindedly kicking, -to the great detriment of his pumps, at the expiring red embers in the -grate. From the depths of a huge and cavernous arm-chair, Fletton, -pipe in mouth, fumed like a sleepy volcano. - -"I liked the way, Dick," he said, with a laugh--"the way you went for -the Arty-Crafties. You utterly destroyed them." - -"I merely pointed out, what is sufficiently obvious, that crafts are -not art, nor anything like it, that's all." Dick snapped out the -words. He was nervous and excited, and his body felt as though it were -full of compressed springs ready to jump at the most imponderable -touch. He was always like that after making a speech. - -"You did it very effectively," said Fletton. There was a silence -between the two young men. - -A noise like the throaty yelling of savages in rut came wafting up -from the quadrangle on which the windows of the cerebral chamber -opened. Dick started; all the springs within him had gone off at -once--a thousand simultaneous Jack-in-the-boxes. - -"It's only Francis Quarles' dinner-party becoming vocal," Fletton -explained. "Blind mouths, as Milton would call them." - -Dick began restlessly pacing up and down the room. When Fletton spoke -to him, he did not reply or, at best, gave utterance to a monosyllable -or a grunt. - -"My dear Dick," said the other at last, "you're not very good company -to-night," and heaving himself up from the arm-chair, Fletton went -shuffling in his loose, heelless slippers towards the door. "I'm going -to bed." - -Dick paused in his lion-like prowling to listen to the receding sound -of feet on the stairs. All was silent now: Gott sei dank. He went into -his bedroom. It was there that he kept his piano, for it was a piece -of furniture too smugly black and polished to have a place in the -cerebral chamber. He had been thirsting after his piano all the time -Fletton was sitting there, damn him! He drew up a chair and began to -play over and over a certain series of chords. With his left hand he -struck an octave G in the base, while his right dwelt lovingly on F, -B, and E. A luscious chord, beloved by Mendelssohn--a chord in which -the native richness of the dominant seventh is made more rich, more -piercing sweet by the addition of a divine discord. G, F, B, and E--he -let the notes hang tremulously on the silence, savoured to the full -their angelic overtones; then, when the sound of the chord had almost -died away, he let it droop reluctantly through D to the simple, -triumphal beauty of C natural--the diapason closing full in what was -for Dick a wholly ineffable emotion. - -He repeated that dying fall again and again, perhaps twenty times. -Then, when he was satiated with its deliciousness, he rose from the -piano and opening the lowest drawer of the wardrobe pulled out from -under his evening clothes a large portfolio. He undid the strings; it -was full of photogravure reproductions from various Old Masters. There -was an almost complete set of Greuze's works, several of the most -striking Ary Scheffers, some Alma Tadema, some Leighton, photographs -of sculpture by Torwaldsen and Canova, Boecklin's "Island of the -Dead," religious pieces by Holman Hunt, and a large packet of -miscellaneous pictures from the Paris Salons of the last forty years. -He took them into the cerebral chamber where the light was better, and -began to study them, lovingly, one by one. The Cézanne lithograph, the -three admirable etchings by Van Gogh, the little Picasso looked on, -unmoved, from the walls. - -It was three o'clock before Dick got to bed. He was stiff and cold, -but full of the satisfaction of having accomplished something. And, -indeed, he had cause to be satisfied; for he had written the first -four thousand words of a novel, a chapter and a half of _Heartsease -Fitzroy: the Story of a Young Girl_. - -Next morning Dick looked at what he had written overnight, and was -alarmed. He had never produced anything quite like this since the days -of the Quarles incident at Ćsop. A relapse? He wondered. Not a serious -one in any case; for this morning he felt himself in full possession -of all his ordinary faculties. He must have got overtired speaking to -the Fabians in the evening. He looked at his manuscript again, and -read: "'Daddy, do the little girl angels in heaven have toys and -kittens and teddy-bears?' - -"'I don't know,' said Sir Christopher gently. 'Why does my little one -ask?' - -"'Because, daddy," said the child--'because I think that soon I too -may be a little angel, and I should so like to have my teddy-bear with -me in heaven.' - -"Sir Christopher clasped her to his breast. How frail she was, how -ethereal, how nearly an angel already! Would she have her teddy-bear -in heaven? The childish question rang in his ears. Great, strong man -though he was, he was weeping. His tears fell in a rain upon her -auburn curls. - -"'Tell me, daddy,' she insisted, 'will dearest God allow me my -teddy-bear?' - -"'My child,' he sobbed, 'my child . . .'" - -The blushes mounted hot to his cheeks; he turned away his head in -horror. He would really have to look after himself for a bit, go to -bed early, take exercise, not do much work. This sort of thing -couldn't be allowed to go on. - -He went to bed at half-past nine that night, and woke up the following -morning to find that he had added a dozen or more closely written -pages to his original manuscript during the night. He supposed he must -have written them in his sleep. It was all very disquieting. The days -passed by; every morning a fresh instalment was added to the rapidly -growing bulk of _Heartsease Fitzroy_. It was as though some goblin, -some Lob-lie-by-the-Fire, came each night to perform the appointed -task, vanishing before the morning. In a little while Dick's alarm -wore off; during the day he was perfectly well; his mind functioned -with marvellous efficiency. It really didn't seem to matter what he -did in his sleep provided he was all right in his waking hours. He -almost forgot about _Heartsease_, and was only reminded of her -existence when by chance he opened the drawer in which the steadily -growing pile of manuscript reposed. - -In five weeks _Heartsease Fitzroy_ was finished. Dick made a parcel of -the manuscript and sent it to a literary agent. He had no hopes of any -publisher taking the thing; but he was in sore straits for money at -the moment, and it seemed worth trying, on the off-chance. A fortnight -later Dick received a letter beginning: "DEAR MADAM,--Permit me to -hail in you a new authoress of real talent. _Heartsease Fitzroy_ is -GREAT,"--and signed "EBOR W. SIMS, Editor, _Hildebrand's Home -Weekly_." - -Details of the circulation of _Hildebrand's Home Weekly_ were printed -at the head of the paper; its average net sale was said to exceed -three and a quarter millions. The terms offered by Mr. Sims seemed to -Dick positively fabulous. And there would be the royalties on the -thing in book form after the serial had run its course. - -The letter arrived at breakfast; Dick cancelled all engagements for -the day and set out immediately for a long and solitary walk. It was -necessary to be alone, to think. He made his way along the Seven -Bridges Road, up Cumnor Hill, through the village, and down the -footpath to Bablock Hithe, thence to pursue the course of the -"stripling Thames"--haunted at every step by the Scholar Gipsy, damn -him! He drank beer and ate some bread and cheese in a little inn by a -bridge, farther up the river; and it was there, in the inn parlour, -surrounded by engravings of the late Queen, and breathing the slightly -mouldy preserved air bottled some three centuries ago into that -hermetically sealed chamber--it was there that he solved the problem, -perceived the strange truth about himself. - -He was a hermaphrodite. - -A hermaphrodite, not in the gross obvious sense, of course, but -spiritually. Two persons in one, male and female. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. -Hyde: or rather a new William Sharp and Fiona MacLeod--a more -intelligent William, a vulgarer Fiona. Everything was explained; the -deplorable Quarles incident was simple and obvious now. A sentimental -young lady of literary tastes writing sonnets to her Ouida guardsman. -And what an unerring flair Mr. Sims had shown by addressing him so -roundly and unhesitatingly as "madam"! - -Dick was elated at this discovery. He had an orderly mind that -disliked mysteries. He had been a puzzle to himself for a long time; -now he was solved. He was not in the least distressed to discover this -abnormality in his character. As long as the two parts of him kept -well apart, as long as his male self could understand mathematics, and -as long as his lady novelist's self kept up her regular habit of -writing at night and retiring from business during the day, the -arrangement would be admirable. The more he thought about it, the more -it seemed an ideal state of affairs. His life would arrange itself so -easily and well. He would devote the day to the disinterested pursuit -of knowledge, to philosophy and mathematics, with perhaps an -occasional excursion into politics. After midnight he would write -novels with a feminine pen, earning the money that would make his -unproductive male labours possible. A kind of spiritual _souteneur_. -But the fear of poverty need haunt him no more; no need to become a -wage-slave, to sacrifice his intelligence to the needs of his belly. -Like a gentleman of the East, he would sit still and smoke his -philosophic pipe while the womenfolk did the dirty work. Could -anything be more satisfactory? - -He paid for his bread and beer, and walked home, whistling as he went. - - - -III - -TWO months later the first instalment of _Heartsease Fitzroy: the -Story of a Young Girl_, by Pearl Bellairs, appeared in the pages of -_Hildebrand's Home Weekly_. Three and a quarter millions read and -approved. When the story appeared in book form, two hundred thousand -copies were sold in six weeks; and in the course of the next two years -no less than sixteen thousand female infants in London alone were -christened Heartsease. With her fourth novel and her two hundred and -fiftieth Sunday paper article, Pearl Bellairs was well on her way to -becoming a household word. - -Meanwhile Dick was in receipt of an income far beyond the wildest -dreams of his avarice. He was able to realize the two great ambitions -of his life--to wear silk underclothing and to smoke good (but really -good) cigars. - - - -IV - -DICK went down from Canteloup in a blaze of glory. The most brilliant -man of his generation, exceptional mind, prospects, career. But his -head was not turned. When people congratulated him on his academic -successes, he thanked them politely and then invited them to come and -see his Memento Mori. His Memento Mori was called Mr. Glottenham and -could be found at any hour of the day in the premises of the Union, or -if it was evening, in the Senior Common Room at Canteloup. He was an -old member of the College, and the dons in pity for his age and -loneliness had made him, some years before, a member of their Common -Room. This act of charity was as bitterly regretted as any generous -impulse in the history of the world. Mr. Glottenham made the life of -the Canteloup fellows a burden to them; he dined in Hall with fiendish -regularity, never missing a night, and he was always the last to leave -the Common Room. Mr. Glottenham did not prepossess at a first glance; -the furrows of his face were covered with a short grey sordid stubble; -his clothes were disgusting with the spilth of many years of dirty -feeding; he had the shoulders and long hanging arms of an ape--an ape -with a horribly human look about it. When he spoke, it was like the -sound of a man breaking coke; he spoke incessantly and on every -subject. His knowledge was enormous; but he possessed the secret of a -strange inverted alchemy--he knew how to turn the richest gold to -lead, could make the most interesting topic so intolerably tedious -that it was impossible, when he talked, not to loathe it. - -This was the death's-head to which Dick, like an ancient philosopher -at a banquet, would direct the attention of his heartiest -congratulators. Mr. Glottenham had had the most dazzling academic -career of his generation. His tutors had prophesied for him a future -far more brilliant than that of any of his contemporaries. They were -now Ministers of State, poets, philosophers, judges, millionaires. Mr. -Glottenham frequented the Union and the Canteloup Senior Common Room, -and was--well, he was just Mr. Glottenham. Which was why Dick did not -think too highly of his own laurels. - - - -V - -"WHAT shall I do? what ought I to do?" Dick walked up and down the -room smoking, furiously and without at all savouring its richness, one -of his opulent cigars. - -"My dear," said Cravister--for it was in Cravister's high-ceilinged -Bloomsbury room that Dick was thus unveiling his distress of -spirit--"my dear, this isn't a revival meeting. You speak as though -there were an urgent need for your soul to be saved from hell fire. -It's not as bad as that, you know." - -"But it _is_ a revival meeting," Dick shouted in exasperation--"it is. -I'm a revivalist. You don't know what it's like to have a feeling -about your soul. I'm terrifyingly earnest; you don't seem to -understand that. I have all the feelings of Bunyan without his -religion. I regard the salvation of my soul as important. How simple -everything would be if one could go out with those creatures in -bonnets and sing hymns like, 'Hip, hip for the blood of the Lamb, -hurrah!' or that exquisite one: - - "'The bells of Hell ring tingalingaling - For you, but not for me. - For me the angels singalingaling; - They've got the goods for me.' - -Unhappily it's impossible." - -"Your ideas," said Cravister in his flutiest voice, "are somewhat -Gothic. I think I can understand them, though of course I don't -sympathize or approve. My advice to people in doubt about what course -of action they ought to pursue is always the same: do what you want -to." - -"Cravister, you're hopeless," said Dick, laughing. "I suppose I am -rather Gothic, but I do feel that the question of ought as well as of -want does arise." - -Dick had come to his old friend for advice about Life. What ought he -to do? The indefatigable pen of Pearl Bellairs solved for him the -financial problem. There remained only the moral problem: how could he -best expend his energies and his time? Should he devote himself to -knowing or doing, philosophy or politics? He felt in himself the -desire to search for truth and the ability--who knows?--to find it. On -the other hand, the horrors of the world about him seemed to call on -him to put forth all his strength in an effort to ameliorate what was -so patently and repulsively bad. Actually, what had to be decided was -this: Should he devote himself to the researches necessary to carry -out the plan, long ripening in his brain, of a new system of -scientific philosophy; or should he devote his powers and Pearl -Bellairs' money in propaganda that should put life into the English -revolutionary movement? Great moral principles were in the balance. -And Cravister's advice was, do what you want to! - -After a month of painful indecision, Dick, who was a real Englishman, -arrived at a satisfactory compromise. He started work on his new -Synthetic Philosophy, and at the same time joined the staff of the -_Weekly International_, to which he contributed both money and -articles. The weeks slipped pleasantly and profitably along. The -secret of happiness lies in congenial work, and no one could have -worked harder than Dick, unless it was the indefatigable Pearl -Bellairs, whose nightly output of five thousand words sufficed to -support not only Dick but the _Weekly International_ as well. These -months were perhaps the happiest period of Dick's life. He had -friends, money, liberty; he knew himself to be working well; and it -was an extra, a supererogatory happiness that he began at this time to -get on much better with his sister Millicent than he had ever done -before. Millicent had come up to Oxford as a student at St. Mungo Hall -in Dick's third year. She had grown into a very efficient and very -intelligent young woman. A particularly handsome young woman as well. -She was boyishly slender, and a natural grace kept on breaking through -the somewhat rigid deportment, which she always tried to impose upon -herself, in little beautiful gestures and movements that made the -onlooker catch his breath with astonished pleasure. - - "Wincing she was as is a jolly colt, - Straight as a mast and upright as a bolt:" - -Chaucer had as good an eye for youthful grace as for mormals and -bristly nostrils and thick red jovial villainousness. - -Millicent lost no time in making her presence at St. Mungo's felt. -Second- and third-year heroines might snort at the forwardness of a -mere fresh-girl, might resent the complete absence of veneration for -their glory exhibited by this youthful bejauna; Millicent pursued her -course unmoved. She founded new societies and put fresh life into the -institutions which already existed at St. Mungo's to take cocoa and -discuss the problems of the universe. She played hockey like a -tornado, and she worked alarmingly hard. Decidedly, Millicent was a -Force, very soon the biggest Force in the St. Mungo world. In her -fifth term she organized the famous St. Mungo general strike, which -compelled the authorities to relax a few of the more intolerably -tyrannical and anachronistic rules restricting the liberty of the -students. It was she who went, on behalf of the strikers, to interview -the redoubtable Miss Prosser, Principal of St. Mungo's. The -redoubtable Miss Prosser looked grim and invited her to sit down, -Millicent sat down and, without quailing, delivered a short but -pointed speech attacking the fundamental principles of the St. Mungo -system of discipline. - -"Your whole point of view," she assured Miss Prosser, "is radically -wrong. It's an insult to the female sex; it's positively obscene. Your -root assumption is simply this: that we're all in a chronic state of -sexual excitement; leave us alone for a moment and we'll immediately -put our desires into practice. It's disgusting. It makes me blush. -After all, Miss Prosser, we are a college of intelligent women, not an -asylum of nymphomaniacs." - -For the first time in her career, Miss Prosser had to admit herself -beaten. The authorities gave in--reluctantly and on only a few points; -but the principle had been shaken, and that, as Millicent pointed out, -was what really mattered. - -Dick used to see a good deal of his sister while he was still in -residence at Canteloup, and after he had gone down he used to come -regularly once a fortnight during term to visit her. That horrible -mutual reserve, which poisons the social life of most families and -which had effectively made of their brotherly and sisterly relation a -prolonged discomfort in the past, began to disappear. They became the -best of friends. - -"I like you, Dick, a great deal better than I did," said Millicent one -day as they were parting at the gate of St. Mungo's after a long walk -together. - -Dick took off his hat and bowed. "My dear, I reciprocate the -sentiment. And, what's more, I esteem and admire you. So there." - -Millicent curtsied, and they laughed. They both felt very happy. - - - -VI - -"WHAT a life!" said Dick, with a sigh of weariness as the train moved -out of Euston. - -Not a bad life, Millicent thought. - -"But horribly fatiguing. I am quite outreined by it." - -"Outreined" was Dick's translation of _éreinté_. He liked using words -of his own manufacture; one had to learn his idiom before one could -properly appreciate his intimate conversation. - -Dick had every justification for being outreined. The spring and -summer had passed for him in a whirl of incessant activity. He had -written three long chapters of the _New Synthetic Philosophy_, and had -the material for two more ready in the form of notes. He had helped to -organize and bring to its successful conclusion the great carpenters' -strike of May and June. He had written four pamphlets and a small army -of political articles. And this comprised only half his labour; for -nightly, from twelve till two, Pearl Bellairs emerged to compose the -masterpieces which supplied Dick with his bread and butter. _Apes in -Purple_ had been published in May. Since then she had finished _La -Belle Dame sans Morality_, and had embarked on the first chapters of -_Daisy's Voyage to Cythera_. Her weekly articles, "For the Girls of -Britain," had become, during this period, a regular and favourite -feature in the pages of _Hildebrand's Sabbath_, that prince of Sunday -papers. At the beginning of July, Dick considered that he had earned a -holiday, and now they were off, he and Millicent, for the North. - -Dick had taken a cottage on the shore of one of those long salt-water -lochs that give to the west coast of Scotland such a dissipated -appearance on the map. For miles around there was not a living soul -who did not bear the name of Campbell--two families only excepted, one -of whom was called Murray-Drummond and the other Drummond-Murray. -However, it was not for the people that Dick and Millicent had come, -so much as for the landscape, which made up in variety for anything -that the inhabitants might lack. Behind the cottage, in the midst of a -narrow strip of bog lying between the loch and the foot of the -mountains, stood one of the numerous tombs of Ossian, a great barrow -of ancient stones. And a couple of miles away the remains of Deirdre's -Scottish refuge bore witness to the Celtic past. The countryside was -dotted with the black skeletons of medićval castles. Astonishing -country, convulsed into fantastic mountain shapes, cut and indented by -winding fiords. On summer days the whole of this improbable landscape -became blue and remote and aerially transparent. Its beauty lacked all -verisimilitude. It was for that reason that Dick chose the -neighbourhood for his holidays. After the insistent actuality of -London this frankly unreal coast was particularly refreshing to a -jaded spirit. - -"Nous sommes ici en plein romantisme," said Dick on the day of their -arrival, making a comprehensive gesture towards the dream-like -scenery, and for the rest of his holiday he acted the part of a young -romantic of the palmy period. He sat at the foot of Ossian's tomb and -read Lamartine; he declaimed Byron from the summit of the mountains -and Shelley as he rowed along the loch. In the evening he read George -Sand's _Indiana_; he agonized with the pure, but passionate, heroine, -while his admiration for Sir Brown, her English lover, the impassive -giant who never speaks and is always clothed in faultless hunting -costume, knew no bounds. He saturated himself in the verses of Victor -Hugo, and at last almost came to persuade himself that the words, -_Dieu_, _infinité_, _eternité_, with which the works of that -deplorable genius are so profusely sprinkled, actually possessed some -meaning, though what that meaning was he could not, even in his most -romantic transports, discover. Pearl Bellairs, of course, understood -quite clearly their significance, and though she was a very poor -French scholar she used sometimes to be moved almost to tears by the -books she found lying about when she came into existence after -midnight. She even copied out extracts into her notebooks with a view -to using them in her next novel. - - "Les plus désespérés sont les chants les plus beaux, - Et j'en sais d'immortels qui sont de purs sanglots," - -was a couplet which struck her as sublime. - -Millicent, meanwhile, did the housekeeping with extraordinary -efficiency, took a great deal of exercise, and read long, serious -books; she humoured her brother in his holiday romanticism, but -refused to take part in the game. - -The declaration of war took them completely by surprise. It is true -that a _Scotsman_ found its way into the cottage by about lunch-time -every day, but it was never read, and served only to light fires and -wrap up fish and things of that sort. No letters were being forwarded, -for they had left no address; they were isolated from the world. On -the fatal morning Dick had, indeed, glanced at the paper, without -however noticing anything out of the ordinary. It was only later when, -alarmed by the rumours floating round the village shop, he came to -examine his _Scotsman_ more closely, that he found about half-way down -the third column of one of the middle pages an admirable account of -all that had been so tragically happening in the last twenty-four -hours; he learnt with horror that Europe was at war and that; his -country too had entered the arena. Even in the midst of his anguish of -spirit he could not help admiring the _Scotsman's_ splendid -impassivity--no headlines, no ruffling of the traditional aristocratic -dignity. Like Sir Rodolphe Brown in _Indiana_, he thought, with a -sickly smile. - -Dick determined to start for London at once. He felt that he must act, -or at least create the illusion of action; he could not stay quietly -where he was. It was arranged that he should set out that afternoon, -while Millicent should follow a day or two later with the bulk of the -luggage. The train which took him to Glasgow was slower than he -thought it possible for any train to be. He tried to read, he tried to -sleep; it was no good. His nervous agitation was pitiable; he made -little involuntary movements with his limbs, and every now and then -the muscles of his face began twitching in a spasmodic and -uncontrollable tic. There were three hours to wait in Glasgow; he -spent them in wandering about the streets. In the interminable summer -twilight the inhabitants of Glasgow came forth into the open to amuse -themselves; the sight almost made him sick. Was it possible that there -should be human beings so numerous and so uniformly hideous? Small, -deformed, sallow, they seemed malignantly ugly, as if on purpose. The -words they spoke were incomprehensible. He shuddered; it was an alien -place--it was hell. - -The London train was crammed. Three gross Italians got into Dick's -carriage, and after they had drunk and eaten with loud, unpleasant -gusto, they prepared themselves for sleep by taking off their boots. -Their feet smelt strongly ammoniac, like a cage of mice long -uncleaned. Acutely awake, while the other occupants of the compartment -enjoyed a happy unconsciousness, he looked at the huddled carcasses -that surrounded him. The warmth and the smell of them was suffocating, -and there came to his mind, with the nightmarish insistence of a fixed -idea, the thought that every breath they exhaled was saturated with -disease. To be condemned to sit in a hot bath of consumption and -syphilis--it was too horrible! The moment came at last when he could -bear it no longer; he got up and went into the corridor. Standing -there, or sitting sometimes for a few dreary minutes in the lavatory, -he passed the rest of the night. The train roared along without a -stop. The roaring became articulate: in the days of his childhood -trains used to run to the tune of "Lancashire, to Lancashire, to fetch -a pocket-handkercher; to Lancashire, to Lancashire . . ." But to-night -the wheels were shouting insistently, a million times over, two words -only--"the War, the War; the War, the War." He tried desperately to -make them say something else, but they refused to recite Milton; they -refused to go to Lancashire; they went on with their endless Tibetan -litany--the War, the War, the War. - -By the time he reached London, Dick was in a wretched state. His -nerves were twittering and jumping within him; he felt like a walking -aviary. The tic in his face had become more violent and persistent. As -he stood in the station, waiting for a cab, he overheard a small child -saying to its mother, "What's the matter with that man's face, -mother?" - -"Sh--sh, darling," was the reply. "It's rude." - -Dick turned and saw the child's big round eyes fixed with fascinated -curiosity upon him, as though he were a kind of monster. He put his -hand to his forehead and tried to stop the twitching of the muscles -beneath the skin. It pained him to think that he had become a -scarecrow for children. - -Arrived at his flat, Dick drank a glass of brandy and lay down for a -rest. He felt exhausted--ill. At half-past one he got up, drank some -more brandy, and crept down into the street. It was intensely hot; the -pavements reverberated the sunlight in a glare which hurt his eyes; -they seemed to be in a state of grey incandescence. A nauseating smell -of wetted dust rose from the roadway, along which a water-cart was -slowly piddling its way. He realized suddenly that he ought not to -have drunk all that brandy on an empty stomach; he was definitely -rather tipsy. He had arrived at that state of drunkenness when the -senses perceive things clearly, but do not transmit their knowledge to -the understanding. He was painfully conscious of this division, and it -needed all the power of his will to establish contact between his -parted faculties. It was as though he were, by a great and prolonged -effort, keeping his brain pressed against the back of his eyes; as -soon as he relaxed the pressure, the understanding part slipped back, -the contact was broken, and he relapsed into a state bordering on -imbecility. The actions which ordinarily one does by habit and without -thinking, he had to perform consciously and voluntarily. He had to -reason out the problem of walking--first the left foot forward, then -the right. How ingeniously he worked his ankles and knees and hips! -How delicately the thighs slid past one another! - -He found a restaurant and sat there drinking coffee and trying to eat -an omelette until he felt quite sober. Then he drove to the offices of -the _Weekly International_ to have a talk with Hyman, the editor. -Hyman was sitting in his shirt-sleeves, writing. - -He lifted his head as Dick came in. "Greenow," he shouted delightedly, -"we were all wondering what had become of you. We thought you'd joined -the Army." - -Dick shook his head, but did not speak; the hot stuffy smell of -printer's ink and machinery combined with the atrocious reek of -Hyman's Virginian cigarettes to make him feel rather faint. He sat -down on the window-ledge, so as to be able to breathe an -uncontaminated air. - -"Well," he said at last, "what about it?" - -"It's going to be hell." - -"Did you suppose I thought it was going to be paradise?" Dick replied -irritably. "Internationalism looks rather funny now, doesn't it?" - -"I believe in it more than ever I did," cried Hyman. His face lit up -with the fervour of his enthusiasm. It was a fine face, gaunt, -furrowed, and angular, for all that he was barely thirty, looking as -though it had been boldly chiselled from some hard stone. "The rest of -the world may go mad; we'll try and keep our sanity. The time will -come when they'll see we were right." - -Hyman talked on. His passionate sincerity and singleness of purpose -were an inspiration to Dick. He had always admired Hyman--with the -reservations, of course, that the man was rather a fanatic and not so -well-educated as he might have been--but to-day he admired him more -than ever. He was even moved by that perhaps too facile eloquence -which of old had been used to leave him cold. After promising to do a -series of articles on international relations for the paper, Dick went -home, feeling better than he had done all day. - -He decided that he would begin writing his articles at once. He -collected pens, paper, and ink and sat down in a business-like way at -his bureau. He remembered distinctly biting the tip of his pen-holder; -it tasted rather bitter. - -And then he realized he was standing in Regent Street, looking in at -one of the windows of Liberty's. - -For a long time he stood there quite still, absorbed to all appearance -in the contemplation of a piece of peacock-blue fabric. But all his -attention was concentrated within himself, not on anything outside. He -was wondering--wondering how it came about that he was sitting at his -writing-table at one moment, and standing, at the next, in Regent -Street. He hadn't--the thought flashed upon him--he hadn't been -drinking any more of that brandy, had he? No, he felt himself to be -perfectly sober. He moved slowly away and continued to speculate as he -walked. - -At Oxford Circus he bought an evening paper. He almost screamed aloud -when he saw that the date printed at the head of the page was August -12th. It was on August 7th that he had sat down at his writing-table -to compose those articles. Five days ago, and he had not the faintest -recollection of what had happened in those five days. - -He made all haste back to the flat. Everything was in perfect order. -He had evidently had a picnic lunch that morning--sardines, bread and -jam, and raisins; the remains of it still covered the table. He opened -the sideboard and took out the brandy bottle. Better make quite sure. -He held it up to the light; it was more than three-quarters full. Not -a drop had gone since the day of his return. If brandy wasn't the -cause, then what was? - -As he sat there thinking, he began in an absent-minded way to look at -his evening paper. He read the news on the front page, then turned to -the inner sheets. His eye fell on these words printed at the head of -the column next the leading article: - -"To the Women of the Empire. Thoughts in War-Time. By Pearl Bellairs." -Underneath in brackets: "The first of a series of inspiring patriotic -articles by Miss Bellairs, the well-known novelist." - -Dick groaned in agony. He saw in a flash what had happened to his five -missing days. Pearl had got hold of them somehow, had trespassed upon -his life out of her own reserved nocturnal existence. She had taken -advantage of his agitated mental state to have a little fun in her own -horrible way. - -He picked up the paper once more and began to read Pearl's article. -"Inspiring and patriotic": those were feeble words in which to -describe Pearl's shrilly raucous chauvinism. And the style! Christ! to -think that he was responsible, at least in part, for this. -Responsible, for had not the words been written by his own hand and -composed in some horrible bluebeard's chamber of his own brain? They -had, there was no denying it. Pearl's literary atrocities had never -much distressed him; he had long given up reading a word she wrote. -Her bank balance was the only thing about her that interested him. But -now she was invading the sanctities of his private life. She was -trampling on his dearest convictions, denying his faith. She was a -public danger. It was all too frightful. - -He passed the afternoon in misery. Suicide or brandy seemed the only -cures. Not very satisfactory ones, though. Towards evening an -illuminating idea occurred to him. He would go and see Rogers. Rogers -knew all about psychology--from books, at any rate: Freud, Jung, -Morton Prince, and people like that. He used to try hypnotic -experiments on his friends and even dabbled in amateur psychotherapy. -Rogers might help him to lay the ghost of Pearl. He ate a hasty dinner -and went to see Rogers in his Kensington rooms. - -Rogers was sitting at a table with a great book open in front of him. -The reading-lamp, which was the only light in the room, brightly -illumined one side of the pallid, puffy, spectacled face, leaving the -other in complete darkness, save for a little cedilla of golden light -caught on the fold of flesh at the corner of his mouth. His huge -shadow crossed the floor, began to climb the wall, and from the -shoulders upwards mingled itself with the general darkness of the -room. - -"Good evening, Rogers," said Dick wearily. "I wish you wouldn't try -and look like Rembrandt's 'Christ at Emmaus' with these spectacular -chiaroscuro effects." - -Rogers gave vent to his usual nervous giggling laugh. "This is very -nice of you to come and see me, Greenow." - -"How's the Board of Trade?" Rogers was a Civil Servant by profession. - -"Oh, business as usual, as the _Daily Mail_ would say." Rogers laughed -again as though he had made a joke. - -After a little talk of things indifferent, Dick brought the -conversation round to himself. - -"I believe I'm getting a bit neurasthenic," he said. "Fits of -depression, nervous pains, lassitude, anćmia of the will. I've come to -you for professional advice. I want you to nose out my suppressed -complexes, analyse me, dissect me. Will you do that for me?" - -Rogers was evidently delighted. "I'll do my best," he said, with -assumed modesty. "But I'm no good at the thing, so you mustn't expect -much." - -"I'm at your disposal," said Dick. - -Rogers placed his guest in a large arm-chair. "Relax your muscles and -think of nothing at all." Dick sat there flabby and abstracted while -Rogers made his preparations. His apparatus consisted chiefly in a -notebook and a stop-watch. He seated himself at the table. - -"Now," he said solemnly, "I want you to listen to me. I propose to -read out a list of words; after each of the words you must say the -first word that comes into your head. The very first, mind, however -foolish it may seem. And say it as soon as it crosses your mind; don't -wait to think. I shall write down your answers and take the time -between each question and reply." - -Rogers cleared his throat and started. - -"Mother," he said in a loud, clear voice. He always began his analyses -with the family. For since the majority of kinks and complexes date -from childhood, it is instructive to investigate the relations between -the patient and those who surrounded him at an early age. "Mother." - -"Dead," replied Dick immediately. He had scarcely known his mother. - -"Father." - -"Dull." One and a fifth seconds' interval. - -"Sister." Rogers pricked his ears for the reply: his favourite -incest-theory depended on it. - -"Fabian Society," said Dick, after two seconds' interval. Rogers was a -little disappointed. He was agreeably thrilled and excited by the -answer he received to his next word: "Aunt." - -The seconds passed, bringing nothing with them; and then at last there -floated into Dick's mind the image of himself as a child, dressed in -green velvet and lace, a perfect Bubbles boy, kneeling on Auntie Loo's -lap and arranging a troop of lead soldiers on the horizontal -projection of her corsage. - -"Bosom," he said. - -Rogers wrote down the word and underlined it. Six and three-fifths -seconds: very significant. He turned now to the chapter of possible -accidents productive of nervous shocks. - -"Fire." - -"Coal." - -"Sea." - -"Sick." - -"Train." - -"Smell." - -And so on. Dull answers all the time. Evidently, nothing very -catastrophic had ever happened to him. Now for a frontal attack on the -fortress of sex itself. - -"Women." There was rather a long pause, four seconds, and then Dick -replied, "Novelist." Rogers was puzzled. - -"Breast." - -"Chicken." That was disappointing. Rogers could find no trace of those -sinister moral censors, expurgators of impulse, suppressors of -happiness. Perhaps the trouble lay in religion. - -"Christ," he said. - -Dick replied, "Amen," with the promptitude of a parish clerk. - -"God." - -Dick's mind remained a perfect blank. The word seemed to convey to him -nothing at all. God, God. After a long time there appeared before his -inward eye the face of a boy he had known at school and at Oxford, one -Godfrey Wilkinson, called God for short. - -"Wilkinson." Ten seconds and a fifth. - -A few more miscellaneous questions, and the list was exhausted. Almost -suddenly, Dick fell into a kind of hypnotic sleep. Rogers sat pensive -in front of his notes; sometimes he consulted a text-book. At the end -of half an hour he awakened Dick to tell him that he had had, as a -child, consciously or unconsciously, a great Freudian passion for his -aunt; that later on he had had another passion, almost religious in -its fervour and intensity, for somebody called Wilkinson; and that the -cause of all his present troubles lay in one or other of these -episodes. If he liked, he (Rogers) would investigate the matter -further with a view to establishing a cure. - -Dick thanked him very much, thought it wasn't worth taking any more -trouble, and went home. - - - -VII - -MILLICENT was organizing a hospital supply dépôt, organizing -indefatigably, from morning till night. It was October; Dick had not -seen his sister since those first hours of the war in Scotland; he had -had too much to think about these last months to pay attention to -anyone but himself. To-day, at last, he decided that he would go and -pay her a visit. Millicent had commandeered a large house in -Kensington from a family of Jews, who were anxious to live down a -deplorable name by a display of patriotism. Dick found her sitting -there in her office--young, formidable, beautiful, severe--at a big -desk covered with papers. - -"Well," said Dick, "you're winning the war, I see." - -"You, I gather, are not," Millicent replied. - -"I believe in the things I always believed in." - -"So do I." - -"But in a different way, my dear--in a different way," said Dick -sadly. There was a silence. - -"Had we better quarrel?" Millicent asked meditatively. - -"I think we can manage with nothing worse than a coolness--for the -duration." - -"Very well, a coolness." - -"A smouldering coolness." - -"Good," said Millicent briskly. "Let it start smouldering at once. I -must get on with my work. Good-bye, Dick. God bless you. Let me know -sometimes how you get on." - -"No need to ask how you get on," said Dick with a smile, as he shook -her hand. "I know by experience that you always get on, only too well, -ruthlessly well." - -He went out. Millicent returned to her letters with concentrated -ardour; a frown puckered the skin between her eyebrows. - -Probably, Dick reflected as he made his way down the stairs, he -wouldn't see her again for a year or so. He couldn't honestly say that -it affected him much. Other people became daily more and more like -ghosts, unreal, thin, vaporous; while every hour the consciousness of -himself grew more intense and all-absorbing. The only person who was -more than a shadow to him now was Hyman of the _Weekly International_. -In those first horrible months of the war, when he was wrestling with -Pearl Bellairs and failing to cast her out, it was Hyman who kept him -from melancholy and suicide. Hyman made him write a long article every -week, dragged him into the office to do sub-editorial work, kept him -so busy that there were long hours when he had no time to brood over -his own insoluble problems. And his enthusiasm was so passionate and -sincere that sometimes even Dick was infected by it; he could believe -that life was worth living and the cause worth fighting for. But not -for long; for the devil would return, insistent and untiring. Pearl -Bellairs was greedy for life; she was not content with her short -midnight hours; she wanted the freedom of whole days. And whenever -Dick was overtired, or ill or nervous, she leapt upon him and stamped -him out of existence, till enough strength came back for him to -reassert his personality. And the articles she wrote! The short -stories! The recruiting songs! Dick dared not read them; they were -terrible, terrible. - - - -VIII - -THE months passed by. The longer the war lasted, the longer it seemed -likely to last. Dick supported life somehow. Then came the menace of -conscription. The _Weekly International_ organized a great -anti-conscription campaign, in which Hyman and Dick were the leading -spirits. Dick was almost happy. This kind of active work was new to -him and he enjoyed it, finding it exciting and at the same time -sedative. For a self-absorbed and brooding mind, pain itself is an -anodyne. He enjoyed his incessant journeys, his speechmaking to queer -audiences in obscure halls and chapels; he liked talking with earnest -members of impossible Christian sects, pacifists who took not the -faintest interest in the welfare of humanity at large, but were wholly -absorbed in the salvation of their own souls and in keeping their -consciences clear from the faintest trace of blood-guiltiness. He -enjoyed the sense of power which came to him, when he roused the -passion of the crowd to enthusiastic assent, or breasted the storm of -antagonism. He enjoyed everything--even getting a bloody nose from a -patriot hired and intoxicated by a great evening paper to break up one -of his meetings. It all seemed tremendously exciting and important at -the time. And yet when, in quiet moments, he came to look back on his -days of activity, they seemed utterly empty and futile. What was left -of them? Nothing, nothing at all. The momentary intoxication had died -away, the stirred ant's-nest had gone back to normal life. Futility of -action! There was nothing permanent, or decent, or worth while, except -thought. And of that he was almost incapable now. His mind, when it -was not occupied by the immediate and actual, turned inward morbidly -upon itself. He looked at the manuscript of his book and wondered -whether he would ever be able to go on with it. It seemed doubtful. -Was he, then, condemned to pass the rest of his existence enslaved to -the beastliness and futility of mere quotidian action? And even in -action his powers were limited; if he exerted himself too much--and -the limits of fatigue were soon reached--Pearl Bellairs, watching -perpetually like a hungry tigress for her opportunity, leapt upon him -and took possession of his conscious faculties. And then, it might be -for a matter of hours or of days, he was lost, blotted off the -register of living souls, while she performed, with intense and -hideous industry, her self-appointed task. More than once his -anti-conscription campaigns had been cut short and he himself had -suddenly disappeared from public life, to return with the vaguest -stories of illness or private affairs--stories that made his friends -shake their heads and wonder which it was among the noble army of -vices that poor Dick Greenow was so mysteriously addicted to. Some -said drink, some said women, some said opium, and some hinted at -things infinitely darker and more horrid. Hyman asked him point-blank -what it was, one morning when he had returned to the office after -three days' unaccountable absence. - -Dick blushed painfully. "It isn't anything you think," he said. - -"What is it, then?" Hyman insisted. - -"I can't tell you," Dick replied desperately and in torture, "but I -swear it's nothing discreditable. I beg you won't ask me any more." - -Hyman had to pretend to be satisfied with that. - - - -IX - -A TACTICAL move in the anti-conscription campaign was the foundation -of a club, a place where people with pacific or generally advanced -ideas could congregate. - -"A club like this would soon be the intellectual centre of London," -said Hyman, ever sanguine. - -Dick shrugged his shoulders. He had a wide experience of pacifists. - -"If you bring people together," Hyman went on, "they encourage one -another to be bold--strengthen one another's faith." - -"Yes," said Dick dyspeptically. "When they're in a herd, they can -believe that they're much more numerous and important than they really -are." - -"But, man, they are numerous, they are important!" Hyman shouted and -gesticulated. - -Dick allowed himself to be persuaded into an optimism which he knew to -be ill-founded. The consolations of religion do not console the less -efficaciously for being illusory. - -It was a longtime before they could think of a suitable name for their -club. Dick suggested that it should be called the Sclopis Club. "Such -a lovely name," he explained. "Sclopis--Sclopis; it tastes precious in -the mouth." But the rest of the committee would not hear of it; they -wanted a name that meant something. One lady suggested that it should -be called the Everyman Club; Dick objected with passion. "It makes one -shudder," he said. The lady thought it was a beautiful and uplifting -name, but as Mr. Greenow was so strongly opposed, she wouldn't press -the claims of Everyman. Hyman wanted to call it the Pacifist Club, but -that was judged too provocative. Finally, they agreed to call it the -Novembrist Club, because it was November and they could think of no -better title. - -The inaugural dinner of the Novembrist Club was held at Piccolomini's -Restaurant. Piccolomini is in, but not exactly of, Soho, for it is a -cross between a Soho restaurant and a Corner House, a hybrid which -combines the worst qualities of both parents--the dirt and -inefficiency of Soho, the size and vulgarity of Lyons. There is a -large upper chamber reserved for agapes. Here, one wet and dismal -winter's evening, the Novembrists assembled. - -Dick arrived early, and from his place near the door he watched his -fellow-members come in. He didn't much like the look of them. "Middle -class" was what he found himself thinking; and he had to admit, when -his conscience reproached him for it, that he did not like the middle -classes, the lower middle classes, the lower classes. He was, there -was no denying it, a bloodsucker at heart--cultured and intelligent, -perhaps, but a bloodsucker none the less. - -The meal began. Everything about it was profoundly suspect. The spoons -were made of some pale pinchbeck metal, very light and flimsy; one -expected them to melt in the soup, or one would have done, if the soup -had been even tepid. The food was thick and greasy. Dick wondered what -it really looked like under the concealing sauces. The wine left an -indescribable taste that lingered on the palate, like the savour of -brass or of charcoal fumes. - -From childhood upwards Dick had suffered from the intensity of his -visceral reactions to emotion. Fear and shyness were apt to make him -feel very sick, and disgust produced in him a sensation of intolerable -queasiness. Disgust had seized upon his mind to-night. He grew paler -with the arrival of every dish, and the wine, instead of cheering him, -made him feel much worse. His neighbours to right and left ate with -revolting heartiness. On one side sat Miss Gibbs, garishly dressed in -ill-assorted colours that might be called futuristic; on the other was -Mr. Something in pince-nez, rather ambrosial about the hair. Mr. -Something was a poet, or so the man who introduced them had said. Miss -Gibbs was just an ordinary member of the Intelligentsia, like the rest -of us. - -The Lower Classes, the Lower Classes . . . - -"Are you interested in the Modern Theatre?" asked Mr. Something in his -mellow voice. Too mellow--oh, much too mellow! - -"Passably," said Dick. - -"So am I," said Mr. Thingummy. "I am a vice-president of the -Craftsmen's League of Joy, which perhaps you may have heard of." - -Dick shook his head; this was going to be terrible. - -"The objects of the Craftsmen's League of Joy," Mr. Thingummy -continued, "or rather, one of the objects--for it has many--is to -establish Little Theatres in every town and village in England, where -simple, uplifting, beautiful plays might be acted. The people have no -joy." - -"They have the cinema and the music hall," said Dick. He was filled -with a sudden senseless irritation. "They get all the joy they want -out of the jokes of the comics and the legs of the women." - -"Ah, but that is an impure joy," Mr. What's-his-name protested. - -"Impure purple, Herbert Spenser's favourite colour," flashed -irrelevantly through Dick's brain. - -"Well, speaking for myself," he said aloud, "I know I get more joy out -of a good pair of legs than out of any number of uplifting plays of -the kind they'd be sure to act in your little theatres. The people ask -for sex and you give them a stone." - -How was it, he wondered, that the right opinions in the mouths of -these people sounded so horribly cheap and wrong? They degraded what -was noble; beauty became fly-blown at their touch. Their intellectual -tradition was all wrong. Lower classes, it always came back to that. -When they talked about war and the International, Dick felt a hot -geyser of chauvinism bubbling up in his breast. In order to say -nothing stupid, he refrained from speaking at all. Miss Gibbs switched -the conversation on to art. She admired all the right people. Dick -told her that he thought Sir Luke Fildes to be the best modern artist. -But his irritation knew no bounds when he found out a little later -that Mr. Something had read the poems of Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke. -He felt inclined to say, "You may have read them, but of course you -can't understand or appreciate them." - -Lower Classes . . . - -How clear and splendid were the ideas of right and justice! If only -one could filter away the contaminating human element. . . . Reason -compelled him to believe in democracy, in internationalism, in -revolution; morality demanded justice for the oppressed. But neither -morality nor reason would ever bring him to take pleasure in the -company of democrats or revolutionaries, or make him find the -oppressed, individually, any less antipathetic. - -At the end of this nauseating meal, Dick was called on to make a -speech. Rising to his feet, he began stammering and hesitating; he -felt like an imbecile. Then suddenly inspiration came. The great -religious ideas of Justice and Democracy swept like a rushing wind -through his mind, purging it of all insignificant human and personal -preferences or dislikes. He was filled with pentecostal fire. He spoke -in a white heat of intellectual passion, dominating his hearers, -infecting them with his own high enthusiasm. He sat down amid cheers. -Miss Gibbs and Mr. Thingummy leaned towards him with flushed, shining -faces. - -"That was wonderful, Mr. Greenow. I've never heard anything like it," -exclaimed Miss Gibbs, with genuine, unflattering enthusiasm. - -Mr. Thing said something poetical about a trumpet-call. Dick looked -from one to the other with blank and fishy eyes. So it was for these -creatures he had been speaking! - -Good God! . . . - - - -X - -DICK'S life was now a monotonous nightmare. The same impossible -situation was repeated again and again. If it were not for the fact -that he knew Pearl Bellairs to be entirely devoid of humour, Dick -might have suspected that she was having a little quiet fun with him, -so grotesque were the anomalies of his double life. Grotesque, but -dreary, intolerably dreary. Situations which seem, in contemplation, -romantic and adventurous have a habit of proving, when actually -experienced, as dull and daily as a bank clerk's routine. When you -read about it, a Jekyll and Hyde existence sounds delightfully -amusing; but when you live through it, as Dick found to his cost, it -is merely a boring horror. - -In due course Dick was called up by the Military Authorities. He -pleaded conscientious objection. The date of his appearance before the -Tribunal was fixed. Dick did not much relish the prospect of being a -Christian martyr; it seemed an anachronism. However, it would have to -be done. He would be an absolutist; there would be a little buffeting, -spitting, and scourging, followed by an indefinite term of hard -labour. It was all very unpleasant. But nothing could be much more -unpleasant than life as he was now living it. He didn't even mind very -much if they killed him. Being or not being--the alternatives left him -equally cold. - -The days that preceded his appearance before the Tribunal were busy -days, spent in consulting solicitors, preparing speeches, collecting -witnesses. - -"We'll give you a good run for your money," said Hyman. "I hope -they'll be feeling a little uncomfortable by the time they have done -with you, Greenow." - -"Not nearly so uncomfortable as I shall be feeling," Dick replied, -with a slightly melancholy smile. - -The South Marylebone Tribunal sat in a gloomy and fetid chamber in a -police station. Dick, who was extremely sensitive to his surroundings, -felt his fatigue and nervousness perceptibly increase as he entered -the room. Five or six pitiable creatures with paralytic mothers or -one-man businesses were briskly disposed of, and then it was Dick's -turn to present himself before his judges. He looked round the court, -nodded to Hyman, smiled at Millicent, who had so far thawed their -wartime coolness as to come and see him condemned, caught other -friendly eyes. It was as though he were about to be electrocuted. The -preliminaries passed off; he found himself answering questions in a -loud, clear voice. Then the Military Representative began to loom -horribly large. The Military Representative was a solicitor's clerk -disguised as a lieutenant in the Army Service Corps. He spoke in an -accent that was more than genteel; it was rich, noble, aristocratic. -Dick tried to remember where he had heard a man speaking like that -before. He had it now. Once when he had been at Oxford after term was -over. He had gone to see the Varieties, which come twice nightly and -with cheap seats to the theatre after the undergraduates have -departed. One of the turns had been a Nut, a descendant of the bloods -and Champagne Charlies of earlier days. A young man in an alpaca -evening suit and a monocle. He had danced, sung a song, spoken some -patter. Sitting in the front row of the stalls, Dick had been able to -see the large, swollen, tuberculous glands in his neck. They wobbled -when he danced or sang. Fascinatingly horrible, those glands; and the -young man, how terribly, painfully pathetic. . . . When the Military -Representative spoke, he could hear again that wretched Nut's -rendering of the Eton and Oxford voice. It unnerved him. - -"What is your religion, Mr. Greenow?" the Military Representative -asked. - -Fascinated, Dick looked to see whether he too had tuberculous glands. -The Lieutenant had to repeat his question sharply. When he was -irritated, his voice went back to its more natural nasal twang. Dick -recovered his presence of mind. - -"I have no religion," he answered. - -"But, surely, sir, you must have some kind of religion." - -"Well, if I must, if it's in the Army Regulations, you had better put -me down as an Albigensian, or a Bogomile, or, better still, as a -Manichean. One can't find oneself in this court without possessing a -profound sense of the reality and active existence of a power of evil -equal to, if not greater than, the power of good." - -"This is rather irrelevant, Mr. Greenow," said the Chairman. - -"I apologize." Dick bowed to the court. - -"But if," the Military Representative continued--"if your objection is -not religious, may I ask what it is?" - -"It is based on a belief that all war is wrong, and that the -solidarity of the human race can only be achieved in practice by -protesting against war, wherever it appears and in whatever form." - -"Do you disbelieve in force, Mr. Greenow?" - -"You might as well ask me if I disbelieve in gravitation. Of course, I -believe in force: it is a fact." - -"What would you do if you saw a German violating your sister?" said -the Military Representative, putting his deadliest question. - -"Perhaps I had better ask my sister first," Dick replied. "She is -sitting just behind you in the court." - -The Military Representative was covered with confusion. He coughed and -blew his nose. The case dragged on. Dick made a speech; the Military -Representative made a speech; the Chairman made a speech. The -atmosphere of the court-room grew fouler and fouler. Dick sickened and -suffocated in the second-hand air. An immense lassitude took -possession of him; he did not care about anything--about the cause, -about himself, about Hyman or Millicent or Pearl Bellairs. He was just -tired. Voices buzzed and drawled in his ears--sometimes his own voice, -sometimes other people's. He did not listen to what they said. He was -tired--tired of all this idiotic talk, tired of the heat and smell. -. . . - -* * * * * - -Tired of picking up very thistly wheat sheaves and propping them up in -stooks on the yellow stubble. For that was what, suddenly, he found -himself doing. Overhead the sky expanded in endless steppes of -blue-hot cobalt. The pungent prickly dust of the dried sheaves plucked -at his nose with imminent sneezes, made his eyes smart and water. In -the distance a reaping-machine whirred and hummed. Dick looked blankly -about him, wondering where he was. He was thankful, at any rate, not -to be in that sweltering court-room; and it was a mercy, too, to have -escaped from the odious gentility of the Military Representative's -accent. And, after all, there were worse occupations than harvesting. - -* * * * * - -Gradually, and bit by bit, Dick pieced together his history. He had, -it seemed, done a cowardly and treacherous thing: deserted in the face -of the enemy, betrayed his cause. He had a bitter letter from Hyman. -"Why couldn't you have stuck it out? I thought it was in you. You've -urged others to go to prison for their beliefs, but you get out of it -yourself by sneaking off to a soft alternative service job on a -friend's estate. You've brought discredit on the whole movement." It -was very painful, but what could he answer? The truth was so -ridiculous that nobody could be expected to swallow it. And yet the -fact was that he had been as much startled to find himself working at -Crome as anyone. It was all Pearl's doing. - -He had found in his room a piece of paper covered with the large, -flamboyant feminine writing which he knew to be Pearl's. It was -evidently the rough copy of an article on the delights of being a -land-girl: dewy dawns, rosy children's faces, quaint cottages, mossy -thatch, milkmaids, healthy exercise. Pearl was being a land-girl; but -he could hardly explain the fact to Hyman. Better not attempt to -answer him. - -Dick hated the manual labour of the farm. It was hard, monotonous, -dirty, and depressing. It inhibited almost completely the functions of -his brain. He was unable to think about anything at all; there was no -opportunity to do anything but feel uncomfortable. God had not made -him a Caliban to scatter ordure over fields, to pick up ordure from -cattle-yards. His rôle was Prospero. - -"Ban, Ban, Caliban"--it was to that derisive measure that he pumped -water, sawed wood, mowed grass; it was a march for his slow, clotted -feet as he followed the dung-carts up the winding lanes. "Ban, Ban, -Caliban--Ban, Ban, Ban . . ." - -"Oh, that bloody old fool Tolstoy," was his profoundest reflection on -a general subject in three months of manual labour and communion with -mother earth. - -He hated the work, and his fellow-workers hated him. They mistrusted -him because they could not understand him, taking the silence of his -overpowering shyness for arrogance and the contempt of one class for -another. Dick longed to become friendly with them. His chief trouble -was that he did not know what to say. At meal-times he would spend -long minutes in cudgelling his brains for some suitable remark to -make. And even if he thought of something good, like--"It looks as -though it were going to be a good year for roots," he somehow -hesitated to speak, feeling that such a remark, uttered in his -exquisitely modulated tones, would be, somehow, a little ridiculous. -It was the sort of thing that ought to be said rustically, with plenty -of Z's and long vowels, in the manner of William Barnes. In the end, -for lack of courage to act the yokel's part, he generally remained -silent. While the others were eating their bread and cheese with -laughter and talk, he sat like the skeleton at the feast--a skeleton -that longed to join in the revelry, but had not the power to move its -stony jaws. On the rare occasions that he actually succeeded in -uttering something, the labourers looked at one another in surprise -and alarm, as though it were indeed a skeleton that had spoken. - -He was not much more popular with the other inhabitants of the -village. Often, in the evenings, as he was returning from work, the -children would pursue him, yelling. With the unerringly cruel instinct -of the young they had recognized in him a fit object for abuse and -lapidation. An outcast member of another class, from whom that class -in casting him out had withdrawn its protection, an alien in speech -and habit, a criminal, as their zealous schoolmaster lost no -opportunity of reminding them, guilty of the blackest treason against -God and man--he was the obviously predestined victim of childish -persecution. When stones began to fly, and dung and precocious -obscenity, he bowed his head and pretended not to notice that anything -unusual was happening. It was difficult, however, to look quite -dignified. - -There were occasional short alleviations to the dreariness of his -existence. One day, when he was engaged in his usual occupation of -manuring, a familiar figure suddenly appeared along the footpath -through the field. It was Mrs. Cravister. She was evidently staying at -the big house; one of the Manorial dachshunds preceded her. He took -off his cap. - -"Mr. Greenow!" she exclaimed, coming to a halt. "Ah, what a pleasure -to see you again! Working on the land: so Tolstoyan. But I trust it -doesn't affect your ćsthetic ideas in the same way as it did his. -Fifty peasants singing together is music; but Bach's chromatic -fantasia is mere gibbering incomprehensibility." - -"I don't do this for pleasure," Dick explained. "It's hard labour, -meted out to the Conscientious Objector." - -"Of course, of course," said Mrs. Cravister, raising her hand to -arrest any further explanation. "I had forgotten. A conscientious -objector, a Bible student. I remember how passionately devoted you -were, even at school, to the Bible." - -She closed her eyes and nodded her head several times. - -"On the contrary----" Dick began; but it was no good. Mrs. Cravister -had determined that he should be a Bible student and it was no use -gainsaying her. She cut him short. - -"Dear me, the Bible. . . . What a style! That alone would prove it to -have been directly inspired. You remember how Mahomet appealed to the -beauty of his style as a sign of his divine mission. Why has nobody -done the same for the Bible? It remains for you, Mr. Greenow, to do -so. You will write a book about it. How I envy you!" - -"The style is very fine," Dick ventured, "but don't you think the -matter occasionally leaves something to be desired?" - -"The matter is nothing," cried Mrs. Cravister, making a gesture that -seemed to send all meaning flying like a pinch of salt along the -wind--"nothing at all. It's the style that counts. Think of Madame -Bovary." - -"I certainly will," said Dick. - -Mrs. Cravister held out her hand. "Good-bye. Yes, I certainly envy -you. I envy you your innocent labour and your incessant study of that -most wonderful of books. If I were asked, Mr. Greenow, what book I -should take with me to a desert island, what single solitary book, I -should certainly say the Bible, though, indeed, there are moments when -I think I should choose _Tristram Shandy_. Good-bye." - -Mrs. Cravister sailed slowly away. The little brown basset trotted -ahead, straining his leash. One had the impression of a great ship -being towed into harbour by a diminutive tug. - -Dick was cheered by this glimpse of civilization and humanity. The -unexpected arrival, one Saturday afternoon, of Millicent was not quite -such an unmixed pleasure. "I've come to see how you're getting on," -she announced, "and to put your cottage straight and make you -comfortable." - -"Very kind of you," said Dick. He didn't want his cottage put -straight. - -Millicent was in the Ministry of Munitions now, controlling three -thousand female clerks with unsurpassed efficiency. Dick looked at her -curiously, as she talked that evening of her doings. "To think I -should have a sister like that," he said to himself. She was -terrifying. - -"You do enjoy bullying other people!" he exclaimed at last. "You've -found your true vocation. One sees now how the new world will be -arranged after the war. The women will continue to do all the -bureaucratic jobs, all that entails routine and neatness and -interfering with other people's affairs. And man, it is to be hoped, -will be left free for the important statesman's business, free for -creation and thought. He will stay at home and give proper education -to the children, too. He is fit to do these things, because his mind -is disinterested and detached. It's an arrangement which will liberate -all man's best energies for their proper uses. The only flaw I can see -in the system is that you women will be so fiendishly and ruthlessly -tyrannical in your administration." - -"You can't seriously expect me to argue with you," said Millicent. - -"No, please don't. I am not strong enough. My dung-carrying has taken -the edge off all my reasoning powers." - -Millicent spent the next morning in completely rearranging Dick's -furniture. By lunch-time every article in the cottage was occupying a -new position. - -"That's much nicer," said Millicent, surveying her work and seeing -that it was good. - -There was a knock at the door. Dick opened it and was astonished to -find Hyman. - -"I just ran down to see how you were getting on," he explained. - -"I'm getting on very well since my sister rearranged my furniture," -said Dick. He found it pleasing to have an opportunity of exercising -his long unused powers of malicious irony. This was very mild, but -with practice he would soon come on to something more spiteful and -amusing. - -Hyman shook hands with Millicent, scowling as he did so. He was -irritated that she was there; he wanted to talk with Dick alone. He -turned his back on her and began addressing Dick. - -"Well," he said, "I haven't seen you since the fatal day. How is the -turnip-hoeing?" - -"Pretty beastly," said Dick. - -"Better than doing hard labour in a gaol, I suppose?" - -Dick nodded his head wearily, foreseeing what must inevitably come. - -"You've escaped that all right," Hyman went on. - -"Yes; you ought to be thankful," Millicent chimed in. - -"I still can't understand why you did it, Greenow. It was a blow to -me. I didn't expect it of you." Hyman spoke with feeling. "It was -desertion; it was treason." - -"I agree," said Millicent judicially. "He ought to have stuck to his -principles." - -"He ought to have stuck to what was right, oughtn't he, Miss Greenow?" -Hyman turned towards Millicent, pleased at finding someone who shared -his views. - -"Of course," she replied--"of course. I totally disagree with you -about what is right. But if he believed it right not to fight, he -certainly ought to have gone to prison for his belief." - -Dick lit a pipe with an air of nonchalance. He tried to disguise the -fact that he was feeling extremely uncomfortable under these two pairs -of merciless, accusing eyes. - -"To my mind, at any rate," said Millicent, "your position seems quite -illogical and untenable, Dick." - -It was a relief to be talked to and not about. - -"I'm sorry about that," said Dick rather huskily--not a very -intelligent remark, but what was there to say? - -"Of course, it's illogical and untenable. Your sister is quite right." -Hyman banged the table. - -"I can't understand what induced you to take it up----" - -"After you'd said you were going to be one of the absolutes," cried -Hyman, interrupting and continuing Millicent's words. - -"Why?" said Millicent. - -"Why, why, why?" Hyman echoed. - -Dick, who had been blowing out smoke at a great rate, put down his -pipe. The taste of the tobacco was making him feel rather sick. "I -wish you would stop," he said wearily. "If I gave you the real -reasons, you wouldn't believe me. And I can't invent any others that -would be in the least convincing." - -"I believe the real reason is that you were afraid of prison." - -Dick leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes. He did not mind being -insulted now; it made no difference. Hyman and Millicent were still -talking about him, but what they said did not interest him; he -scarcely listened. - -They went back to London together in the evening. - -"Very intelligent woman, your sister," said Hyman just before they -were starting. "Pity she's not on the right side about the war and so -forth." - -Four weeks later Dick received a letter in which Hyman announced that -he and Millicent had decided to get married. - -"I am happy to think," Dick wrote in his congratulatory reply, "that -it was I who brought you together." - -He smiled as he read through the sentence; that was what the Christian -martyr might say to the two lions who had scraped acquaintance over -his bones in the amphitheatre. - -* * * * * - -One warm afternoon in the summer of 1918, Mr. Hobart, Clerk to the -Wibley Town Council, was disturbed in the midst of his duties by the -sudden entry into his office of a small dark man, dressed in corduroys -and gaiters, but not having the air of a genuine agricultural -labourer. - -"What may I do for you?" inquired Mr. Hobart. - -"I have come to inquire about my vote," said the stranger. - -"Aren't you already registered?" - -"Not yet. You see, it isn't long since the Act was passed giving us -the vote." - -Mr. Hobart stared. - -"I don't quite follow," he said. - -"I may not look it," said the stranger, putting his head on one side -and looking arch--"I may not look it, but I will confess to you, -Mr.--er--Mr.--er----" - -"Hobart." - -"Mr. Hobart, that I am a woman of over thirty." - -Mr. Hobart grew visibly paler. Then, assuming a forced smile and -speaking as one speaks to a child or a spoiled animal, he said: - -"I see--I see. Over thirty, dear me." - -He looked at the bell, which was over by the fireplace at the other -side of the room, and wondered how he should ring it without rousing -the maniac's suspicions. - -"Over thirty," the stranger went on. "You know my woman's secret. I am -Miss Pearl Bellairs, the novelist. Perhaps you have read some of my -books. Or are you too busy?" - -"Oh no, I've read several," Mr. Hobart replied, smiling more and more -brightly and speaking in even more coaxing and indulgent tones. - -"Then we're friends already, Mr. Hobart. Anyone who knows my books, -knows me. My whole heart is in them. Now, you must tell me all about -my poor little vote. I shall be very patriotic with it when the time -comes to use it." - -Mr. Hobart saw his opportunity. - -"Certainly, Miss Bellairs," he said. "I will ring for my clerk and -we'll--er--we'll take down the details." - -He got up, crossed the room, and rang the bell with violence. - -"I'll just go and see that he brings the right books," he added, and -darted to the door. Once outside in the passage, he mopped his face -and heaved a sigh of relief. That had been a narrow shave, by Jove. A -loony in the office--dangerous-looking brute, too. - -* * * * * - -On the following day Dick woke up and found himself in a bare -whitewashed room, sparsely furnished with a little iron bed, a -washstand, a chair, and table. He looked round him in surprise. Where -had he got to this time? He went to the door and tried to open it; it -was locked. An idea entered his mind: he was in barracks somewhere; -the Military Authorities must have got hold of him somehow in spite of -his exemption certificate. Or perhaps Pearl had gone and enlisted. -. . . He turned next to the window, which was barred. Outside, he -could see a courtyard, filled, not with soldiers, as he had expected, -but a curious motley crew of individuals, some men and some women, -wandering hither and thither with an air of complete aimlessness. Very -odd, he thought--very odd. Beyond the courtyard, on the farther side -of a phenomenally high wall, ran a railway line and beyond it a -village, roofed with tile and thatch, and a tall church spire in the -midst. Dick looked carefully at the spire. Didn't he know it? -Surely--yes, those imbricated copper plates with which it was covered, -that gilded ship that served as wind vane, the little gargoyles at the -corner of the tower there could be no doubt; it was Belbury church. -Belbury--that was where the . . . No, no; he wouldn't believe it. But -looking down again into that high-walled courtyard, full of those -queer, aimless folk, he was forced to admit it. The County Asylum -stands at Belbury. He had often noticed it from the train, a huge, -gaunt building of sausage-coloured brick, standing close to the -railway, on the opposite side of the line to Belbury village and -church. He remembered how, the last time he had passed in the train, -he had wondered what they did in the asylum. He had regarded it then -as one of those mysterious, unapproachable places, like Lhassa or a -Ladies' Lavatory, into which he would never penetrate. And now, here -he was, looking out through the bars, like any other madman. It was -all Pearl's doing, as usual. If there had been no bars, he would have -thrown himself out of the window. - -He sat down on his bed and began to think about what he should do. He -would have to be very sane and show them by his behaviour and speech -that he was no more mad than the commonalty of mankind. He would be -extremely dignified about it all. If a warder or a doctor or somebody -came in to see him, he would rise to his feet and say in the calmest -and severest tones: "May I ask, pray, why I am detained here and upon -whose authority?" That ought to stagger them. He practised that -sentence, and the noble attitude with which he would accompany it, for -the best part of an hour. Then, suddenly, there was the sound of a key -in the lock. He hastily sat down again on the bed. A brisk little man -of about forty, clean shaven and with pince-nez, stepped into the -room, followed by a nurse and a warder in uniform. The doctor! Dick's -heart was beating with absurd violence; he felt like an amateur actor -at the first performance of an imperfectly rehearsed play. He rose, -rather unsteadily, to his feet, and in a voice that quavered a little -with an emotion he could not suppress, began: - -"Pray I ask, may . . ." - -Then, realizing that something had gone wrong, he hesitated, -stammered, and came to a pause. - -The doctor turned to the nurse. - -"Did you hear that?" he asked. "He called me May. He seems to think -everybody's a woman, not only himself." - -Turning to Dick with a cheerful smile, he went on: - -"Sit down, Miss Bellairs, please sit down." - -It was too much. Dick burst into tears, flung himself upon the bed, -and buried his face in the pillow. The doctor looked at him as he lay -there sobbing, his whole body shaken and convulsed. - -"A bad case, I fear." - -And the nurse nodded. - -* * * * * - -For the next three days Dick refused to eat. It was certainly -unreasonable, but it seemed the only way of making a protest. On the -fourth day the doctor signed a certificate to the effect that forcible -feeding had become necessary. Accompanied by two warders and a nurse, -he entered Dick's room. - -"Now, Miss Bellairs," he said, making a last persuasive appeal, "do -have a little of this nice soup. We have come to have lunch with you." - -"I refuse to eat," said Dick icily, "as a protest against my unlawful -detention in this place. I am as sane as any of you here." - -"Yes, yes." The doctor's voice was soothing. He made a sign to the -warders. One was very large and stout, the other wiry, thin, sinister, -like the second murderer in a play. They closed in on Dick. - -"I won't eat and I won't be made to eat!" Dick cried. "Let me go!" he -shouted at the fat warder, who had laid a hand on his shoulder. His -temper was beginning to rise. - -"Now, do behave yourself," said the fat warder. "It ain't a bit of use -kicking up a row. Now, do take a little of this lovely soup," he added -wheedlingly. - -"Let me go!" Dick screamed again, all his self-control gone. "I will -not let myself be bullied." - -He began to struggle violently. The fat warder put an arm round his -shoulders, as though he were an immense mother comforting an irritable -child. Dick felt himself helpless; the struggle had quite exhausted -him; he was weaker than he had any idea of. He began kicking the fat -man's shins; it was the only way he could still show fight. - -"Temper, temper," remonstrated the warder, more motherly than ever. -The thin warder stooped down, slipped a strap round the kicking legs, -and drew it tight. Dick could move no more. His fury found vent in -words--vain, abusive, filthy words, such as he had not used since he -was a schoolboy. - -"Let me go," he screamed--"let me go, you devils! You beasts, you -swine! beasts and swine!" he howled again and again. - -They soon had him securely strapped in a chair, his head held back -ready for the doctor and his horrible-looking tubes. They were pushing -the horrors up his nostrils. He coughed and choked, spat, shouted -inarticulately, retched. It was like having a spoon put on your tongue -and being told to say A-a-h, but worse; it was like jumping into the -river and getting water up your nose--how he had always hated -that!--only much worse. It was like almost everything unpleasant, only -much, much worse than all. He exhausted himself struggling against his -utterly immovable bonds. They had to carry him to his bed, he was so -weak. - -He lay there, unmoving--for he was unable to move--staring at the -ceiling. He felt as though he were floating on air, unsupported, solid -no longer; the sensation was not unpleasant. For that reason he -refused to let his mind dwell upon it; he would think of nothing that -was not painful, odious, horrible. He thought about the torture which -had just been inflicted on him and of the monstrous injustice of which -he was a victim. He thought of the millions who had been and were -still being slaughtered in the war; he thought of their pain, all the -countless separate pains of them; pain incommunicable, individual, -beyond the reach of sympathy; infinities of pain pent within frail -finite bodies; pain without sense or object, bringing with it no hope -and no redemption, futile, unnecessary, stupid. In one supreme -apocalyptic moment he saw, he felt the universe in all its horror. - -They forcibly fed him again the following morning and again on the day -after. On the fourth day pneumonia, the result of shock, complicated -by acute inflammation of the throat and pleura, set in. The fever and -pain gained ground. Dick had not the strength to resist their ravages, -and his condition grew hourly worse. His mind, however, continued to -work clearly--too clearly. It occurred to him that he might very -likely die. He asked for pencil and paper to be brought him, and -putting forth all the little strength he had left, he began to make -his testament. - -"I am perfectly sane," he wrote at the top of the page, and underlined -the words three times. "I am confined here by the most intol. injust." -As soon as he began, he realized how little time and strength were -left him; it was a waste to finish the long words. "They are killing -me for my opins. I regard this war and all wars as utter bad. -Capitalists' war. The devils will be smashed sooner later. Wish I -could help. But it won't make any difference," he added on a new line -and as though by an afterthought. "World will always be hell. Cap. or -Lab., Engl. or Germ.--all beasts. One in a mill. is GOOD. I wasn't. -Selfish intellect. Perhaps Pearl Bellairs better. If die, send corp. -to hosp. for anatomy. Useful for once in my life!" - -Quite suddenly, he lapsed into delirium. The clear lucidity of his -mind became troubled. The real world disappeared from before his eyes, -and in its place he saw a succession of bright, unsteady visions -created by his sick fantasy. Scenes from his childhood, long -forgotten, bubbled up and disappeared. Unknown, hideous faces crowded -in upon him; old friends revisited him. He was living in a bewildering -mixture of the familiar and the strange. And all the while, across -this changing unsubstantial world, there hurried a continual, -interminable procession of dromedaries--countless high-domed beasts, -with gargoyle faces and stiff legs and necks that bobbed as though on -springs. Do what he could, he was unable to drive them away. He lost -his temper with the brutes at last, struck at them, shouted; but in -vain. The room rang with his cries of, "Get away, you beasts. Bloody -humps. None of your nonconformist faces here." And while he was -yelling and gesticulating (with his left hand only), his right hand -was still busily engaged in writing. The words were clear and legible; -the sentences consecutive and eminently sane. Dick might rave, but -Pearl Bellairs remained calm and in full possession of her deplorable -faculties. And what was Pearl doing with her busy pencil, while Dick, -like a frenzied Betsy Trotwood, shouted at the trespassing camels? The -first thing she did was to scratch out all that poor Dick had said -about the war. Underneath it she wrote: - -"We shall not sheathe the sword, which we have not lightly . . ." And -then, evidently finding that memorable sentence too long, particularly -so since the addition of Poland and Czecho-Slovakia to the list of -Allies, she began again. - -"We are fighting for honour and the defence of Small Nationalities. -Plucky little Belgium! We went into the war with clean hands." - -A little of Pearl's thought seemed at this moment to have slopped over -into Dick's mind; for he suddenly stopped abusing his dromedaries and -began to cry out in the most pitiable fashion, "Clean hands, clean -hands! I can't get mine clean. I can't, I can't, I can't. I -contaminate everything." And he kept rubbing his left hand against the -bed-clothes and putting his fingers to his nose, only to exclaim, -"Ugh, they still stink of goat!" and then to start rubbing again. - -The right hand wrote on unperturbed. "No peace with the Hun until he -is crushed and humiliated. Self-respecting Britons will refuse to -shake a Hunnish hand for many a long year after the war. No more -German waiters. Intern the Forty-Seven Thousand Hidden Hands in High -Places!" - -At this point, Pearl seemed to have been struck by a new idea. She -took a clean page and began: - -"To the Girls of England. I am a woman and proud of the fact. But, -girls, I blushed for my sex to-day when I read in the papers that -there had been cases of English girls talking to Hun prisoners, and -not only talking to them, but allowing themselves to be kissed by -them. Imagine! Clean, healthy British girls allowing themselves to be -kissed by the swinish and bloodstained lips of the unspeakable Hun! Do -you wonder that I blush for my sex? Stands England where she did? No, -emphatically no, if these stories are true, and true--sadly and with a -heavy bleeding heart do I admit it--true they are." - -"Clean hands, clean hands," Dick was still muttering, and applying his -ringers to his nose once more, "Christ," he cried, "how they stink! -Goats, dung . . ." - -"Is there any excuse for such conduct?" the pencil continued. "The -most that can be said in palliation of the offence is that girls are -thoughtless, that they do not consider the full significance of their -actions. But listen to me, girls of all ages, classes and creeds, from -the blue-eyed, light-hearted flapper of sixteen to the stern-faced, -hard-headed business woman--listen to me. There is a girlish charm -about thoughtlessness, but there is a point beyond which -thoughtlessness becomes criminal. A flapper may kiss a Hun without -thinking what she is doing, merely for the fun of the thing; perhaps, -even, out of misguided pity. Will she repeat the offence if she -realizes, as she must realize if she will only think, that this -thoughtless fun, this mawkish and hysterical pity, is nothing less -than Treason? Treason--it is a sinister word, but . . ." - -The pencil stopped writing; even Pearl was beginning to grow tired. -Dick's shouting had died away to a hoarse, faint whisper. Suddenly her -attention was caught by the last words that Dick had written--the -injunction to send his body, if he died, to a hospital for an anatomy. -She put forth a great effort. - -"NO. NO," she wrote in huge capitals. "Bury me in a little country -churchyard, with lovely marble angels like the ones in St. George's at -Windsor, over Princess Charlotte's tomb. Not anatomy. Too horrible, -too disgus . . ." - -The coma which had blotted out Dick's mind fell now upon hers as well. -Two hours later Dick Greenow was dead; the fingers of his right hand -still grasped a pencil. The scribbled papers were thrown away as being -merely the written ravings of a madman; they were accustomed that sort -of thing at the asylum. - - - -HAPPILY EVER AFTER - -I - -AT the best of times it is a long way from Chicago to Blaybury in -Wiltshire, but war has fixed between them a great gulf. In the -circumstances, therefore, it seemed an act of singular devotion on the -part of Peter Jacobsen to have come all the way from the Middle West, -in the fourth year of war, on a visit to his old friend Petherton, -when the project entailed a single-handed struggle with two Great -Powers over the question of passports and the risk, when they had been -obtained, of perishing miserably by the way, a victim of -frightfulness. - -At the expense of much time and more trouble Jacobsen had at last -arrived; the gulf between Chicago and Blaybury was spanned. In the -hall of Petherton's house a scene of welcome was being enacted under -the dim gaze of six or seven brown family portraits by unknown masters -of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. - -Old Alfred Petherton, a grey shawl over his shoulders--for he had to -be careful, even in June, of draughts and colds--was shaking his -guest's hand with interminable cordiality. - -"My dear boy," he kept repeating, "it _is_ a pleasure to see you. My -dear boy . . ." - -Jacobsen limply abandoned his forearm and waited in patience. - -"I can never be grateful enough," Mr. Petherton went on--"never -grateful enough to you for having taken all this endless trouble to -come and see an old decrepit man--for that's what I am now, that's -what I am, believe me." - -"Oh, I assure you . . ." said Jacobsen, with vague deprecation. "Le -vieux crétin qui pleurniche," he said to himself. French was a -wonderfully expressive language, to be sure. - -"My digestion and my heart have got much worse since I saw you last. -But I think I must have told you about that in my letters." - -"You did indeed, and I was most grieved to hear it." - -"Grieved"--what a curious flavour that word had! Like somebody's tea -which used to recall the most delicious blends of forty years ago. But -it was decidedly the _mot juste_. It had the right obituary note about -it. - -"Yes," Mr. Petherton continued, "my palpitations are very bad now. -Aren't they, Marjorie?" He appealed to his daughter who was standing -beside him. - -"Father's palpitations are very bad," she replied dutifully. - -It was as though they were talking about some precious heirloom long -and lovingly cherished. - -"And my digestion. . . . This physical infirmity makes all mental -activity so difficult. All the same, I manage to do a little useful -work. We'll discuss that later, though. You must be feeling tired and -dusty after your journey down. I'll guide you to your room. Marjorie, -will you get someone to take up his luggage?" - -"I can take it myself," said Jacobsen, and he picked up a small -gladstone-bag that had been deposited by the door. - -"Is that all?" Mr. Petherton asked. - -"Yes, that's all." - -As one living the life of reason, Jacobsen objected to owning things. -One so easily became the slave of things and not their master. He -liked to be free; he checked his possessive instincts and limited his -possessions to the strictly essential. He was as much or as little at -home at Blaybury or Pekin. He could have explained all this if he -liked. But in the present case it wasn't worth taking the trouble. - -"This is your humble chamber," said Mr. Petherton, throwing open the -door of what was, indeed, a very handsome spare-room, bright with -chintzes and cut flowers and silver candlesticks. "A poor thing, but -your own." - -Courtly grace! Dear old man! Apt quotation! Jacobsen unpacked his bag -and arranged its contents neatly and methodically in the various -drawers and shelves of the wardrobe. - -* * * * * - -It was a good many years now since Jacobsen had come in the course of -his grand educational tour to Oxford. He spent a couple of years -there, for he liked the place, and its inhabitants were a source of -unfailing amusement to him. - -A Norwegian, born in the Argentine, educated in the United States, in -France, and in Germany; a man with no nationality and no prejudices, -enormously old in experience, he found something very new and fresh -and entertaining about his fellow-students with their comic -public-school traditions and fabulous ignorance of the world. He had -quietly watched them doing their little antics, feeling all the time -that a row of bars separated them from himself, and that he ought, -after each particularly amusing trick, to offer them a bun or a -handful of pea-nuts. In the intervals of sight-seeing in this strange -and delightful Jardin des Plantes he read Greats, and it was through -Aristotle that he had come into contact with Alfred Petherton, fellow -and tutor of his college. - -The name of Petherton is a respectable one in the academic world. You -will find it on the title-page of such meritorious, if not exactly -brilliant, books as _Plato's Predecessors_, _Three Scottish -Metaphysicians_, _Introduction to the Study of Ethics_, _Essays in -Neo-Idealism_. Some of his works are published in cheap editions as -text-books. - -One of those curious inexplicable friendships that often link the most -unlikely people had sprung up between tutor and pupil, and had lasted -unbroken for upwards of twenty years. Petherton felt a fatherly -affection for the younger man, together with a father's pride, now -that Jacobsen was a man of world-wide reputation, in having, as he -supposed, spiritually begotten him. And now Jacobsen had travelled -three or four thousand miles across a world at war just to see the old -man. Petherton was profoundly touched. - -* * * * * - -"Did you see any submarines on the way over?" Marjorie asked, as she -and Jacobsen were strolling together in the garden after breakfast the -next day. - -"I didn't notice any; but then I am very unobservant about these -things." - -There was a pause. At last, "I suppose there is a great deal of -war-work being done in America now?" said Marjorie. - -Jacobsen supposed so; and there floated across his mind a vision of -massed bands, of orators with megaphones, of patriotic sky-signs, of -streets made perilous by the organized highway robbery of Red Cross -collectors. He was too lazy to describe it all; besides, she wouldn't -see the point of it. - -"I should like to be able to do some war-work," Marjorie explained -apologetically. "But I have to look after father, and there's the -housekeeping, so I really haven't the time." - -Jacobsen thought he detected a formula for the benefit of strangers. -She evidently wanted to make things right about herself in people's -minds. Her remark about the housekeeping made Jacobsen think of the -late Mrs. Petherton, her mother; she had been a good-looking, -painfully sprightly woman with a hankering to shine in University -society at Oxford. One quickly learned that she was related to bishops -and country families; a hunter of ecclesiastical lions and a snob. He -felt glad she was dead. - -"Won't it be awful when there's no war-work," he said. "People will -have nothing to do or think about when peace comes." - -"I shall be glad. Housekeeping will be so much easier." - -"True. There are consolations." - -Marjorie looked at him suspiciously; she didn't like being laughed at. -What an undistinguished-looking little man he was! Short, stoutish, -with waxed brown moustaches and a forehead that incipient baldness had -made interminably high. He looked like the sort of man to whom one -says: "Thank you, I'll take it in notes with a pound's worth of -silver." There were pouches under his eyes and pouches under his chin, -and you could never guess from his expression what he was thinking -about. She was glad that she was taller than he and could look down on -him. - -Mr. Petherton appeared from the house, his grey shawl over his -shoulders and the crackling expanse of the _Times_ between his hands. - -"Good morrow," he cried. - -To the Shakespearian heartiness of this greeting Marjorie returned her -most icily modern "Morning." Her father always said "Good morrow" -instead of "Good morning," and the fact irritated her with unfailing -regularity every day of her life. - -"There's a most interesting account," said Mr. Petherton, "by a young -pilot of an air fight in to-day's paper," and as they walked up and -down the gravel path he read the article, which was a column and a -half in length. - -Marjorie made no attempt to disguise her boredom, and occupied herself -by reading something on the other side of the page, craning her neck -round to see. - -"Very interesting," said Jacobsen when it was finished. - -Mr. Petherton had turned over and was now looking at the Court -Circular page. - -"I see," he said, "there's someone called Beryl Camberley-Belcher -going to be married. Do you know if that's any relation of the Howard -Camberley-Belchers, Marjorie?" - -"I've no idea who the Howard Camberley-Belchers are," Marjorie -answered rather sharply. - -"Oh, I thought you did. Let me see. Howard Camberley-Belcher was at -college with me. And he had a brother called James--or was it -William?--and a sister who married one of the Riders, or at any rate -some relation of the Riders; for I know the Camberley-Belchers and the -Riders used to fit in somewhere. Dear me, I'm afraid my memory for -names is going." - -Marjorie went indoors to prepare the day's domestic campaign with the -cook. When that was over she retired to her sitting-room and unlocked -her very private desk. She must write to Guy this morning. Marjorie -had known Guy Lambourne for years and years, almost as long as she -could remember. The Lambournes were old family friends of the -Pethertons: indeed they were, distantly, connections; they "fitted in -somewhere," as Mr. Petherton would say--somewhere, about a couple of -generations back. Marjorie was two years younger than Guy; they were -both only children; circumstances had naturally thrown them a great -deal together. Then Guy's father had died, and not long afterwards his -mother, and at the age of seventeen Guy had actually come to live with -the Pethertons, for the old man was his guardian. And now they were -engaged; had been, more or less, from the first year of the war. - -Marjorie took pen, ink, and paper. "DEAR GUY," she began--("_We_ -aren't sentimental," she had once remarked, with a mixture of contempt -and secret envy, to a friend who had confided that she and her fiancé -never began with anything less than Darling.)--"I am longing for -another of your letters. . . ." She went through the usual litany of -longing. "It was father's birthday yesterday; he is sixty-five. I -cannot bear to think that some day you and I will be as old as that. -Aunt Ellen sent him a Stilton cheese--a useful war-time present. How -boring housekeeping is. By dint of thinking about cheeses my mind is -rapidly turning into one--a Gruyčre; where there isn't cheese there -are just holes, full of vacuum . . ." - -She didn't really mind housekeeping so much. She took it for granted, -and did it just because it was there to be done. Guy, on the contrary, -never took anything for granted; she made these demonstrations for his -benefit. - -"I read Keats's letters, as you suggested, and thought them _too_ -beautiful . . ." - -At the end of a page of rapture she paused and bit her pen. What was -there to say next? It seemed absurd one should have to write letters -about the books one had been reading. But there was nothing else to -write about; nothing ever happened. After all, what had happened in -her life? Her mother dying when she was sixteen; then the excitement -of Guy coming to live with them; then the war, but that hadn't meant -much to her; then Guy falling in love, and their getting engaged. That -was really all. She wished she could write about her feelings in an -accurate, complicated way, like people in novels; but when she came to -think about it, she didn't seem to have any feelings to describe. - -She looked at Guy's last letter from France. "Sometimes," he had -written, "I am tortured by an intense physical desire for you. I can -think of nothing but your beauty, your young, strong body. I hate -that; I have to struggle to repress it. Do you forgive me?" It rather -thrilled her that he should feel like that about her: he had always -been so cold, so reserved, so much opposed to sentimentality--to the -kisses and endearments she would, perhaps, secretly have liked. But he -had seemed so right when he said, "We must love like rational beings, -with our minds, not with our hands and lips." All the same . . . - -She dipped her pen in the ink and began to write again. "I know the -feelings you spoke of in your letter. Sometimes I long for you in the -same way. I dreamt the other night I was holding you in my arms, and -woke up hugging the pillow." She looked at what she had written. It -was too awful, too vulgar! She would have to scratch it out. But no, -she would leave it in spite of everything, just to see what he would -think about it. She finished the letter quickly, sealed and stamped -it, and rang for the maid to take it to the post. When the servant had -gone, she shut up her desk with a bang. Bang--the letter had gone, -irrevocably. - -She picked up a large book lying on the table and began to read. It -was the first volume of the _Decline and Fall_. Guy had said she must -read Gibbon; she wouldn't be educated till she had read Gibbon. And so -yesterday she had gone to her father in his library to get the book. - -"Gibbon," Mr. Petherton had said, "certainly, my dear. How delightful -it is to look at these grand old books again. One always finds -something new every time." - -Marjorie gave him to understand that she had never read it. She felt -rather proud of her ignorance. - -Mr. Petherton handed the first of eleven volumes to her. "A great -book," he murmured--"an essential book. It fills the gap between your -classical history and your medićval stuff." - -"Your" classical history, Marjorie repeated to herself, "your" -classical history indeed! Her father had an irritating way of taking -it for granted that she knew everything, that classical history was as -much hers as his. Only a day or two before he had turned to her at -luncheon with, "Do you remember, dear child, whether it was Pomponazzi -who denied the personal immortality of the soul, or else that queer -fellow, Laurentius Valla? It's gone out of my head for the moment." -Marjorie had quite lost her temper at the question--much to the -innocent bewilderment of her poor father. - -She had set to work with energy on the Gibbon; her bookmarker -registered the fact that she had got through one hundred and -twenty-three pages yesterday. Marjorie started reading. After two -pages she stopped. She looked at the number of pages still remaining -to be read--and this was only the first volume. She felt like a wasp -sitting down to eat a vegetable marrow. Gibbon's bulk was not -perceptibly diminished by her first bite. It was too long. She shut -the book and went out for a walk. Passing the Whites' house, she saw -her friend, Beatrice White that was, sitting on the lawn with her two -babies. Beatrice hailed her, and she turned in. - -"Pat a cake, pat a cake," she said. At the age of ten months, baby -John had already learnt the art of patting cakes. He slapped the -outstretched hand offered him, and his face, round and smooth and pink -like an enormous peach, beamed with pleasure. - -"Isn't he a darling!" Marjorie exclaimed. "You know, I'm sure he's -grown since last I saw him, which was on Tuesday." - -"He put on eleven ounces last week," Beatrice affirmed. - -"How wonderful! His hair's coming on splendidly . . ." - -* * * * * - -It was Sunday the next day. Jacobsen appeared at breakfast in the -neatest of black suits. He looked, Marjorie thought, more than ever -like a cashier. She longed to tell him to hurry up or he'd miss the -8.53 for the second time this week and the manager would be annoyed. -Marjorie herself was, rather consciously, not in Sunday best. - -"What is the name of the Vicar?" Jacobsen inquired, as he helped -himself to bacon. - -"Trubshaw. Luke Trubshaw, I believe." - -"Does he preach well?" - -"He didn't when I used to hear him. But I don't often go to church -now, so I don't know what he's like these days." - -"Why don't you go to church?" Jacobsen inquired, with a silkiness of -tone which veiled the crude outlines of his leading question. - -Marjorie was painfully conscious of blushing. She was filled with rage -against Jacobsen. "Because," she said firmly, "I don't think it -necessary to give expression to my religious feelings by making a lot -of"--she hesitated a moment--"a lot of meaningless gestures with a -crowd of other people." - -"You used to go," said Jacobsen. - -"When I was a child and hadn't thought about these things." - -Jacobsen was silent, and concealed a smile in his coffee-cup. Really, -he said to himself, there ought to be religious conscription for -women--and for most men, too. It was grotesque the way these people -thought they could stand by themselves--the fools, when there was the -infinite authority of organized religion to support their ridiculous -feebleness. - -"Does Lambourne go to church?" he asked maliciously, and with an air -of perfect naďveté and good faith. - -Marjorie coloured again, and a fresh wave of hatred surged up within -her. Even as she had said the words she had wondered whether Jacobsen -would notice that the phrase "meaningless gestures" didn't ring very -much like one of her own coinages. "Gesture"--that was one of Guy's -words, like "incredible," "exacerbate," "impinge," "sinister." Of -course all her present views about religion had come from Guy. She -looked Jacobsen straight in the face and replied: - -"Yes, I think he goes to church pretty regularly. But I really don't -know: his religion has nothing to do with me." - -Jacobsen was lost in delight and admiration. - -Punctually at twenty minutes to eleven he set out for church. From -where she was sitting in the summer-house Marjorie watched him as he -crossed the garden, incredibly absurd and incongruous in his black -clothes among the blazing flowers and the young emerald of the trees. -Now he was hidden behind the sweet-briar hedge, all except the hard -black melon of his bowler hat, which she could see bobbing along -between the topmost sprays. - -She went on with her letter to Guy. ". . . What a strange man Mr. -Jacobsen is. I suppose he is very clever, but I can't get very much -out of him. We had an argument about religion at breakfast this -morning; I rather scored off him. He has now gone off to church all by -himself;--I really couldn't face the prospect of going with him--I -hope he'll enjoy old Mr. Trubshaw's preaching!" - -Jacobsen did enjoy Mr. Trubshaw's preaching enormously. He always made -a point, in whatever part of Christendom he happened to be, of -attending divine service. He had the greatest admiration of churches -as institutions. In their solidity and unchangeableness he saw one of -the few hopes for humanity. Further, he derived great pleasure from -comparing the Church as an institution--splendid, powerful, -eternal--with the childish imbecility of its representatives. How -delightful it was to sit in the herded congregation and listen to the -sincere outpourings of an intellect only a little less limited than -that of an Australian aboriginal! How restful to feel oneself a member -of a flock, guided by a good shepherd--himself a sheep! Then there was -the scientific interest (he went to church as student of anthropology, -as a Freudian psychologist) and the philosophic amusement of counting -the undistributed middles and tabulating historically the exploded -fallacies in the parson's discourse. - -To-day Mr. Trubshaw preached a topical sermon about the Irish -situation. His was the gospel of the _Morning Post_, slightly tempered -by Christianity. It was our duty, he said, to pray for the Irish first -of all, and if that had no effect upon recruiting, why, then, we must -conscribe them as zealously as we had prayed before. - -Jacobsen leaned back in his pew with a sigh of contentment. A -connoisseur, he recognized that this was the right stuff. - -"Well," said Mr. Petherton over the Sunday beef at lunch, "how did you -like our dear Vicar?" - -"He was splendid," said Jacobsen, with grave enthusiasm. "One of the -best sermons I've ever heard." - -"Indeed? I shall really have to go and hear him again. It must be -nearly ten years since I listened to him." - -"He's inimitable." - -Marjorie looked at Jacobsen carefully. He seemed to be perfectly -serious. She was more than ever puzzled by the man. - -The days went slipping by, hot blue days that passed like a flash -almost without one's noticing them, cold grey days, seeming -interminable and without number, and about which one spoke with a -sense of justified grievance, for the season was supposed to be -summer. There was fighting going on in France--terrific battles, to -judge from the headlines in the _Times_; but, after all, one day's -paper was very much like another's. Marjorie read them dutifully, but -didn't honestly take in very much; at least she forgot about things -very soon. She couldn't keep count with the battles of Ypres, and when -somebody told her that she ought to go and see the photographs of the -_Vindictive_, she smiled vaguely and said Yes, without remembering -precisely what the _Vindictive_ was--a ship, she supposed. - -Guy was in France, to be sure, but he was an Intelligence Officer now, -so that she was hardly anxious about him at all. Clergymen used to say -that the war was bringing us all back to a sense of the fundamental -realities of life. She supposed it was true: Guy's enforced absences -were a pain to her, and the difficulties of housekeeping continually -increased and multiplied. - -Mr. Petherton took a more intelligent interest in the war than did his -daughter. He prided himself on being able to see the thing as a whole, -on taking an historical, God's-eye view of it all. He talked about it -at meal-times, insisting that the world must be made safe for -democracy. Between meals he sat in the library working at his -monumental History of Morals. To his dinner-table disquisitions -Marjorie would listen more or less attentively, Jacobsen with an -unfailing, bright, intelligent politeness. Jacobsen himself rarely -volunteered a remark about the war; it was taken for granted that he -thought about it in the same way as all other right-thinking folk. -Between meals he worked in his room or discussed the morals of the -Italian Renaissance with his host. Marjorie could write to Guy that -nothing was happening, and that but for his absence and the weather -interfering so much with tennis, she would be perfectly happy. - -Into the midst of this placidity there fell, delightful bolt from the -blue, the announcement that Guy was getting leave at the end of July. -"DARLING," Marjorie wrote, "I am so excited to think that you will be -with me in such a little--such a long, long time." Indeed, she was so -excited and delighted that she realized with a touch of remorse how -comparatively little she had thought of him when there seemed no -chance of seeing him, how dim a figure in absence he was. A week later -she heard that George White had arranged to get leave at the same time -so as to see Guy. She was glad; George was a charming boy, and Guy was -so fond of him. The Whites were their nearest neighbours, and ever -since Guy had come to live at Blaybury he had seen a great deal of -young George. - -"We shall be a most festive party," said Mr. Petherton. "Roger will be -coming to us just at the same time as Guy." - -"I'd quite forgotten Uncle Roger," said Marjorie. "Of course, his -holidays begin then, don't they?" - -The Reverend Roger was Alfred Petherton's brother and a master at one -of our most glorious public schools. Marjorie hardly agreed with her -father in thinking that his presence would add anything to the -"festiveness" of the party. It was a pity he should be coming at this -particular moment. However, we all have our little cross to bear. - -Mr. Petherton was feeling playful. "We must bring down," he said, "the -choicest Falernian, bottled when Gladstone was consul, for the -occasion. We must prepare wreaths and unguents and hire a flute player -and a couple of dancing girls . . ." - -He spent the rest of the meal in quoting Horace, Catullus, the Greek -Anthology, Petronius, and Sidonius Apollinarius. Marjorie's knowledge -of the dead languages was decidedly limited. Her thoughts were -elsewhere, and it was only dimly and as it were through a mist that -she heard her father murmuring--whether merely to himself or with the -hope of eliciting an answer from somebody, she hardly knew--"Let me -see: how does that epigram go?--that one about the different kinds of -fish and the garlands of roses, by Meleager, or is it Poseidippus? -. . ." - - - -II - -GUY and Jacobsen were walking in the Dutch garden, an incongruous -couple. On Guy military servitude had left no outwardly visible mark; -out of uniform, he still looked like a tall, untidy undergraduate; he -stooped and drooped as much as ever; his hair was still bushy and, to -judge by the dim expression of his face, he had not yet learnt to -think imperially. His khaki always looked like a disguise, like the -most absurd fancy dress. Jacobsen trotted beside him, short, fattish, -very sleek, and correct. They talked in a desultory way about things -indifferent. Guy, anxious for a little intellectual exercise after so -many months of discipline, had been trying to inveigle his companion -into a philosophical discussion. Jacobsen consistently eluded his -efforts; he was too lazy to talk seriously; there was no profit that -he could see to be got out of this young man's opinions, and he had -not the faintest desire to make a disciple. He preferred, therefore, -to discuss the war and the weather. It irritated him that people -should want to trespass on the domain of thought--people who had no -right to live anywhere but on the vegetative plane of mere existence. -He wished they would simply be content to _be_ or _do_, not try, so -hopelessly, to think, when only one in a million can think with the -least profit to himself or anyone else. - -Out of the corner of his eye he looked at the dark, sensitive face of -his companion; he ought to have gone into business at eighteen, was -Jacobsen's verdict. It was bad for him to think; he wasn't strong -enough. - -A great sound of barking broke upon the calm of the garden. Looking -up, the two strollers saw George White running across the green turf -of the croquet lawn with a huge fawn-coloured dog bounding along at -his side. - -"Morning," he shouted. He was hatless and out of breath. "I was taking -Bella for a run, and thought I'd look in and see how you all were." - -"What a lovely dog!" Jacobsen exclaimed. - -"An old English mastiff our--one aboriginal dog. She has a pedigree -going straight back to Edward the Confessor." - -Jacobsen began a lively conversation with George on the virtues and -shortcomings of dogs. Bella smelt his calves and then lifted up her -gentle black eyes to look at him. She seemed satisfied. - -He looked at them for a little; they were too much absorbed in their -doggy conversation to pay attention to him. He made a gesture as -though he had suddenly remembered something, gave a little grunt, and -with a very preoccupied expression on his face turned to go towards -the house. His elaborate piece of by-play escaped the notice of the -intended spectators; Guy saw that it had, and felt more miserable and -angry and jealous than ever. They would think he had slunk off because -he wasn't wanted--which was quite true--instead of believing that he -had something very important to do, which was what he had intended -they should believe. - -A cloud of self-doubt settled upon him. Was his mind, after all, -worthless, and the little things he had written--rubbish, not -potential genius as he had hoped? Jacobsen was right in preferring -George's company. George was perfect, physically, a splendid creature; -what could he himself claim? - -"I'm second-rate," he thought--"second-rate, physically, morally, -mentally. Jacobsen is quite right." - -The best he could hope to be was a pedestrian literary man with quiet -tastes. - -NO, no, no! He clenched his hands and, as though to register his -resolve before the universe, he said, aloud: - -"I will do it; I will be first-rate, I will." - -He was covered with confusion on seeing a gardener pop up, surprised -from behind a bank of rose-bushes. Talking to himself--the man must -have thought him mad! - -He hurried on across the lawn, entered the house, and ran upstairs to -his room. There was not a second to lose; he must begin at once. He -would write something--something that would last, solid, hard, -shining. . . . - -"Damn them all! I will do it, I can . . ." - -There were writing materials and a table in his room. He selected a -pen--with a Relief nib he would be able to go on for hours without -getting tired--and a large square sheet of writing-paper. - - "HATCH HOUSE, - BLAYBURY, - WILTS. - Station: Cogham, 3 miles; Nobes Monacorum, 4˝ miles." - -Stupid of people to have their stationery printed in red, when black -or blue is so much nicer! He inked over the letters. - -He held up the paper to the light; there was a watermark, "Pimlico -Bond." What an admirable name for the hero of a novel! Pimlico Bond. -. . . - - "There's be-eef in the la-arder - And du-ucks in the pond; - Crying dilly dilly, dilly dilly . . ." - -He bit the end of his pen. "What I want to get," he said to himself, -"is something very hard, very external. Intense emotion, but one will -somehow have got outside it." He made a movement of hands, arms, and -shoulders, tightening his muscles in an effort to express to himself -physically that hardness and tightness and firmness of style after -which he was struggling! - -He began to draw on his virgin paper. A woman, naked, one arm lifted -over her head, so that it pulled up her breast by that wonderful -curving muscle that comes down from the shoulder. The inner surface of -the thighs, remember, is slightly concave. The feet, seen from the -front, are always a difficulty. - -It would never do to leave that about. What would the servants think? -He turned the nipples into eyes, drew heavy lines for nose, mouth, and -chin, slopped on the ink thick; it made a passable face now--though an -acute observer might have detected the original nudity. He tore it up -into very small pieces. - -A crescendo booming filled the house. It was the gong. He looked at -his watch. Lunch-time, and he had done nothing. O God! . . . - - - -III - -IT was dinner-time on the last evening of Guy's leave. The uncovered -mahogany table was like a pool of brown unruffled water within whose -depths flowers and the glinting shapes of glass and silver hung dimly -reflected. Mr. Petherton sat at the head of the board, flanked by his -brother Roger and Jacobsen. Youth, in the persons of Marjorie, Guy, -and George White, had collected at the other end. They had reached the -stage of dessert. - -"This is excellent port," said Roger, sleek and glossy like a well-fed -black cob under his silken clerical waistcoat. He was a strong, -thick-set man of about fifty, with a red neck as thick as his head. -His hair was cropped with military closeness; he liked to set a good -example to the boys, some of whom showed distressing "ćsthetic" -tendencies and wore their hair long. - -"I'm glad you like it. I mayn't touch it myself, of course. Have -another glass." Alfred Petherton's face wore an expression of -dyspeptic melancholy. He was wishing he hadn't taken quite so much of -that duck. - -"Thank you, I will." Roger took the decanter with a smile of -satisfaction. "The tired schoolmaster is worthy of his second glass. -White, you look rather pale; I think you must have another." Roger had -a hearty, jocular manner, calculated to prove to his pupils that he -was not one of the slimy sort of parsons, not a Creeping Jesus. - -There was an absorbing conversation going on at the youthful end of -the table. Secretly irritated at having been thus interrupted in the -middle of it, White turned round and smiled vaguely at Roger. - -"Oh, thank you, sir," he said, and pushed his glass forward to be -filled. The "sir" slipped out unawares; it was, after all, such a -little while since he had been a schoolboy under Roger's dominion. - -"One is lucky," Roger went on seriously, "to get any port wine at all -now. I'm thankful to say I bought ten dozen from my old college some -years ago to lay down; otherwise I don't know what I should do. My -wine merchant tells me he couldn't let me have a single bottle. -Indeed, he offered to buy some off me, if I'd sell. But I wasn't -having any. A bottle in the cellar is worth ten shillings in the -pocket these days. I always say that port has become a necessity now -one gets so little meat. Lambourne! you are another of our brave -defenders; you deserve a second glass." - -"No, thanks," said Guy, hardly looking up. "I've had enough." He went -on talking to Marjorie--about the different views of life held by the -French and the Russians. - -Roger helped himself to cherries. "One has to select them carefully," -he remarked for the benefit of the unwillingly listening George. -"There is nothing that gives you such stomach-aches as unripe -cherries." - -"I expect you're glad, Mr. Petherton, that holidays have begun at -last?" said Jacobsen. - -"Glad? I should think so. One is utterly dead beat at the end of the -summer term. Isn't one, White?" - -White had taken the opportunity to turn back again and listen to Guy's -conversation; recalled, like a dog who has started off on a forbidden -scent, he obediently assented that one did get tired at the end of the -summer term. - -"I suppose," said Jacobsen, "you still teach the same old -things--Cćsar, Latin verses, Greek grammar, and the rest? We Americans -can hardly believe that all that still goes on." - -"Thank goodness," said Roger, "we still hammer a little solid stuff -into them. But there's been a great deal of fuss lately about new -curriculums and so forth. They do a lot of science now and things of -that kind, but I don't believe the children learn anything at all. -It's pure waste of time." - -"So is all education, I dare say," said Jacobsen lightly. - -"Not if you teach them discipline. That's what's wanted--discipline. -Most of these little boys need plenty of beating, and they don't get -enough now. Besides, if you can't hammer knowledge in at their heads, -you can at least beat a little in at their tails." - -"You're very ferocious, Roger," said Mr. Petherton, smiling. He was -feeling better; the duck was settling down. - -"No, it's the vital thing. The best thing the war has brought us is -discipline. The country had got slack and wanted tightening up." -Roger's face glowed with zeal. - -From the other end of the table Guy's voice could be heard saying, "Do -you know César Franck's 'Dieu s'avance ŕ travers la lande'? It's one -of the finest bits of religious music I know." - -Mr. Petherton's face lighted up; he leaned forward. "No," he said, -throwing his answer unexpectedly into the midst of the young people's -conversation. "I don't know it; but do you know this? Wait a minute." -He knitted his brows, and his lips moved as though he were trying to -recapture a formula. "Ah, I've got it. Now, can you tell me this? The -name of what famous piece of religious music do I utter when I order -an old carpenter, once a Liberal but now a renegade to Conservatism, -to make a hive for bees?" - -Guy gave it up; his guardian beamed delightedly. - -"Hoary Tory, oh, Judas! Make a bee-house," he said. "Do you see? -Oratorio _Judas Maccabeus._" - -Guy could have wished that this bit of flotsam from Mr. Petherton's -sportive youth had not been thus washed up at his feet. He felt that -he had been peeping indecently close into the dark backward and abysm -of time. - -"That was a good one," Mr. Petherton chuckled. "I must see if I can -think of some more." - -Roger, who was not easily to be turned away from his favourite topic, -waited till this irrelevant spark of levity had quite expired, and -continued: "It's a remarkable and noticeable fact that you never seem -to get discipline combined with the teaching of science or modern -languages. Who ever heard of a science master having a good house at a -school? Scientists' houses are always bad." - -"How very strange!" said Jacobsen. - -"Strange, but a fact. It seems to me a great mistake to give them -houses at all if they can't keep discipline. And then there's the -question of religion. Some of these men never come to chapel except -when they're on duty. And then, I ask you, what happens when they -prepare their boys for Confirmation? Why, I've known boys come to me -who were supposed to have been prepared by one or other of these men, -and, on asking them, I've found that they know nothing whatever about -the most solemn facts of the Eucharist.--May I have some more of those -excellent cherries please, White?--Of course, I do my best in such -cases to tell the boys what I feel personally about these solemn -things. But there generally isn't the time; one's life is so crowded; -and so they go into Confirmation with only the very haziest knowledge -of what it's all about. You see how absurd it is to let anyone but the -classical men have anything to do with the boys' lives." - -"Shake it well, dear," Mr. Petherton was saying to his daughter, who -had come with his medicine. - -"What is that stuff?" asked Roger. - -"Oh, it's merely my peptones. I can hardly digest at all without it, -you know." - -"You have all my sympathies. My poor colleague, Flexner, suffers from -chronic colitis. I can't imagine how he goes on with his work." - -"No, indeed. I find I can do nothing strenuous." - -Roger turned and seized once more on the unhappy George. "White," he -said, "let this be a lesson to you. Take care of your inside; it's the -secret of a happy old age." - -Guy looked up quickly. "Don't worry about his old age," he said in a -strange harsh voice, very different from the gentle, elaborately -modulated tone in which he generally spoke. "He won't have an old age. -His chances against surviving are about fourteen to three if the war -goes on another year." - -"Come," said Roger, "don't let's be pessimistic." - -"But I'm not. I assure you, I'm giving you a most rosy view of -George's chance of reaching old age." - -It was felt that Guy's remarks had been in poor taste. There was a -silence; eyes floated vaguely and uneasily, trying not to encounter -one another. Roger cracked a nut loudly. When he had sufficiently -relished the situation, Jacobsen changed the subject by remarking: - -"That was a fine bit of work by our destroyers this morning, wasn't -it?" - -"It did one good to read about it," said Mr. Petherton. "Quite the -Nelson touch." - -Roger raised his glass. "Nelson!" he said, and emptied it at a gulp. -"What a man! I am trying to persuade the Headmaster to make Trafalgar -Day a holiday. It is the best way of reminding boys of things of that -sort." - -"A curiously untypical Englishman to be a national hero, isn't he?" -said Jacobsen. "So emotional and lacking in Britannic phlegm." - -The Reverend Roger looked grave. "There's one thing I've never been -able to understand about Nelson, and that is, how a man who was so -much the soul of honour and of patriotism could have been--er--immoral -with Lady Hamilton. I know people say that it was the custom of the -age, that these things meant nothing then, and so forth; but all the -same, I repeat, I cannot understand how a man who was so intensely a -patriotic Englishman could have done such a thing." - -"I fail to see what patriotism has got to do with it," said Guy. - -Roger fixed him with his most pedagogic look and said slowly and -gravely, "Then I am sorry for you. I shouldn't have thought it was -necessary to tell an Englishman that purity of morals is a national -tradition: you especially, a public-school man." - -"Let us go and have a hundred up at billiards," said Mr. Petherton. -"Roger, will you come? And you, George, and Guy?" - -"I'm so incredibly bad," Guy insisted, "I'd really rather not." - -"So am I," said Jacobsen. - -"Then, Marjorie, you must make the fourth." - -The billiard players trooped out; Guy and Jacobsen were left alone, -brooding over the wreckage of dinner. There was a long silence. The -two men sat smoking, Guy sitting in a sagging, crumpled attitude, like -a half-empty sack abandoned on a chair, Jacobsen very upright and -serene. - -"Do you find you can suffer fools gladly?" asked Guy abruptly. - -"Perfectly gladly." - -"I wish I could. The Reverend Roger has a tendency to make my blood -boil." - -"But such a good soul," Jacobsen insisted. - -"I dare say, but a monster all the same." - -"You should take him more calmly. I make a point of never letting -myself be moved by external things. I stick to my writing and -thinking. Truth is beauty, beauty is truth, and so forth: after all, -they're the only things of solid value." Jacobsen looked at the young -man with a smile as he said these words. There is no doubt, he said to -himself, that that boy ought to have gone into business; what a -mistake this higher education is, to be sure. - -"Of course, they're the only things," Guy burst out passionately. "You -can afford to say so because you had the luck to be born twenty years -before I was, and with five thousand miles of good deep water between -you and Europe. Here am I, called upon to devote my life, in a very -different way from which you devote yours to truth and beauty--to -devote my life to--well, what? I'm not quite sure, but I preserve a -touching faith that it is good. And you tell me to ignore external -circumstances. Come and live in Flanders a little and try . . ." He -launched forth into a tirade about agony and death and blood and -putrefaction. - -"What is one to do?" he concluded despairingly. "What the devil is -right? I had meant to spend my life writing and thinking, trying to -create something beautiful or discover something true. But oughtn't -one, after all, if one survives, to give up everything else and try to -make this hideous den of a world a little more habitable?" - -"I think you can take it that a world which has let itself be -dragooned into this criminal folly is pretty hopeless. Follow your -inclinations; or, better, go into a bank and make a lot of money." - -Guy burst out laughing, rather too loudly. "Admirable, admirable!" he -said. "To return to our old topic of fools: frankly, Jacobsen, I -cannot imagine why you should elect to pass your time with my dear old -guardian. He's a charming old man, but one must admit----" He waved -his hand. - -"One must live somewhere," said Jacobsen. "I find your guardian a most -interesting man to be with.--Oh, do look at that dog!" On the -hearth-rug Marjorie's little Pekingese, Confucius, was preparing to -lie down and go to sleep. He went assiduously through the solemn farce -of scratching the floor, under the impression, no doubt, that he was -making a comfortable nest to lie in. He turned round and round, -scratching earnestly and methodically. Then he lay down, curled -himself up in a ball, and was asleep in the twinkling of an eye. - -"Isn't that too wonderfully human!" exclaimed Jacobsen delightedly. -Guy thought he could see now why Jacobsen enjoyed living with Mr. -Petherton. The old man was so wonderfully human. - -* * * * * - -Later in the evening, when the billiards was over and Mr. Petherton -had duly commented on the anachronism of introducing the game into -Anthony and Cleopatra, Guy and Marjorie went for a stroll in the -garden. The moon had risen above the trees and lit up the front of the -house with its bright pale light that could not wake the sleeping -colours of the world. - -"Moonlight is the proper architectural light," said Guy, as they stood -looking at the house. The white light and the hard black shadows -brought out all the elegance of its Georgian symmetry. - -"Look, here's the ghost of a rose." Marjorie touched a big cool -flower, which one guessed rather than saw to be red, a faint equivocal -lunar crimson. "And, oh, smell the tobacco-plant flowers. Aren't they -delicious!" - -"I always think there's something very mysterious about perfume -drifting through the dark like this. It seems to come from some -perfectly different immaterial world, peopled by unembodied -sensations, phantom passions. Think of the spiritual effect of incense -in a dark church. One isn't surprised that people have believed in the -existence of the soul." - -They walked on in silence. Sometimes, accidentally, his hand would -brush against hers in the movement of their march. Guy felt an -intolerable emotion of expectancy, akin to fear. It made him feel -almost physically sick. - -"Do you remember," he said abruptly, "that summer holiday our families -spent together in Wales? It must have been nineteen four or five. I -was ten and you were eight or thereabouts." - -"Of course I remember," cried Marjorie. "Everything. There was that -funny little toy railway from the slate quarries." - -"And do you remember our gold-mine? All those tons of yellow ironstone -we collected and hoarded in a cave, fully believing they were nuggets. -How incredibly remote it seems!" - -"And you had a wonderful process by which you tested whether the stuff -was real gold or not. It all passed triumphantly as genuine, I -remember!" - -"Having that secret together first made us friends, I believe." - -"I dare say," said Marjorie. "Fourteen years ago--what a time! And you -began educating me even then: all that stuff you told me about -gold-mining, for instance." - -"Fourteen years," Guy repeated reflectively, "and I shall be going out -again to-morrow . . ." - -"Don't speak about it. I am so miserable when you're away." She -genuinely forgot what a delightful summer she had had, except for the -shortage of tennis. - -"We must make this the happiest hour of our lives. Perhaps it may be -the last we shall be together." Guy looked up at the moon, and he -perceived, with a sudden start, that it was a sphere islanded in an -endless night, not a flat disk stuck on a wall not so very far away. -It filled him with an infinite dreariness; he felt too insignificant -to live at all. - -"Guy, you mustn't talk like that," said Marjorie appealingly. - -"We've got twelve hours," said Guy in a meditative voice, "but that's -only clock-work time. You can give an hour the quality of -everlastingness, and spend years which are as though they had never -been. We get our immortality here and now; it's a question of quality, -not of quantity. I don't look forward to golden harps or anything of -that sort. I know that when I am dead, I shall be dead; there isn't -any afterwards. If I'm killed, my immortality will be in your memory. -Perhaps, too, somebody will read the things I've written, and in his -mind I shall survive, feebly and partially. But in your mind I shall -survive intact and whole." - -"But I'm sure we shall go on living after death. It can't be the end." -Marjorie was conscious that she had heard those words before. Where? -Oh yes, it was earnest Evangeline who had spoken them at the school -debating society. - -"I wouldn't count on it," Guy replied, with a little laugh. "You may -get such a disappointment when you die." Then in an altered voice, "I -don't want to die. I hate and fear death. But probably I shan't be -killed after all. All the same . . ." His voice faded out. They -stepped into a tunnel of impenetrable darkness between two tall -hornbeam hedges. He had become nothing but a voice, and now that had -ceased; he had disappeared. The voice began again, low, quick, -monotonous, a little breathless. "I remember once reading a poem by -one of the old Provençal troubadours, telling how God had once granted -him supreme happiness; for the night before he was to set out for the -Crusade, it had been granted him to hold his lady in his arms--all the -short eternal night through. Ains que j'aille oltre mer: when I was -going beyond sea." The voice stopped again. They were standing at the -very mouth of the hornbeam alley, looking out from that close-pent -river of shadow upon an ocean of pale moonlight. - -"How still it is." They did not speak; they hardly breathed. They -became saturated with the quiet. - -Marjorie broke the silence. "Do you want me as much as all that, Guy?" -All through that long, speechless minute she had been trying to say -the words, repeating them over to herself, longing to say them aloud, -but paralysed, unable to. And at last she had spoken them, -impersonally, as though through the mouth of someone else. She heard -them very distinctly, and was amazed at the matter-of-factness of the -tone. - -Guy's answer took the form of a question. "Well, suppose I were killed -now," he said, "should I ever have really lived?" - -They had stepped out of the cavernous alley into the moonlight. She -could see him clearly now, and there was something so drooping and -dejected and pathetic about him, he seemed so much of a great, -overgrown child that a wave of passionate pitifulness rushed through -her, reinforcing other emotions less maternal. She longed to take him -in her arms, stroke his hair, lullaby him, baby-fashion, to sleep upon -her breast. And Guy, on his side, desired nothing better than to give -his fatigues and sensibilities to her maternal care, to have his eyes -kissed fast, and sleep to her soothing. In his relations with -women--but his experience in this direction was deplorably small--he -had, unconsciously at first but afterwards with a realization of what -he was doing, played this child part. In moments of self-analysis he -laughed at himself for acting the "child stunt," as he called it. Here -he was--he hadn't noticed it yet--doing it again, drooping, dejected, -wholly pathetic, feeble . . . - -Marjorie was carried away by her emotion. She would give herself to -her lover, would take possession of her helpless, pitiable child. She -put her arms round his neck, lifted her face to his kisses, whispered -something tender and inaudible. - -Guy drew her towards him and began kissing the soft, warm mouth. He -touched the bare arm that encircled his neck; the flesh was resilient -under his fingers; he felt a desire to pinch it and tear it. - -It had been just like this with that little slut Minnie. Just the -same--all horrible lust. He remembered a curious physiological fact -out of Havelock Ellis. He shuddered as though he had touched something -disgusting, and pushed her away. - -"No, no, no. It's horrible; it's odious. Drunk with moonlight and -sentimentalizing about death. . . . Why not just say with Biblical -frankness, Lie with me--Lie with me?" - -That this love, which was to have been so marvellous and new and -beautiful, should end libidinously and bestially like the affair, -never remembered without a shiver of shame, with Minnie (the vulgarity -of her!)--filled him with horror. - -Marjorie burst into tears and ran away, wounded and trembling, into -the solitude of the hornbeam shadow. "Go away, go away," she sobbed, -with such intensity of command that Guy, moved by an immediate remorse -and the sight of tears to stop her and ask forgiveness, was -constrained to let her go her ways. - -A cool, impersonal calm had succeeded almost immediately to his -outburst. Critically, he examined what he had done, and judged it, not -without a certain feeling of satisfaction, to be the greatest -"floater" of his life. But at least the thing was done and couldn't be -undone. He took the weak-willed man's delight in the irrevocability of -action. He walked up and down the lawn smoking a cigarette and -thinking, clearly and quietly--remembering the past, questioning the -future. When the cigarette was finished he went into the house. - -He entered the smoking-room to hear Roger saying, ". . . It's the poor -who are having the good time now. Plenty to eat, plenty of money, and -no taxes to pay. No taxes--that's the sickening thing. Look at -Alfred's gardener, for instance. He gets twenty-five or thirty bob a -week and an uncommon good house. He's married, but only has one child. -A man like that is uncommonly well off. He ought to be paying -income-tax; he can perfectly well afford it." - -Mr. Petherton was listening somnolently, Jacobsen with his usual keen, -intelligent politeness; George was playing with the blue Persian -kitten. - -It had been arranged that George should stay the night, because it was -such a bore having to walk that mile and a bit home again in the dark. -Guy took him up to his room and sat down on the bed for a final -cigarette, while George was undressing. It was the hour of -confidence--that rather perilous moment when fatigue has relaxed the -fibres of the mind, making it ready and ripe for sentiment. - -"It depresses me so much," said Guy, "to think that you're only twenty -and that I'm just on twenty-four. You will be young and sprightly when -the war ends; I shall be an old antique man." - -"Not so old as all that," George answered, pulling off his shirt. His -skin was very white, face, neck, and hands seeming dark brown by -comparison; there was a sharply demarcated high-water mark of sunburn -at throat and wrist. - -"It horrifies me to think of the time one is wasting in this bloody -war, growing stupider and grosser every day, achieving nothing at all. -It will be five, six--God knows how many--years cut clean out of one's -life. You'll have the world before you when it's all over, but I shall -have spent my best time." - -"Of course, it doesn't make so much difference to me," said George -through a foam of tooth-brushing; "I'm not capable of doing anything -of any particular value. It's really all the same whether I lead a -blameless life broking stocks or spend my time getting killed. But for -you, I agree, it's too bloody. . . ." - -Guy smoked on in silence, his mind filled with a languid resentment -against circumstance. George put on his pyjamas and crept under the -sheet; he had to curl himself up into a ball, because Guy was lying -across the end of the bed, and he couldn't put his feet down. - -"I suppose," said Guy at last, meditatively--"I suppose the only -consolations are, after all, women and wine. I shall really have to -resort to them. Only women are mostly so fearfully boring and wine is -so expensive now." - -"But not all women!" George, it was evident, was waiting to get a -confidence off his chest. - -"I gather you've found the exceptions." - -George poured forth. He had just spent six months at Chelsea--six -dreary months on the barrack square; but there had been lucid -intervals between the drills and the special courses, which he had -filled with many notable voyages of discovery among unknown worlds. -And chiefly, Columbus to his own soul, he had discovered all those -psychological intricacies and potentialities, which only the passions -bring to light. _Nosce teipsum_, it has been commanded; and a -judicious cultivation of the passions is one of the surest roads to -self-knowledge. To George, at barely twenty, it was all so amazingly -new and exciting, and Guy listened to the story of his adventures with -admiration and a touch of envy. He regretted the dismal and cloistered -chastity--broken only once, and how sordidly! Wouldn't he have learnt -much more, he wondered--have been a more real and better human being -if he had had George's experiences? He would have profited by them -more than George could ever hope to do. There was the risk of George's -getting involved in a mere foolish expense of spirit in a waste of -shame. He might not be sufficiently an individual to remain himself in -spite of his surroundings; his hand would be coloured by the dye he -worked in. Guy felt sure that he himself would have run no risk; he -would have come, seen, conquered, and returned intact and still -himself, but enriched by the spoils of a new knowledge. Had he been -wrong after all? Had life in the cloister of his own philosophy been -wholly unprofitable? - -He looked at George. It was not surprising that the ladies favoured -him, glorious ephebus that he was. - -"With a face and figure like mine," he reflected, "I shouldn't have -been able to lead his life, even if I'd wanted to." He laughed -inwardly. - -"You really must meet her," George was saying enthusiastically. - -Guy smiled. "No, I really mustn't. Let me give you a bit of perfectly -good advice. Never attempt to share your joys with anyone else. People -will sympathize with pain, but not with pleasure. Good night, George." - -He bent over the pillow and kissed the smiling face that was as smooth -as a child's to his lips. - -Guy lay awake for a long time, and his eyes were dry and aching before -sleep finally came upon him. He spent those dark interminable hours -thinking--thinking hard, intensely, painfully. No sooner had he left -George's room than a feeling of intense unhappiness took hold of him. -"Distorted with misery," that was how he described himself; he loved -to coin such phrases, for he felt the artist's need to express as well -as to feel and think. Distorted with misery, he went to bed; distorted -with misery, he lay and thought and thought. He had, positively, a -sense of physical distortion: his guts were twisted, he had a hunched -back, his legs were withered. . . . - -He had the right to be miserable. He was going back to France -to-morrow, he had trampled on his mistress's love, and he was -beginning to doubt himself, to wonder whether his whole life hadn't -been one ludicrous folly. - -He reviewed his life, like a man about to die. Born in another age, he -would, he supposed, have been religious. He had got over religion -early, like the measles--at nine a Low Churchman, at twelve a Broad -Churchman, and at fourteen an Agnostic--but he still retained the -temperament of a religious man. Intellectually he was a Voltairian, -emotionally a Bunyanite. To have arrived at this formula was, he felt, -a distinct advance in self-knowledge. And what a fool he had been with -Marjorie! The priggishness of his attitude--making her read Wordsworth -when she didn't want to. Intellectual love--his phrases weren't always -a blessing; how hopelessly he had deceived himself with words! And now -this evening the crowning outrage, when he had behaved to her like a -hysterical anchorite dealing with a temptation. His body tingled, at -the recollection, with shame. - -An idea occurred to him; he would go and see her, tiptoe downstairs to -her room, kneel by her bed, ask for her forgiveness. He lay quite -still imagining the whole scene. He even went so far as to get out of -bed, open the door, which made a noise in the process like a peacock's -scream, quite unnerving him, and creep to the head of the stairs. He -stood there a long time, his feet growing colder and colder, and then -decided that the adventure was really too sordidly like the episode at -the beginning of Tolstoy's _Resurrection_. The door screamed again as -he returned; he lay in bed, trying to persuade himself that his -self-control had been admirable and at the same time cursing his -absence of courage in not carrying out what he had intended. - -He remembered a lecture he had given Marjorie once on the subject of -Sacred and Profane Love. Poor girl, how had she listened in patience? -He could see her attending with such a serious expression on her face -that she looked quite ugly. She looked so beautiful when she was -laughing or happy; at the Whites', for instance, three nights ago, -when George and she had danced after dinner and he had sat, secretly -envious, reading a book in the corner of the room and looking -superior. He wouldn't learn to dance, but always wished he could. It -was a barbarous, aphrodisiacal occupation, he said, and he preferred -to spend his time and energies in reading. Salvationist again! What a -much wiser person George had proved himself than he. He had no -prejudices, no theoretical views about the conduct of life; he just -lived, admirably, naturally, as the spirit or the flesh moved him. If -only he could live his life again, if only he could abolish this -evening's monstrous stupidity. . . . - -Marjorie also lay awake. She too felt herself distorted with misery. -How odiously cruel he had been, and how much she longed to forgive -him! Perhaps he would come in the dark, when all the house was asleep, -tiptoeing into the room very quietly to kneel by her bed and ask to be -forgiven. Would he come, she wondered? She stared into the blackness -above her and about her, willing him to come, commanding him--angry -and wretched because he was so slow in coming, because he didn't come -at all. They were both of them asleep before two. - -Seven hours of sleep make a surprising difference to the state of -mind. Guy, who thought he was distorted for life, woke to find himself -healthily normal. Marjorie's angers and despairs had subsided. The -hour they had together between breakfast and Guy's departure was -filled with almost trivial conversation. Guy was determined to say -something about last's night incident. But it was only at the very -last moment, when the dog-cart was actually at the door, that he -managed to bring out some stammered repentance for what had happened -last night. - -"Don't think about it," Marjorie had told him. So they had kissed and -parted, and their relations were precisely the same as they had been -before Guy came on leave. - -* * * * * - -George was sent out a week or two later, and a month after that they -heard at Blaybury that he had lost a leg--fortunately below the knee. - -"Poor boy!" said Mr. Petherton. "I must really write a line to his -mother at once." - -Jacobsen made no comment, but it was a surprise to him to find how -much he had been moved by the news. George White had lost a leg; he -couldn't get the thought out of his head. But only below the knee; he -might be called lucky. Lucky--things are deplorably relative, he -reflected. One thanks God because He has thought fit to deprive one of -His creatures of a limb. - -"Neither delighteth He in any man's legs," eh? Nous avons changé tout -cela. - -George had lost a leg. There would be no more of that Olympian speed -and strength and beauty. Jacobsen conjured up before his memory a -vision of the boy running with his great fawn-coloured dog across -green expanses of grass. How glorious he had looked, his fine brown -hair blowing like fire in the wind of his own speed, his cheeks -flushed, his eyes very bright. And how easily he ran, with long, -bounding strides, looking down at the dog that jumped and barked at -his side! - -He had had a perfection, and now it was spoilt. Instead of a leg he -had a stump. _Moignon_, the French called it; there was the right -repulsive sound about _moignon_ which was lacking in "stump." Soignons -le moignon en l'oignant d'oignons. - -Often, at night before he went to sleep, he couldn't help thinking of -George and the war and all the millions of _moignons_ there must be in -the world. He had a dream one night of slimy red knobbles, large -polyp-like things, growing as he looked at them, swelling between his -hands--_moignons_, in fact. - -George was well enough in the late autumn to come home. He had learnt -to hop along on his crutches very skilfully, and his preposterous -donkey-drawn bath-chair soon became a familiar object in the lanes of -the neighbourhood. It was a grand sight to behold when George rattled -past at the trot, leaning forward like a young Phoebus in his chariot -and urging his unwilling beast with voice and crutch. He drove over to -Blaybury almost every day; Marjorie and he had endless talks about -life and love and Guy and other absorbing topics. With Jacobsen he -played piquet and discussed a thousand subjects. He was always gay and -happy--that was what especially lacerated Jacobsen's heart with pity. - - - -IV - -THE Christmas holidays had begun, and the Reverend Roger was back -again at Blaybury. He was sitting at the writing-table in the -drawing-room, engaged, at the moment, in biting the end of his pen and -scratching his head. His face wore an expression of perplexity; one -would have said that he was in the throes of literary composition. -Which indeed he was: "Beloved ward of Alfred Petherton . . ." he said -aloud. "Beloved ward . . ." He shook his head doubtfully. - -The door opened and Jacobsen came into the room. Roger turned round at -once. - -"Have you heard the grievous news?" he said. - -"No. What?" - -"Poor Guy is dead. We got the telegram half an hour ago." - -"Good God!" said Jacobsen in an agonized voice which seemed to show -that he had been startled out of the calm belonging to one who leads -the life of reason. He had been conscious ever since George's -mutilation that his defences were growing weaker; external -circumstance was steadily encroaching upon him. Now it had broken in -and, for the moment, he was at its mercy. Guy dead. . . . He pulled -himself together sufficiently to say, after a pause, "Well, I suppose -it was only to be expected sooner or later. Poor boy." - -"Yes, it's terrible, isn't it?" said Roger, shaking his head. "I am -just writing out an announcement to send to the _Times_. One can -hardly say 'the beloved ward of Alfred Petherton,' can one? It doesn't -sound quite right; and yet one would like somehow to give public -expression to the deep affection Alfred felt for him. 'Beloved -ward'--no, decidedly it won't do." - -"You'll have to get round it somehow," said Jacobsen. Roger's presence -somehow made a return to the life of reason easier. - -"Poor Alfred," the other went on. "You've no idea how hardly he takes -it. He feels as though he had given a son." - -"What a waste it is!" Jacobsen exclaimed. He was altogether too deeply -moved. - -"I have done my best to console Alfred. One must always bear in mind -for what Cause he died." - -"All those potentialities destroyed. He was an able fellow, was Guy." -Jacobsen was speaking more to himself than to his companion, but Roger -took up the suggestion. - -"Yes, he certainly was that. Alfred thought he was very promising. It -is for his sake I am particularly sorry. I never got on very well with -the boy myself. He was too eccentric for my taste. There's such a -thing as being too clever, isn't there? It's rather inhuman. He used -to do most remarkable Greek iambics for me when he was a boy. I dare -say he was a very good fellow under all that cleverness and queerness. -It's all very distressing, very grievous." - -"How was he killed?" - -"Died of wounds yesterday morning. Do you think it would be a good -thing to put in some quotation at the end of the announcement in the -paper? Something like, 'Dulce et Decorum,' or 'Sed Miles, sed Pro -Patria,' or 'Per Ardua ad Astra'?" - -"It hardly seems essential," said Jacobsen. - -"Perhaps not." Roger's lips moved silently; he was counting. -"Forty-two words. I suppose that counts as eight lines. Poor Marjorie! -I hope she won't feel it too bitterly. Alfred told me they were -unofficially engaged." - -"So I gathered." - -"I am afraid I shall have to break the news to her. Alfred is too much -upset to be able to do anything himself. It will be a most painful -task. Poor girl! I suppose as a matter of fact they would not have -been able to marry for some time, as Guy had next to no money. These -early marriages are very rash. Let me see: eight times three shillings -is one pound four, isn't it? I suppose they take cheques all right?" - -"How old was he?" asked Jacobsen. - -"Twenty-four and a few months." - -Jacobsen was walking restlessly up and down the room. "Just reaching -maturity! One is thankful these days to have one's own work and -thoughts to take the mind off these horrors." - -"It's terrible, isn't it?--terrible. So many of my pupils have been -killed now that I can hardly keep count of the number." - -There was a tapping at the French window; it was Marjorie asking to be -let in. She had been cutting holly and ivy for the Christmas -decorations, and carried a basket full of dark, shining leaves. - -Jacobsen unbolted the big window and Marjorie came in, flushed with -the cold and smiling. Jacobsen had never seen her looking so handsome: -she was superb, radiant, like Iphigenia coming in her wedding garments -to the sacrifice. - -"The holly is very poor this year," she remarked. "I am afraid we -shan't make much of a show with our Christmas decorations." - -Jacobsen took the opportunity of slipping out through the French -window. Although it was unpleasantly cold, he walked up and down the -flagged paths of the Dutch garden, hatless and overcoatless, for quite -a long time. - -Marjorie moved about the drawing-room fixing sprigs of holly round the -picture frames. Her uncle watched her, hesitating to speak; he was -feeling enormously uncomfortable. - -"I am afraid," he said at last, "that your father's very upset this -morning." His voice was husky; he made an explosive noise to clear his -throat. - -"Is it his palpitations?" Marjorie asked coolly; her father's -infirmities did not cause her much anxiety. - -"No, no." Roger realized that his opening gambit had been a mistake. -"No. It is--er--a more mental affliction, and one which, I fear, will -touch you closely too. Marjorie, you must be strong and courageous; we -have just heard that Guy is dead." - -"Guy dead?" She couldn't believe it; she had hardly envisaged the -possibility; besides, he was on the Staff. "Oh, Uncle Roger, it isn't -true." - -"I am afraid there is no doubt. The War Office telegram came just -after you had gone out for the holly." - -Marjorie sat down on the sofa and hid her face in her hands. Guy dead; -she would never see him again, never see him again, never; she began -to cry. - -Roger approached and stood, with his hand on her shoulder, in the -attitude of a thought-reader. To those overwhelmed by sorrow the touch -of a friendly hand is often comforting. They have fallen into an -abyss, and the touching hand serves to remind them that life and God -and human sympathy still exist, however bottomless the gulf of grief -may seem. On Marjorie's shoulder her uncle's hand rested with a damp, -heavy warmth that was peculiarly unpleasant. - -"Dear child, it is very grievous, I know; but you must try and be -strong and bear it bravely. We all have our cross to bear. We shall be -celebrating the Birth of Christ in two days' time; remember with what -patience He received the cup of agony. And then remember for what -Cause Guy has given his life. He has died a hero's death, a martyr's -death, witnessing to Heaven against the powers of evil." Roger was -unconsciously slipping into the words of his last sermon in the school -chapel. "You should feel pride in his death as well as sorrow. There, -there, poor child." He patted her shoulder two or three times. -"Perhaps it would be kinder to leave you now." - -For some time after her uncle's departure Marjorie sat motionless in -the same position, her body bent forward, her face in her hands. She -kept on repeating the words, "Never again," and the sound of them -filled her with despair and made her cry. They seemed to open up such -a dreary grey infinite vista--"never again." They were as a spell -evoking tears. - -She got up at last and began walking aimlessly about the room. She -paused in front of a little old black-framed mirror that hung near the -window and looked at her reflection in the glass. She had expected -somehow to look different, to have changed. She was surprised to find -her face entirely unaltered: grave, melancholy perhaps, but still the -same face she had looked at when she was doing her hair this morning. -A curious idea entered her head; she wondered whether she would be -able to smile now, at this dreadful moment. She moved the muscles of -her face and was overwhelmed with shame at the sight of the mirthless -grin that mocked her from the glass. What a beast she was! She burst -into tears and threw herself again on the sofa, burying her face in a -cushion. The door opened, and by the noise of shuffling and tapping -Marjorie recognized the approach of George White on his crutches. She -did not look up. At the sight of the abject figure on the sofa, George -halted, uncertain what he should do. Should he quietly go away again, -or should he stay and try to say something comforting? The sight of -her lying there gave him almost physical pain. He decided to stay. - -He approached the sofa and stood over her, suspended on his crutches. -Still she did not lift her head, but pressed her face deeper into the -smothering blindness of the cushion, as though to shut out from her -consciousness all the external world. George looked down at her in -silence. The little delicate tendrils of hair on the nape of her neck -were exquisitely beautiful. - -"I was told about it," he said at last, "just now, as I came in. It's -too awful. I think I cared for Guy more than for almost anyone in the -world. We both did, didn't we?" - -She began sobbing again. George was overcome with remorse, feeling -that he had somehow hurt her, somehow added to her pain by what he had -said. "Poor child, poor child," he said, almost aloud. She was a year -older than he, but she seemed so helplessly and pathetically young now -that she was crying. - -Standing up for long tired him, and he lowered himself, slowly and -painfully, into the sofa beside her. She looked up at last and began -drying her eyes. - -"I'm so wretched, George, so specially wretched because I feel I -didn't act rightly towards darling Guy. There were times, you know, -when I wondered whether it wasn't all a great mistake, our being -engaged. Sometimes I felt I almost hated him. I'd been feeling so -odious about him these last weeks. And now comes this, and it makes me -realize how awful I've been towards him." She found it a relief to -confide and confess; George was so sympathetic, he would understand. -"I've been a beast." - -Her voice broke, and it was as though something had broken in George's -head. He was overwhelmed with pity; he couldn't bear it that she -should suffer. - -"You mustn't distress yourself unnecessarily, Marjorie dear," he -begged her, stroking the back of her hand with his large hard palm. -"Don't." - -Marjorie went on remorselessly. "When Uncle Roger told me just now, do -you know what I did? I said to myself, Do I really care? I couldn't -make out. I looked in the glass to see if I could tell from my face. -Then I suddenly thought I'd see whether I could laugh, and I did. And -that made me feel how detestable I was, and I started crying again. -Oh, I have been a beast, George, haven't I?" - -She burst into a passion of tears and hid her face once more in the -friendly cushion. George couldn't bear it at all. He laid his hand on -her shoulder and bent forward, close to her, till his face almost -touched her hair. "Don't," he cried. "Don't, Marjorie. You mustn't -torment yourself like this. I know you loved Guy; we both loved him. -He would have wanted us to be happy and brave and to go on with -life--not make his death a source of hopeless despair." There was a -silence, broken only by the agonizing sound of sobbing. "Marjorie, -darling, you mustn't cry." - -"There, I'm not," said Marjorie through her tears. "I'll try to stop. -Guy wouldn't have wanted us to cry for him. You're right; he would -have wanted us to live for him--worthily, in his splendid way." - -"We who knew him and loved him must make our lives a memorial of him." -In ordinary circumstances George would have died rather than make a -remark like that. But in speaking of the dead, people forget -themselves and conform to the peculiar obituary convention of thought -and language. Spontaneously, unconsciously, George had conformed. - -Marjorie wiped her eyes. "Thank you, George. You know so well what -darling Guy would have liked. You've made me feel stronger to bear it. -But, all the same, I do feel odious for what I thought about him -sometimes. I didn't love him enough. And now it's too late. I shall -never see him again." The spell of that "never" worked again: Marjorie -sobbed despairingly. - -George's distress knew no bounds. He put his arm round Marjorie's -shoulders and kissed her hair. "Don't cry, Marjorie. Everybody feels -like that sometimes, even towards the people they love most. You -really mustn't make yourself miserable." - -Once more she lifted her face and looked at him with a heart-breaking, -tearful smile. "You have been too sweet to me, George. I don't know -what I should have done without you." - -"Poor darling!" said George. "I can't bear to see you unhappy." Their -faces were close to one another, and it seemed natural that at this -point their lips should meet in a long kiss. "We'll remember only the -splendid, glorious things about Guy," he went on--"what a wonderful -person he was, and how much we loved him." He kissed her again. - -"Perhaps our darling Guy is with us here even now," said Marjorie, -with a look of ecstasy on her face. - -"Perhaps he is," George echoed. - -It was at this point that a heavy footstep was heard and a hand -rattled at the door. Marjorie and George moved a little farther apart. -The intruder was Roger, who bustled in, rubbing his hands with an air -of conscious heartiness, studiously pretending that nothing untoward -had occurred. It is our English tradition that we should conceal our -emotions. "Well, well," he said. "I think we had better be going in to -luncheon. The bell has gone." - - - -EUPOMPUS GAVE SPLENDOUR TO ART BY NUMBERS - -"I HAVE made a discovery," said Emberlin as I entered his room. - -"What about?" I asked. - -"A discovery," he replied, "about _Discoveries_." He radiated an -unconcealed satisfaction; the conversation had evidently gone exactly -as he had intended it to go. He had made his phrase, and, repeating it -lovingly--"A discovery about _Discoveries_"--he smiled benignly at me, -enjoying my look of mystification--an expression which, I confess, I -had purposely exaggerated in order to give him pleasure. For Emberlin, -in many ways so childish, took an especial delight in puzzling and -nonplussing his acquaintances; and these small triumphs, these little -"scores" off people afforded him some of his keenest pleasures. I -always indulged his weakness when I could, for it was worth while -being on Emberlin's good books. To be allowed to listen to his -post-prandial conversation was a privilege indeed. Not only was he -himself a consummately good talker, but he had also the power of -stimulating others to talk well. He was like some subtle wine, -intoxicating just to the Meredithian level of tipsiness. In his -company you would find yourself lifted to the sphere of nimble and -mercurial conceptions; you would suddenly realize that some miracle -had occurred, that you were living no longer in a dull world of -jumbled things but somewhere above the hotch-potch in a glassily -perfect universe of ideas, where all was informed, consistent, -symmetrical. And it was Emberlin who, godlike, had the power of -creating this new and real world. He built it out of words, this -crystal Eden, where no belly-going snake, devourer of quotidian dirt, -might ever enter and disturb its harmonies. Since I first knew -Emberlin I have come to have a greatly enhanced respect for magic and -all the formules of its liturgy. If by words Emberlin can create a new -world for me, can make my spirit slough off completely the domination -of the old, why should not he or I or anyone, having found the -suitable phrases, exert by means of them an influence more vulgarly -miraculous upon the world of mere things? Indeed, when I compare -Emberlin and the common or garden black magician of commerce, it seems -to me that Emberlin is the greater thaumaturge. But let that pass; I -am straying from my purpose, which was to give some description of the -man who so confidentially whispered to me that he had made a discovery -about _Discoveries_. - -In the best sense of the word, then, Emberlin was academic. For us who -knew him his rooms were an oasis of aloofness planted secretly in the -heart of the desert of London. He exhaled an atmosphere that combined -the fantastic speculativeness of the undergraduate with the more -mellowed oddity of incredibly wise and antique dons. He was immensely -erudite, but in a wholly unencyclopćdic way--a mine of irrelevant -information, as his enemies said of him. He wrote a certain amount, -but, like Mallarmé, avoided publication, deeming it akin to "the -offence of exhibitionism." Once, however, in the folly of youth, some -dozen years ago, he had published a volume of verses. He spent a good -deal of time now in assiduously collecting copies of his book and -burning them. There can be but very few left in the world now. My -friend Cope had the fortune to pick one up the other day--a little -blue book, which he showed me very secretly. I am at a loss to -understand why Emberlin wishes to stamp out all trace of it. There is -nothing to be ashamed of in the book; some of the verses, indeed, are, -in their young ecstatic fashion, good. But they are certainly -conceived in a style that is unlike that of his present poems. Perhaps -it is that which makes him so implacable against them. What he writes -now for very private manuscript circulation is curious stuff. I -confess I prefer the earlier work; I do not like the stony, hard-edged -quality of this sort of thing--the only one I can remember of his -later productions. It is a sonnet on a porcelain figure of a woman, -dug up at Cnossus: - - "Her eyes of bright unwinking glaze - All imperturbable do not - Even make pretences to regard - The jutting absence of her stays - Where many a Syrian gallipot - Excites desire with spilth of nard. - The bistred rims above the fard - Of cheeks as red as bergamot - Attest that no shamefaced delays - Will clog fulfilment nor retard - Full payment of the Cyprian's praise - Down to the last remorseful jot. - Hail priestess of we know not what - Strange cult of Mycenean days!" - -Regrettably, I cannot remember any of Emberlin's French poems. His -peculiar muse expresses herself better, I think, in that language than -in her native tongue. - -Such is Emberlin; such, I should rather say, _was_ he, for, as I -propose to show, he is not now the man that he was when he whispered -so confidentially to me, as I entered the room, that he had made a -discovery about _Discoveries_. - -I waited patiently till he had finished his little game of -mystification and, when the moment seemed ripe, I asked him to explain -himself. Emberlin was ready to open out. - -"Well," he began, "these are the facts--a tedious introduction, I -fear, but necessary. Years ago, when I was first reading Ben Jonson's -_Discoveries_, that queer jotting of his, 'Eupompus gave splendour to -Art by Numbers,' tickled my curiosity. You yourself must have been -struck by the phrase, everybody must have noticed it; and everybody -must have noticed too that no commentator has a word to say on the -subject. That is the way of commentators--the obvious points fulsomely -explained and discussed, the hard passages, about which one might want -to know something passed over in the silence of sheer ignorance. -'Eupompus gave splendour to Art by Numbers'--the absurd phrase stuck -in my head. At one time it positively haunted me. I used to chant it -in my bath, set to music as an anthem. It went like this, so far as I -remember"--and he burst into song: "'Eupompus, Eu-u-pompus gave -sple-e-e-endour . . .'" and so on, through all the repetitions, the -dragged-out rises and falls of a parodied anthem. - -"I sing you this," he said when he had finished, "just to show you -what a hold that dreadful sentence took upon my mind. For eight years, -off and on, its senselessness has besieged me. I have looked up -Eupompus in all the obvious books of reference, of course. He is there -all right--Alexandrian artist, eternized by some wretched little -author in some even wretcheder little anecdote, which at the moment I -entirely forget; it had nothing, at any rate, to do with the -embellishment of art by numbers. Long ago I gave up the search as -hopeless; Eupompus remained for me a shadowy figure of mystery, author -of some nameless outrage, bestower of some forgotten benefit upon the -art that he practised. His history seemed wrapt in an impenetrable -darkness. And then yesterday I discovered all about him and his art -and his numbers. A chance discovery, than which few things have given -me a greater pleasure. - -"I happened upon it, as I say, yesterday when I was glancing through a -volume of Zuylerius. Not, of course, the Zuylerius one knows," he -added quickly, "otherwise one would have had the heart out of -Eupompus' secret years ago." - -"Of course," I repeated, "not the familiar Zuylerius." - -"Exactly," said Emberlin, taking seriously my flippancy, "not the -familiar John Zuylerius, Junior, but the elder Henricus Zuylerius, a -much less--though perhaps undeservedly so--renowned figure than his -son. But this is not the time to discuss their respective merits. At -any rate, I discovered in a volume of critical dialogues by the elder -Zuylerius, the reference, to which, without doubt, Jonson was -referring in his note. (It was of course a mere jotting, never meant -to be printed, but which Jonson's literary executors pitched into the -book with all the rest of the available posthumous materials.) -'Eupompus gave splendour to Art by Numbers'--Zuylerius gives a very -circumstantial account of the process. He must, I suppose, have found -the sources for it in some writer now lost to us." - -Emberlin paused a moment to muse. The loss of the work of any ancient -writer gave him the keenest sorrow. I rather believe he had written a -version of the unrecovered books of Petronius. Some day I hope I shall -be permitted to see what conception Emberlin has of the _Satyricon_ as -a whole. He would, I am sure, do Petronius justice--almost too much, -perhaps. - -"What was the story of Eupompus?" I asked. "I am all curiosity to -know." - -Emberlin heaved a sigh and went on. - -"Zuylerius' narrative," he said, "is very bald, but on the whole -lucid; and I think it gives one the main points of the story. I will -give it you in my own words; that is preferable to reading his Dutch -Latin. Eupompus, then, was one of the most fashionable -portrait-painters of Alexandria. His clientele was large, his business -immensely profitable. For a half-length in oils the great courtesans -would pay him a month's earnings. He would paint likenesses of the -merchant princes in exchange for the costliest of their outlandish -treasures. Coal-black potentates would come a thousand miles out of -Ethiopia to have a miniature limned on some specially choice panel of -ivory; and for payment there would be camel-loads of gold and spices. -Fame, riches, and honour came to him while he was yet young; an -unparalleled career seemed to lie before him. And then, quite -suddenly, he gave it all up--refused to paint another portrait. The -doors of his studio were closed. It was in vain that clients, however -rich, however distinguished, demanded admission; the slaves had their -order; Eupompus would see no one but his own intimates." - -Emberlin made a pause in his narrative. - -"What was Eupompus doing?" I asked. - -"He was, of course," said Emberlin, "occupied in giving splendour to -Art by Numbers. And this, as far as I can gather from Zuylerius, is -how it all happened. He just suddenly fell in love with numbers--head -over ears, amorous of pure counting. Number seemed to him to be the -sole reality, the only thing about which the mind of man could be -certain. To count was the one thing worth doing, because it was the -one thing you could be sure of doing right. Thus, art, that it may -have any value at all, must ally itself with reality--must, that is, -possess a numerical foundation. He carried the idea into practice by -painting the first picture in his new style. It was a gigantic canvas, -covering several hundred square feet--I have no doubt that Eupompus -could have told you the exact area to an inch--and upon it was -represented an illimitable ocean covered, as far as the eye could -reach in every direction, with a multitude of black swans. There were -thirty-three thousand of these black swans, each, even though it might -be but a speck on the horizon, distinctly limned. In the middle of the -ocean was an island, upon which stood a more or less human figure -having three eyes, three arms and legs, three breasts and three -navels. In the leaden sky three suns were dimly expiring. There was -nothing more in the picture; Zuylerius describes it exactly. Eupompus -spent nine months of hard work in painting it. The privileged few who -were allowed to see it pronounced it, finished, a masterpiece. They -gathered round Eupompus in a little school, calling themselves the -Philarithmics. They would sit for hours in front of his great work, -contemplating the swans and counting them; according to the -Philarithmics, to count and to contemplate were the same thing. - -"Eupompus' next picture, representing an orchard of identical trees -set in quincunxes, was regarded with less favour by the connoisseurs. -His studies of crowds were, however, more highly esteemed; in these -were portrayed masses of people arranged in groups that exactly -imitated the number and position of the stars making up various of the -more famous constellations. And then there was his famous picture of -the amphitheatre, which created a furore among the Philarithmics. -Zuylerius again gives us a detailed description. Tier upon tier of -seats are seen, all occupied by strange Cyclopean figures. Each tier -accommodates more people than the tier below, and the number rises in -a complicated but regular progression. All the figures seated in the -amphitheatre possess but a single eye, enormous and luminous, planted -in the middle of the forehead: and all these thousands of single eyes -are fixed, in a terrible and menacing scrutiny, upon a dwarf-like -creature cowering pitiably in the arena. . . . He alone of the -multitude possesses two eyes. - -"I would give anything to see that picture," Emberlin added, after a -pause. "The colouring, you know; Zuylerius gives no hint, but I feel -somehow certain that the dominant tone must have been a fierce -brick-red--a red granite amphitheatre filled with a red-robed -assembly, sharply defined against an implacable blue sky." - -"Their eyes would be green," I suggested. - -Emberlin closed his eyes to visualize the scene and then nodded a slow -and rather dubious assent. - -"Up to this point," Emberlin resumed at length, "Zuylerius' account is -very clear. But his descriptions of the later philarithmic art become -extremely obscure; I doubt whether he understood in the least what it -was all about. I will give you such meaning as I manage to extract -from his chaos. Eupompus seems to have grown tired of painting merely -numbers of objects. He wanted now to represent Number itself. And then -he conceived the plan of rendering visible the fundamental ideas of -life through the medium of those purely numerical terms into which, -according to him, they must ultimately resolve themselves. Zuylerius -speaks vaguely of a picture of Eros, which seems to have consisted of -a series of interlacing planes. Eupompus' fancy seems next to have -been taken by various of the Socratic dialogues upon the nature of -general ideas, and he made a series of illustrations for them in the -same arithmo-geometric style. Finally there is Zuylerius' wild -description of the last picture that Eupompus ever painted. I can make -very little of it. The subject of the work, at least, is clearly -stated; it was a representation of Pure Number, or God and the -Universe, or whatever you like to call that pleasingly inane -conception of totality. It was a picture of the cosmos seen, I take -it, through a rather Neoplatonic _camera obscura--_very clear and in -small. Zuylerius suggests a design of planes radiating out from a -single point of light. I dare say something of the kind came in. -Actually, I have no doubt, the work was a very adequate rendering in -visible form of the conception of the one and the many, with all the -intermediate stages of enlightenment between matter and the _Fons -Deitatis_. However, it's no use speculating what the picture may have -been going to look like. Poor old Eupompus went mad before he had -completely finished it and, after he had dispatched two of the -admiring Philarithmics with a hammer, he flung himself out of the -window and broke his neck. That was the end of him, and that was how -he gave splendour, regrettably transient, to Art by Numbers." - -Emberlin stopped. We brooded over our pipes in silence; poor old -Eupompus! - -* * * * * - -That was four months ago, and to-day Emberlin is a confirmed and -apparently irreclaimable Philarithmic, a quite whole-hearted -Eupompian. - -It was always Emberlin's way to take up the ideas that he finds in -books and to put them into practice. He was once, for example, a -working alchemist, and attained to considerable proficiency in the -Great Art. He studied mnemonics under Bruno and Raymond Lully, and -constructed for himself a model of the latter's syllogizing machine, -in hopes of gaining that universal knowledge which the Enlightened -Doctor guaranteed to its user. This time it is Eupompianism, and the -thing has taken hold of him. I have held up to him all the hideous -warnings that I can find in history. But it is no use. - -There is the pitiable spectacle of Dr. Johnson under the tyranny of an -Eupompian ritual, counting the posts and the paving-stones of Fleet -Street. He himself knew best how nearly a madman he was. - -And then I count as Eupompians all gamblers, all calculating boys, all -interpreters of the prophecies of Daniel and the Apocalypse; then too -the Elberfeld horses, most complete of all Eupompians. - -And here was Emberlin joining himself to this sect, degrading himself -to the level of counting beasts and irrational children and men, more -or less insane. Dr. Johnson was at least born with a strain of the -Eupompian aberration in him; Emberlin is busily and consciously -acquiring it. My expostulations, the expostulations of all his -friends, are as yet unavailing. It is in vain that I tell Emberlin -that counting is the easiest thing in the world to do, that when I am -utterly exhausted, my brain, for lack of ability to perform any other -work, just counts and reckons, like a machine, like an Elberfeld -horse. It all falls on deaf ears; Emberlin merely smiles and shows me -some new numerical joke that he has discovered. Emberlin can never -enter a tiled bathroom now without counting how many courses of tiles -there are from floor to ceiling. He regards it as an interesting fact -that there are twenty-six rows of tiles in his bathroom and thirty-two -in mine, while all the public lavatories in Holborn have the same -number. He knows now how many paces it is from any one point in London -to any other. I have given up going for walks with him. I am always -made so distressingly conscious by his preoccupied look, that he is -counting his steps. - -His evenings, too, have become profoundly melancholy; the -conversation, however well it may begin, always comes round to the -same nauseating subject. We can never escape numbers; Eupompus haunts -us. It is not as if we were mathematicians and could discuss problems -of any interest or value. No, none of us are mathematicians, least of -all Emberlin. Emberlin likes talking about such points as the -numerical significance of the Trinity, the immense importance of its -being three in one, not forgetting the even greater importance of its -being one in three. He likes giving us statistics about the speed of -light or the rate of growth in fingernails. He loves to speculate on -the nature of odd and even numbers. And he seems to be unconscious how -much he has changed for the worse. He is happy in an exclusively -absorbing interest. It is as though some mental leprosy had fallen -upon his intelligence. - -In another year or so, I tell Emberlin, he may almost be able to -compete with the calculating horses on their own ground. He will have -lost all traces of his reason, but he will be able to extract cube -roots in his head. It occurs to me that the reason why Eupompus killed -himself was not that he was mad; on the contrary, it was because he -was, temporarily, sane. He had been mad for years, and then suddenly -the idiot's self-complacency was lit up by a flash of sanity. By its -momentary light he saw into what gulfs of imbecility he had plunged. -He saw and understood, and the full horror, the lamentable absurdity -of the situation made him desperate. He vindicated Eupompus against -Eupompianism, humanity against the Philarithmics. It gives me the -greatest pleasure to think that he disposed of two of that hideous -crew before he died himself. - - - -HAPPY FAMILIES - -THE scene is a conservatory. Luxuriant tropical plants are seen -looming through a greenish aquarium twilight, punctuated here and -there by the surprising pink of several Chinese lanterns hanging from -the roof or on the branches of trees, while a warm yellow radiance -streams out from the ball-room by a door on the left of the scene. -Through the glass of the conservatory, at the back of the stage, one -perceives a black-and-white landscape under the moon--expanses of -snow, lined and dotted with coal-black hedges and trees. Outside is -frost and death: but within the conservatory all is palpitating and -steaming with tropical life and heat. Enormous fantastic plants -encumber it; trees, creepers that writhe with serpentine life, orchids -of every kind. Everywhere dense vegetation; horrible flowers that look -like bottled spiders, like suppurating wounds; flowers with eyes and -tongues, with moving, sensitive tentacles, with breasts and teeth and -spotted skins. - -The strains of a waltz float in through the ball-room door, and to -that slow, soft music there enter, in parallel processions, the two -families which are respectively Mr. Aston J. Tyrrell and Miss Topsy -Garrick. - -The doyen of the Tyrrell family is a young and perhaps too cultured -literary man with rather long, dark brown hair, a face well cut and -sensitive, if a trifle weak about the lower jaw, and a voice whose -exquisite modulations could only be the product of education at one of -the two Great Universities. We will call him plain Aston. Miss Topsy, -the head of the Garrick family, is a young woman of not quite twenty, -with sleek, yellow hair hanging, like a page's, short and thick about -her ears; boyish, too, in her slenderness and length of leg--boyish, -but feminine and attractive to the last degree. Miss Topsy paints -charmingly, sings in a small, pure voice that twists the heart and -makes the bowels yearn in the hearing of it, is well educated, and has -read, or at least heard of, most of the best books in three languages, -knows something, too, of economics and the doctrines of Freud. - -They enter arm in arm, fresh from the dance, trailing behind them with -their disengaged hands two absurd ventriloquist's dummies of -themselves. They sit down on a bench placed in the middle of the stage -under a kind of arbour festooned with fabulous flowers. The other -members of the two families lurk in the tropical twilight of the -background. - -Aston advances his dummy and makes it speak, moving its mouth and -limbs appropriately by means of the secret levers which his hand -controls. - -ASTON'S DUMMY. - -What a perfect floor it is to-night! - -TOPSY'S DUMMY. - -Yes, it's like ice, isn't it? And such a good band. - -ASTON'S DUMMY. - -Oh yes, a very good band. - -TOPSY'S DUMMY. - -They play at dinner-time at the Necropole, you know. - -ASTON'S DUMMY. - -Really! (_A long, uncomfortable silence._) - -(_From under a lofty twangum tree emerges the figure of CAIN -WASHINGTON TYRRELL, ASTON'S negro brother--for the TYRRELLS, I regret -to say, have a lick of the tar-brush in them and CAIN is a Mendelian -throwback to the pure Jamaican type. CAIN is stout and his black face -shines with grease. The whites of his eyes are like enamel, his smile -is chryselephantine. He is dressed in faultless evening dress and a -ribbon of seals tinkles on his stomach. He walks with legs wide apart, -the upper part of his body thrown back and his belly projecting, as -though he were supporting the weight of an Aristophanic actor's -costume. He struts up and down in front of the couple on the seat, -grinning and slapping himself on the waistcoat._) - -CAIN. - -What hair, nyum nyum! and the nape of her neck; and her body--how -slender! and what lovely movements, nyum nyum! (_Approaching ASTON and -speaking into his ear._) Eh? eh? eh? - -ASTON. - -Go away, you pig. Go away. (_He holds up his dummy as a shield: CAIN -retires discomfited._) - -ASTON'S DUMMY. - -Have you read any amusing novels lately? - -TOPSY. - -(_Speaking over the head of her dummy._) No; I never read novels. They -are mostly so frightful, aren't they? - -ASTON. - -(_Enthusiastically._) How splendid! Neither do I. I only write them -sometimes, that's all. (_They abandon their dummies, which fall limply -into one another's arms and collapse on to the floor with an expiring -sigh._) - -TOPSY. - -You write them? I didn't know. . . . - -ASTON. - -Oh, I'd very much rather you didn't know. I shouldn't like you ever to -read one of them. They're all awful: still, they keep the pot boiling, -you know. But tell me, what do you read? - -TOPSY. - -Mostly history, and philosophy, and a little criticism and psychology, -and lots of poetry. - -ASTON. - -My dear young lady! how wonderful, how altogether unexpectedly -splendid. (_CAIN emerges with the third brother, SIR JASPER, who is a -paler, thinner, more sinister and aristocratic ASTON._) - -CAIN. - -Nyum nyum nyum. . . . - -SIR JASPER. - -What a perfect sentence that was of yours, Aston: quite Henry -Jamesian! "My dear young lady"--as though you were forty years her -senior; and the rare old-worldliness of that "altogether unexpectedly -splendid"! Admirable. I don't remember your ever employing quite -exactly this opening gambit before: but of course there were things -very like it. (_To CAIN._) What a nasty spectacle you are, Cain, -gnashing your teeth like that! - -CAIN. - -Nyum nyum nyum. - -(_ASTON and TOPSY are enthusiastically talking about books: the two -brothers, finding themselves quite unnoticed, retire into the shade of -their twangum tree. BELLE GARRICK has been hovering behind TOPSY for -some time past. She is more obviously pretty than her sister, -full-bosomed and with a loose, red, laughing mouth. Unable to attract -TOPSY'S attention, she turns round and calls, "HENRIKA." A pale face -with wide, surprised eyes peeps round the trunk, hairy like a -mammoth's leg, of a kadapoo tree with magenta leaves and -flame-coloured blossoms. This is HENRIKA, TOPSY'S youngest sister. She -is dressed in a little white muslin frock set off with blue ribbons._) - -HENRIKA. - -(_Tiptoes forward._) Here I am; what is it? I was rather frightened of -that man. But he really seems quite nice and tame, doesn't he? - -BELLE. - -Of course he is! What a goose you are to hide like that! - -HENRIKA. - -He seems a nice, quiet, gentle man; and _so_ clever. - -BELLE. - -What good hands he has, hasn't he? (_Approaching TOPSY and whispering -in her ear._) Your hair's going into your eyes, my dear. Toss it back -in that pretty way you have. (_TOPSY tosses her head; the soft, golden -bell of hair quivers elastically about her ears._) That's right! - -CAIN. - -(_Bounding into the air and landing with feet apart, knees bent, and a -hand on either knee._) Oh, nyum nyum! - -ASTON. - -Oh, the beauty of that movement! It simply makes one catch one's -breath with surprised pleasure, as the gesture of a perfect dancer -might. - -SIR JASPER. - -Beautiful, wasn't it?--a pleasure purely ćsthetic and ćsthetically -pure. Listen to Cain. - -ASTON. - -(_To TOPSY._) And do you ever try writing yourself? I'm sure you ought -to. - -SIR JASPER. - -Yes, yes, we're sure you ought to. Eh, Cain? - -TOPSY. - -Well, I have written a little poetry--or rather a few bad verses--at -one time or another. - -ASTON. - -Really now! What about, may I ask? - -TOPSY. - -Well . . . (_hesitating_) about different things, you know. (_She fans -herself rather nervously._) - -BELLE. - -(_Leaning over TOPSY'S shoulder and addressing ASTON directly._) -Mostly about Love. (_She dwells long and voluptuously on the last -word, pronouncing it "lovv" rather than "luvv."_) - -CAIN. - -Oh, dat's good, dat's good; dat's dam good. (_In moments of emotion -CAIN'S manners and language savour more obviously than usual of the -Old Plantation._) Did yoh see her face den? - -BELLE. - -(_Repeats, slowly and solemnly._) Mostly about Love. - -HENRIKA. - -Oh, oh. (_She covers her face with her hands._) How could you? It -makes me tingle all over. (_She runs behind the kadapoo tree again._) - -ASTON. - -(_Very seriously and intelligently._) Really. That's very interesting. -I wish you'd let me see what you've done some time. - -SIR JASPER. - -We always like to see these things, don't we, Aston? Do you remember -Mrs. Towler? How pretty she was! And the way we criticized her -literary productions. . . . - -ASTON. - -Mrs. Towler. . . . (_He shudders as though he had touched something -soft and filthy._) Oh, don't, Jasper, don't! - -SIR JASPER. - -Dear Mrs. Towler! We were very nice about her poems, weren't we? Do -you remember the one that began: - - "My Love is like a silvern flower-de-luce - Within some wondrous dream-garden pent: - God made my lovely lily not for use, - But for an ornament." - -Even Cain, I believe, saw the joke of that. - -ASTON. - -Mrs. Towler--oh, my God! But this is quite different: this girl really -interests me. - -SIR JASPER. - -Oh yes, I know, I know. She interests you too, Cain, doesn't she? - -CAIN. - -(_Prances two or three steps of a cake-walk and sings._) Oh, ma honey, -oh, ma honey. - -ASTON. - -But, I tell you, this is quite different. - -SIR JASPER. - -Of course it is. Any fool could see that it was. I've admitted it -already. - -ASTON. - -(_To TOPSY._) You will show them me, won't you? I should so much like -to see them. - -TOPSY. - -(_Covered with confusion._) No, I really couldn't. You're a -professional, you see. - -HENRIKA. - -(_From behind the kadapoo tree._) No, you mustn't show them to him. -They're really mine, you know, a great many of them. - -BELLE. - -Nonsense! (_She stoops down and moves TOPSY'S foot in such a way that -a very well-shaped, white-stockinged leg is visible some way up the -calf. Then, to TOPSY._) Pull your skirt down, my dear. You're quite -indecent. - -CAIN. - -(_Putting up his monocle._) Oh, nyum nyum, ma honey! Come wid me to -Dixie Land. . . . - -SIR JASPER. - -H'm, a little conscious, don't you think? - -ASTON. - -But even professionals are human, my dear young lady. And perhaps I -might be able to give you some help with your writings. - -TOPSY. - -That's awfully kind of you, Mr. Tyrrell. - -HENRIKA. - -Oh, don't let him see them. I don't want him to. Don't let him. - -ASTON. - -(_With heavy charm._) It always interests me so much when I hear of -the young--and I trust you won't be offended if I include you in their -number--when I hear of the young taking to writing. It is one of the -most important duties that we of the older generation can perform--to -help and encourage the young with their work. It's a great service to -the cause of Art. - -SIR JASPER. - -That was what I was always saying to Mrs. Towler, if I remember -rightly. - -TOPSY. - -I can't tell you, Mr. Tyrrell, how delightful it is to have one's work -taken seriously. I am so grateful to you. May I send you my little -efforts, then? - -CAIN. - -(_Executes a step dance to the furious clicking of a pair of bones._) - -SIR JASPER. - -I congratulate you, Aston. A most masterful bit of strategy. - -BELLE. - -I wonder what he'll do next. Isn't it exciting? Topsy, toss your head -again. That's right. Oh, I wish something would happen! - -HENRIKA. - -What have you done? Oh, Topsy, you really mustn't send him my poems. - -BELLE. - -You said he was such a nice man just now. - -HENRIKA. - -Oh yes, he's nice, I know. But then he's a man, you must admit that. I -don't want him to see them. - -TOPSY. - -(_Firmly._) You're being merely foolish, Henrika. Mr. Tyrrell, a very -distinguished literary man, has been kind enough to take an interest -in my work. His criticism will be the greatest help to me. - -BELLE. - -Of course it will, and he has such charming eyes. (_A pause. The -music, which has, all this while, been faintly heard through the -ball-room door, becomes more audible. They are playing a rich, creamy -waltz._) What delicious music! Henrika, come and have a dance. (_She -seizes HENRIKA round the waist and begins to waltz. HENRIKA is -reluctant at first, but little by little the rhythm of the dance takes -possession of her till, with her half-closed eyes and languorous, -trance-like movements, she might figure as the visible living symbol -of the waltz. ASTON and TOPSY lean back in their seats, marking the -time with a languid beating of the hand. CAIN sways and swoons and -revolves in his own peculiar and inimitable version of the dance._) - -SIR JASPER. - -(_Who has been watching the whole scene with amusement._) What a -pretty spectacle! "Music hath charms. . . ." - -HENRIKA. - -(_In an almost extinct voice._) Oh, Belle, Belle, I could go on -dancing like this for ever. I feel quite intoxicated with it. - -TOPSY. - -(_To ASTON._) What a jolly tune this is! - -ASTON. - -Isn't it? It's called "Dreams of Desire," I believe. - -BELLE. - -What a pretty name! - -TOPSY. - -These are wonderful flowers here. - -ASTON. - -Let's go and have a look at them. - -(_They get up and walk round the conservatory. The flowers light up as -they pass; in the midst of each is a small electric globe._) - -ASTON. - -This purple one with eyes is the assafoetida flower. Don't put your -nose too near; it has a smell like burning flesh. This is a -Cypripedium from Sumatra. It is the only man-eating flower in the -world. Notice its double set of teeth. (_He puts a stick into the -mouth of the flower, which instantly snaps to, like a steel trap._) -Nasty, vicious brute! These blossoms like purple sponges belong to the -twangum tree; when you squeeze them they ooze blood. This is the -Jonesia, the octopus of the floral world: each of its eight tentacles -is armed with a sting capable of killing a horse. Now this is a most -interesting and instructive flower--the patchouli bloom. It is perhaps -the most striking example in nature of structural specialization -brought about by Evolution. If only Darwin had lived to see the -patchouli plant! You have heard of flowers specially adapting -themselves to be fertilized by bees or butterflies or spiders and -such-like? Well, this plant which grows in the forests of Guatemala -can only be fertilized by English explorers. Observe the structure of -the flower; at the base is a flat, projecting pan, containing the -pistil; above it an overarching tube ending in a spout. On either side -a small crevice about three-quarters of an inch in length may be -discerned in the fleshy lobes of the calix. The English traveller -seeing this plant is immediately struck by its resemblance to those -penny-in-the-slot machines which provide scent for the public in the -railway stations at home. Through sheer force of habit he takes a -penny from his pocket and inserts it in one of the crevices or slots. -Immediate result--a jet of highly scented liquid pollen is discharged -from the spout upon the pistil lying below, and the plant is -fertilized. Could anything be more miraculous? And yet there are those -who deny the existence of God. Poor fools! - -TOPSY. - -Wonderful! (_Sniffing._) What a good scent. - -ASTON. - -The purest patchouli. - -BELLE. - -How delicious! Oh, my dear . . . (_She shuts her eyes in ecstasy._) - -HENRIKA. - -(_Drowsily._) Delicious, 'licious. . . . - -SIR JASPER. - -I always like these rather _canaille_ perfumes. Their effect is -admirable. - -ASTON. - -This is the leopard-flower. Observe its spotted skin and its thorns -like agate claws. This is the singing Alocusia--Alocusia -Cantatrix--discovered by Humboldt during his second voyage to the -Amazons. If you stroke its throat in the right place, it will begin to -sing like a nightingale. Allow me. (_He takes her by the wrist and -guides her fingers towards the palpitating throat of a gigantic flower -shaped like a gramophone trumpet. The Alocusia bursts into song; it -has a voice like Caruso's._) - -CAIN. - -Oh, nyum nyum! What a hand! Oh, ma honey. (_He runs a thick black -finger along TOPSY'S arm._) - -TOPSY. - -What a remarkable flower! - -BELLE. - -I wonder whether he stroked my arm like that by accident or on -purpose. - -HENRIKA. - -(_Gives a little shiver._) He's touching me, he's touching me! But -somehow I feel so sleepy I can't move. - -TOPSY. - -(_She moves on towards the next flower: BELLE does not allow her to -disengage her hand at once._) What a curious smell this one has! - -ASTON. - -Be careful, be careful! That's the chloroform plant. - -TOPSY. - -Oh, I feel quite dizzy and faint. That smell and the heat . . . (_She -almost falls: ASTON puts out his arm and holds her up._) - -ASTON. - -Poor child! - -CAIN. - -Poh chile, poh chile! (_He hovers round her, his hands almost touching -her, trembling with excitement: his white eyeballs roll horribly._) - -ASTON. - -I'll open the door. The air will make you feel better. (_He opens the -conservatory door, still supporting TOPSY with his right arm. The wind -is heard, fearfully whistling: a flurry of snow blows into the -conservatory. The flowers utter piercing screams of rage and fear; -their lights flicker wildly; several turn perfectly black and drop on -to the floor writhing in agony. The floral octopus agitates its -tentacles; the twangum blooms drip blood; all the leaves of all the -trees clap together with a dry, scaly sound._) - -TOPSY. - -(_Faintly._) Thank you; that's better. - -ASTON. - -(_Closing the door._) Poor child! Come and sit down again; the -chloroform flower is a real danger. (_Much moved, he leads her back -towards the seat._) - -CAIN. - -(_Executes a war dance round the seated couple._) Poh chile, poh -chile! Nyum nyum nyum. - -SIR JASPER. - -One perceives the well-known dangers of playing the Good Samaritan -towards an afflicted member of the opposite sex. Pity has touched even -our good Cain to tears. - -BELLE. - -Oh, I wonder what's going to happen! It's so exciting. I'm so glad -Henrika's gone to sleep. - -TOPSY. - -It was silly of me to go all faint like that. - -ASTON. - -I ought to have warned you in time of the chloroform flower. - -BELLE. - -But it's such a lovely feeling now--like being in a very hot bath with -lots of verbena bath-salts, and hardly able to move with limpness, but -just ever so comfortable and happy. - -ASTON. - -How do you feel now? I'm afraid you're looking very pale. Poor child! - -CAIN. - -Poh chile, poh chile! . . . - -SIR JASPER. - -I don't know much about these things, but it seems to me, my dear -Aston, that the moment has decidedly arrived. - -ASTON. - -I'm so sorry. You poor little thing . . . (_He kisses her very gently -on the forehead._) - -BELLE. - -A--a--h. - -HENRIKA. - -Oh! He kissed me: but he's so kind and good, so kind and good. (_She -stirs and falls back again into her drowsy trance._) - -CAIN. - -Poh chile, poh chile! (_He leans over ASTON'S shoulder and begins -rudely kissing TOPSY'S trance-calm, parted lips. TOPSY opens her eyes -and sees the black, greasy face, the chryselephantine smile, the pink, -thick lips, the goggling eyeballs of white enamel. She screams. -HENRIKA springs up and screams too. TOPSY slips on to the floor, and -CAIN and ASTON are left face to face with HENRIKA, pale as death and -with wide-open, terrified eyes. She is trembling in every limb._) - -ASTON. - -(_Gives CAIN a push that sends him sprawling backwards, and falls on -his knees before the pathetic figure of HENRIKA._) Oh, I'm so sorry, -I'm so sorry. What a beast I am! I don't know what I can have been -thinking of to do such a thing. - -SIR JASPER. - -My dear boy, I'm afraid you and Cain knew only too well what you were -thinking of. Only too well . . . - -ASTON. - -Will you forgive me? I can't forgive myself. - -HENRIKA. - -Oh, you hurt me, you frightened me so much. I can't bear it. (_She -cries._) - -ASTON. - -O God! O God! (_The tears start into his eyes also. He takes HENRIKA'S -hand and begins to kiss it._) I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. - -SIR JASPER. - -If you're not very careful, Aston, you'll have Cain to deal with -again. (_CAIN has picked himself up and is creeping stealthily towards -the couple in the centre of the conservatory._) - -ASTON. - -(_Turning round._) Cain, you brute, go to hell! (_CAIN slinks back._) -Oh, will you forgive me for having been such a swine? What can I do? - -TOPSY. - -(_Who has recovered her self-possession, rises to her feet and pushes -HENRIKA into the background._) Thank you, it is really quite all -right. I think it would be best to say no more about it, to forget -what has happened. - -ASTON. - -Will you forgive me, then? - -TOPSY. - -Of course, of course. Please get up, Mr. Tyrrell. - -ASTON. - -(_Climbing to his feet._) I can't think how I ever came to be such a -brute. - -TOPSY. - -(_Coldly._) I thought we had agreed not to talk about this incident -any further. (_There is a silence._) - -SIR JASPER. - -Well, Aston? This has been rather fun. - -BELLE. - -I wish you hadn't been quite so cold with him, Topsy. Poor man! He -really is very sorry. One can see that. - -HENRIKA. - -But did you see that awful face? (_She shudders and covers her eyes._) - -ASTON. - -(_Picking up his dummy and manipulating it._) It is very hot in here, -is it not? Shall we go back to the dancing-room? - -TOPSY. - -(_Also takes up her dummy._) Yes, let us go back. - -ASTON'S DUMMY. - -Isn't that "Roses in Picardy" that the band is playing? - -TOPSY'S DUMMY. - -I believe it is. What a very good band, don't you think? - -ASTON'S DUMMY. - -Yes; it plays during dinner, you know, at the Necropole. (_To -JASPER._) Lord, what a fool I am! I'd quite forgotten; it was she who -told me so as we came in. - -TOPSY'S DUMMY. - -At the Necropole? Really. - -ASTON'S DUMMY. - -A very good band and a very good floor. - -TOPSY'S DUMMY. - -Yes, it's a perfect floor, isn't it? Like glass. . . . (_They go out, -followed by their respective families. BELLE supports HENRIKA, who is -still very weak after her shock._) - -BELLE. - -How exciting it was, wasn't it, Henrika? - -HENRIKA. - -Wasn't it awful--too awful! Oh, that face. . . . (_CAIN follows ASTON -out in silence and dejection. SIR JASPER brings up the rear of the -procession. His face wears its usual expression of slightly bored -amusement. He lights a cigarette._) - -SIR JASPER. - -Charming evening, charming evening. . . . Now it's over, I wonder -whether it ever existed. (_He goes out. The conservatory is left -empty. The flowers flash their luminous pistils; the eyes of the -assafoetida blossoms solemnly wink; leaves shake and sway and rustle; -several of the flowers are heard to utter a low chuckle, while the -Alocusia, after whistling a few derisive notes, finally utters a loud, -gross Oriental hiccough._) - -THE CURTAIN SLOWLY DESCENDS. - - - -CYNTHIA - -WHEN, some fifty years hence, my grandchildren ask me what I did when -I was at Oxford in the remote days towards the beginning of our -monstrous century, I shall look back across the widening gulf of time -and tell them with perfect good faith that I never worked less than -eight hours a day, that I took a keen interest in Social Service, and -that coffee was the strongest stimulant in which I indulged. And they -will very justly say--but I hope I shall be out of hearing. That is -why I propose to write my memoirs as soon as possible, before I have -had time to forget, so that having the truth before me I shall never -in time to come be able, consciously or unconsciously, to tell lies -about myself. - -At present I have no time to write a complete account of that decisive -period in my history. I must content myself therefore with describing -a single incident of my undergraduate days. I have selected this one -because it is curious and at the same time wholly characteristic of -Oxford life before the war. - -My friend Lykeham was an Exhibitioner at Swellfoot College. He -combined blood (he was immensely proud of his Anglo-Saxon descent and -the derivation of his name from Old English _lycam_, a corpse) with -brains. His tastes were eccentric, his habits deplorable, the range of -his information immense. As he is now dead, I will say no more about -his character. - -To proceed with my anecdote: I had gone one evening, as was my custom, -to visit him in his rooms at Swellfoot. It was just after nine when I -mounted the stairs, and great Tom was still tolling. - - "In Thomae laude - Resono bim bam sine fraude," - -as the charmingly imbecile motto used to run, and to-night he was -living up to it by bim-bamming away in a persistent _basso profondo_ -that made an astonishing background of discord to the sound of frantic -guitar playing which emanated from Lykeham's room. From the fury of -his twanging I could tell that something more than usually cataclysmic -had happened, for mercifully it was only in moments of the greatest -stress that Lykeham touched his guitar. - -I entered the room with my hands over my ears. "For God's sake----" I -implored. Through the open window Tom was shouting a deep E flat, with -a spread chord of under- and over-tones, while the guitar gibbered -shrilly and hysterically in D natural. Lykeham laughed, banged down -his guitar on to the sofa with such violence that it gave forth a -trembling groan from all its strings, and ran forward to meet me. He -slapped me on the shoulder with painful heartiness; his whole face -radiated joy and excitement. - -I can sympathize with people's pains, but not with their pleasures. -There is something curiously boring about somebody else's happiness. - -"You are perspiring," I said coldly. - -Lykeham mopped himself, but went grinning. - -"Well, what is it this time?" I asked. "Are you engaged to be married -again?" - -Lykeham burst forth with the triumphant pleasure of one who has at -last found an opportunity of disburdening himself of an oppressive -secret. "Far better than that," he cried. - -I groaned. "Some more than usually unpleasant amour, I suppose." I -knew that he had been in London the day before, a pressing engagement -with the dentist having furnished an excuse to stay the night. - -"Don't be gross," said Lykeham, with a nervous laugh which showed that -my suspicions had been only too well founded. - -"Well, let's hear about the delectable Flossie or Effie or whatever -her name was," I said, with resignation. - -"I tell you she was a goddess." - -"The goddess of reason, I suppose." - -"A goddess," Lykeham continued; "the most wonderful creature I've ever -seen. And the extraordinary thing is," he added confidentially, and -with ill-suppressed pride, "that it seems I myself am a god of sorts." - -"Of gardens; but do come down to facts." - -"I'll tell you the whole story. It was like this: Last night I was in -town, you know, and went to see that capital play that's running at -the Prince Consort's. It's one of those ingenious combinations of -melodrama and problem play, which thrill you to the marrow and at the -same time give you a virtuous feeling that you've been to see -something serious. Well, I rolled in rather late, having secured an -admirable place in the front row of the dress circle. I trampled in -over the populace, and casually observed that there was a girl sitting -next me, whom I apologized to for treading on her toes. I thought no -more about her during the first act. In the interval, when the lights -were on again, I turned round to look at things in general and -discovered that there was a goddess sitting next me. One only had to -look at her to see she was a goddess. She was quite incredibly -beautiful--rather pale and virginal and slim, and at the same time -very stately. I can't describe her; she was simply perfect--there's -nothing more to be said." - -"Perfect," I repeated, "but so were all the rest." - -"Fool!" Lykeham answered impatiently. "All the rest were just damned -women. This was a goddess, I tell you. Don't interrupt me any more. As -I was looking with astonishment at her profile, she turned her head -and looked squarely at me. I've never seen anything so lovely; I -almost swooned away. Our eyes met----" - -"What an awful novelist's expression!" I expostulated. - -"I can't help it; there's no other word. Our eyes did meet, and we -both fell simultaneously in love." - -"Speak for yourself." - -"I could see it in her eyes. Well, to go on. We looked at one another -several times during that first interval, and then the second act -began. In the course of the act, entirely accidentally, I knocked my -programme on to the floor, and reaching down to get it I touched her -hand. Well, there was obviously nothing else to do but to take hold of -it." - -"And what did she do?" - -"Nothing. We sat like that the whole of the rest of the act, -rapturously happy and----" - -"And quietly perspiring palm to palm. I know exactly, so we can pass -over that. Proceed." - -"Of course you don't know in the least; you've never held a goddess's -hand. When the lights went up again I reluctantly dropped her hand, -not liking the thought of the profane crowd seeing us, and for want of -anything better to say, I asked her if she actually was a goddess. She -said it was a curious question, as she'd been wondering what god I -was. So we said, how incredible: and I said I was sure she was a -goddess, and she said she was certain I was a god, and I bought some -chocolates, and the third act began. Now, it being a melodrama, there -was of course in the third act a murder and burglary scene, in which -all the lights were turned out. In this thrilling moment of total -blackness I suddenly felt her kiss me on the cheek." - -"I thought you said she was virginal." - -"So she was--absolutely, frozenly virginal; but she was made of a sort -of burning ice, if you understand me. She was virginally -passionate--just the combination you'd expect to find in a goddess. I -admit I was startled when she kissed me, but with infinite presence of -mind I kissed her back, on the mouth. Then the murder was finished and -the lights went on again. Nothing much more happened till the end of -the show, when I helped her on with her coat and we went out together, -as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, and got into a -taxi. I told the man to drive somewhere where we could get supper, and -he drove there." - -"Not without embracements by the way?" - -"No, not without certain embracements." - -"Always passionately virginal?" - -"Always virginally passionate." - -"Proceed." - -"Well, we had supper--a positively Olympian affair, nectar and -ambrosia and stolen hand-pressures. She became more and more wonderful -every moment. My God, you should have seen her eyes! The whole soul -seemed to burn in their depths, like fire under the sea----" - -"For narrative," I interrupted him, "the epic or heroic style is -altogether more suitable than the lyrical." - -"Well, as I say, we had supper, and after that my memory becomes a -sort of burning mist." - -"Let us make haste to draw the inevitable veil. What was her name?" - -Lykeham confessed that he didn't know; as she was a goddess, it didn't -really seem to matter what her earthly name was. How did he expect to -find her again? He hadn't thought of that, but knew she'd turn up -somehow. I told him he was a fool, and asked which particular goddess -he thought she was and which particular god he himself. - -"We discussed that," he said. "We first thought Ares and Aphrodite; -but she wasn't my idea of Aphrodite, and I don't know that I'm very -much like Ares." - -He looked pensively in the old Venetian mirror which hung over the -fireplace. It was a complacent look, for Lykeham was rather vain about -his personal appearance, which was, indeed, repulsive at first sight, -but had, when you looked again, a certain strange and fascinating ugly -beauty. Bearded, he would have made a passable Socrates. But Ares--no, -certainly he wasn't Ares. - -"Perhaps you're Hephćstus," I suggested; but the idea was received -coldly. - -Was he sure that she was a goddess? Mightn't she just have been a -nymph of sorts? Europa, for instance. Lykeham repudiated the implied -suggestion that he was a bull, nor would he hear of himself as a swan -or a shower of gold. It was possible, however, he thought, that he was -Apollo and she Daphne, reincarnated from her vegetable state. And -though I laughed heartily at the idea of his being Phoebus Apollo, -Lykeham stuck to the theory with increasing obstinacy. The more he -thought of it the more it seemed to him probable that his nymph, with -her burning cold virginal passion, was Daphne, while to doubt that he -himself was Apollo seemed hardly to occur to him. - -* * * * * - -It was about a fortnight later, in June, towards the end of term, that -we discovered Lykeham's Olympian identity. We had gone, Lykeham and I, -for an after-dinner walk. We set out through the pale tranquillity of -twilight, and following the towpath up the river as far as Godstow, -halted at the inn for a glass of port and a talk with the glorious old -female Falstaff in black silk who kept it. We were royally entertained -with gossip and old wine, and after Lykeham had sung a comic song -which had reduced the old lady to a quivering jelly of hysterical -laughter, we set out once more, intending to go yet a little farther -up the river before we turned back. Darkness had fallen by this time; -the stars were lighted in the sky; it was the sort of summer night to -which Marlowe compared Helen of Troy. Over the meadows invisible -peewits wheeled and uttered their melancholy cry; the far-off thunder -of the weir bore a continuous, even burden to all the other small -noises of the night. Lykeham and I walked on in silence. We had -covered perhaps a quarter of a mile when all at once my companion -stopped and began looking fixedly westward towards Witham Hill. I -paused too, and saw that he was staring at the thin crescent of the -moon, which was preparing to set in the dark woods that crowned the -eminence. - -"What are you looking at?" I asked. - -But Lykeham paid no attention, only muttered something to himself. -Then suddenly he cried out, "It's she!" and started off at full gallop -across the fields in the direction of the hill. Conceiving that he had -gone suddenly mad, I followed. We crashed through the first hedge -twenty yards apart. Then came the backwater; Lykeham leapt, flopped in -three-quarters of the way across, and scrambled oozily ashore. I made -a better jump and landed among the mud and rushes of the farther bank. -Two more hedges and a ploughed field, a hedge, a road, a gate, another -field, and then we were in Witham Wood itself. It was pitch black -under the trees, and Lykeham had perforce to slacken his pace a -little. I followed him by the noise he made crashing through the -undergrowth and cursing when he hurt himself. That wood was a -nightmare, but we got through it somehow and into the open glade at -the top of the hill. Through the trees on the farther side of the -clearing shone the moon, seeming incredibly close at hand. Then, -suddenly, along the very path of the moonlight, the figure of a woman -came walking through the trees into the open. Lykeham rushed towards -her and flung himself at her feet and embraced her knees; she stooped -down and smoothed his ruffled hair. I turned and walked away; it is -not for a mere mortal to look on at the embracements of the gods. - -As I walked back, I wondered who on earth--or rather who in -heaven--Lykeham could be. For here was chaste Cynthia giving herself -to him in the most unequivocal fashion. Could he be Endymion? No, the -idea was too preposterous to be entertained for a moment. But I could -think of no other loved by the virgin moon. Yet surely I seemed dimly -to recollect that there had been some favoured god; for the life of me -I could not remember who. All the way back along the river path I -searched my mind for his name, and always it eluded me. - -But on my return I looked up the matter in Lempričre, and almost died -of laughing when I discovered the truth. I thought of Lykeham's -Venetian mirror and his complacent side glances at his own image, and -his belief that he was Apollo, and I laughed and laughed. And when, -considerably after midnight, Lykeham got back to college, I met him in -the porch and took him quietly by the sleeve, and in his ear I -whispered, "GOAT-FOOT," and then I roared with laughter once again. - - - -THE BOOKSHOP - -IT seemed indeed an unlikely place to find a bookshop. All the other -commercial enterprises of the street aimed at purveying the barest -necessities to the busy squalor of the quarter. In this, the main -arterial street, there was a specious glitter and life produced by the -swift passage of the traffic. It was almost airy, almost gay. But all -around great tracts of slum pullulated dankly. The inhabitants did -their shopping in the grand street; they passed, holding gobbets of -meat that showed glutinous even through the wrappings of paper; they -cheapened linoleum at upholstery doors; women, black-bonneted and -black-shawled, went shuffling to their marketing with dilapidated bags -of straw plait. How should these, I wondered, buy books? And yet there -it was, a tiny shop; and the windows were fitted with shelves, and -there were the brown backs of books. To the right a large emporium -overflowed into the street with its fabulously cheap furniture; to the -left the curtained, discreet windows of an eating-house announced in -chipped white letters the merits of sixpenny dinners. Between, so -narrow as scarcely to prevent the junction of food and furniture, was -the little shop. A door and four feet of dark window, that was the -full extent of frontage. One saw here that literature was a luxury; it -took its proportionable room here in this place of necessity. Still, -the comfort was that it survived, definitely survived. - -The owner of the shop was standing in the doorway, a little man, -grizzle-bearded and with eyes very active round the corners of the -spectacles that bridged his long, sharp nose. - -"Trade is good?" I inquired. - -"Better in my grandfather's day," he told me, shaking his head sadly. - -"We grow progressively more Philistine," I suggested. - -"It is our cheap press. The ephemeral overwhelms the permanent, the -classical." - -"This journalism," I agreed, "or call it rather this piddling -quotidianism, is the curse of our age." - -"Fit only for----" He gesticulated clutchingly with his hands as -though seeking the word. - -"For the fire." - -The old man was triumphantly emphatic with his, "No: for the sewer." - -I laughed sympathetically at his passion. "We are delightfully at one -in our views," I told him. "May I look about me a little among your -treasures?" - -Within the shop was a brown twilight, redolent with old leather and -the smell of that fine subtle dust that clings to the pages of -forgotten books, as though preservative of their secrets--like the dry -sand of Asian deserts beneath which, still incredibly intact, lie the -treasures and the rubbish of a thousand years ago. I opened the first -volume that came to my hand. It was a book of fashion-plates, tinted -elaborately by hand in magenta and purple, maroon and solferino and -puce and those melting shades of green that a yet earlier generation -had called "the sorrows of Werther." Beauties in crinolines swam with -the amplitude of pavilioned ships across the pages. Their feet were -represented as thin and flat and black, like tea-leaves shyly -protruding from under their petticoats. Their faces were egg-shaped, -sleeked round with hair of glossy black, and expressive of an -immaculate purity. I thought of our modern fashion figures, with their -heels and their arch of instep, their flattened faces and smile of -pouting invitation. It was difficult not to be a deteriorationist. I -am easily moved by symbols; there is something of a Quarles in my -nature. Lacking the philosophic mind, I prefer to see my abstractions -concretely imaged. And it occurred to me then that if I wanted an -emblem to picture the sacredness of marriage and the influence of the -home I could not do better than choose two little black feet like -tea-leaves peeping out decorously from under the hem of wide, -disguising petticoats. While heels and thoroughbred insteps should -figure--oh well, the reverse. - -The current of my thoughts was turned aside by the old man's voice. "I -expect you are musical," he said. - -Oh yes, I was a little; and he held out to me a bulky folio. - -"Did you ever hear this?" he asked. - -_Robert the Devil_: no, I never had. I did not doubt that it was a gap -in my musical education. - -The old man took the book and drew up a chair from the dim -_penetralia_ of the shop. It was then that I noticed a surprising -fact: what I had, at a careless glance, taken to be a common counter I -perceived now to be a piano of a square, unfamiliar shape. The old man -sat down before it. "You must forgive any defects in its tone," he -said, turning to me. "An early Broadwood, Georgian, you know, and has -seen a deal of service in a hundred years." - -He opened the lid, and the yellow keys grinned at me in the darkness -like the teeth of an ancient horse. - -The old man rustled pages till he found a desired place. "The ballet -music," he said: "it's fine. Listen to this." - -His bony, rather tremulous hands began suddenly to move with an -astonishing nimbleness, and there rose up, faint and tinkling against -the roar of the traffic, a gay pirouetting music. The instrument -rattled considerably and the volume of sound was thin as the trickle -of a drought-shrunken stream: but, still, it kept tune and the melody -was there, filmy, aerial. - -"And now for the drinking-song," cried the old man, warming excitedly -to his work. He played a series of chords that mounted modulating -upwards towards a breaking-point; so supremely operatic as positively -to be a parody of that moment of tautening suspense, when the singers -are bracing themselves for a burst of passion. And then it came, the -drinking chorus. One pictured to oneself cloaked men, wildly jovial -over the emptiness of cardboard flagons. - - "Versiam' a tazza piena - Il generoso umor . . ." - -The old man's voice was cracked and shrill, but his enthusiasm made up -for any defects in execution. I had never seen anyone so -wholeheartedly a reveller. - -He turned over a few more pages. "Ah, the 'Valse Infernale,'" he said. -"That's good." There was a little melancholy prelude and then the -tune, not so infernal perhaps as one might have been led to expect, -but still pleasant enough. I looked over his shoulder at the words and -sang to his accompaniment. - - "Demoni fatali - Fantasmi d'orror, - Dei regni infernali - Plaudite al signor." - -A great steam-driven brewer's lorry roared past with its annihilating -thunder and utterly blotted out the last line. The old man's hands -still moved over the yellow keys, my mouth opened and shut; but there -was no sound of words or music. It was as though the fatal demons, the -phantasms of horror, had made a sudden irruption into this peaceful, -abstracted place. - -I looked out through the narrow door. The traffic ceaselessly passed; -men and women hurried along with set faces. Phantasms of horror, all -of them: infernal realms wherein they dwelt. Outside, men lived under -the tyranny of things. Their every action was determined by the orders -of mere matter, by money, and the tools of their trade and the -unthinking laws of habit and convention. But here I seemed to be safe -from things, living at a remove from actuality; here where a bearded -old man, improbable survival from some other time, indomitably played -the music of romance, despite the fact that the phantasms of horror -might occasionally drown the sound of it with their clamour. - -"So: will you take it?" The voice of the old man broke across my -thoughts. "I will let you have it for five shillings." He was holding -out the thick, dilapidated volume towards me. His face wore a look of -strained anxiety. I could see how eager he was to get my five -shillings, how necessary, poor man! for him. He has been, I thought -with an unreasonable bitterness--he has been simply performing for my -benefit, like a trained dog. His aloofness, his culture--all a -business trick. I felt aggrieved. He was just one of the common -phantasms of horror masquerading as the angel of this somewhat comic -paradise of contemplation. I gave him a couple of half-crowns and he -began wrapping the book in paper. - -"I tell you," he said, "I'm sorry to part with it. I get attached to -my books, you know; but they always have to go." - -He sighed with such an obvious genuineness of feeling that I repented -of the judgment I had passed upon him. He was a reluctant inhabitant -of the infernal realms, even as was I myself. - -Outside they were beginning to cry the evening papers: a ship sunk, -trenches captured, somebody's new stirring speech. We looked at one -another--the old bookseller and I--in silence. We understood one -another without speech. Here were we in particular, and here was the -whole of humanity in general, all faced by the hideous triumph of -things. In this continued massacre of men, in this old man's enforced -sacrifice, matter equally triumphed. And walking homeward through -Regent's Park, I too found matter triumphing over me. My book was -unconscionably heavy, and I wondered what in the world I should do -with a piano score of _Robert the Devil_ when I had got it home. It -would only be another thing to weigh me down and hinder me; and at the -moment it was very, oh, abominably, heavy. I leaned over the railings -that ring round the ornamental water, and as unostentatiously as I -could, I let the book fall into the bushes. - -I often think it would be best not to attempt the solution of the -problem of life. Living is hard enough without complicating the -process by thinking about it. The wisest thing, perhaps, is to take -for granted the "wearisome condition of humanity, born under one law, -to another bound," and to leave the matter at that, without an attempt -to reconcile the incompatibles. Oh, the absurd difficulty of it all! -And I have, moreover, wasted five shillings, which is serious, you -know, in these thin times. - - - -THE DEATH OF LULLY - -THE sea lay in a breathing calm, and the galley, bosomed in its -transparent water, stirred rhythmically to the slow pulse of its -sleeping life. Down below there, fathoms away through the -crystal-clear Mediterranean, the shadow of the ship lazily swung, -moving, a long dark patch, very slowly back and forth across the white -sand of the sea-bottom--very slowly, a scarcely perceptible advance -and recession of the green darkness. Fishes sometimes passed, now -hanging poised with idly tremulous fins, now darting onwards, -effortless and incredibly swift; and always, as it seemed, utterly -aimless, whether they rested or whether they moved; as the life of -angels their life seemed mysterious and unknowable. - -All was silence on board the ship. In their fetid cage below decks the -rowers slept where they sat, chained, on their narrow benches. On deck -the sailors lay sleeping or sat in little groups playing at dice. The -fore-part of the deck was reserved, it seemed, for passengers of -distinction. Two figures, a man and a woman, were reclining there on -couches, their faces and half-bared limbs flushed in the coloured -shadow that was thrown by the great red awning stretched above them. - -It was a nobleman, the sailors had heard, and his mistress that they -had on board. They had taken their passage at Scanderoon, and were -homeward bound for Spain. Proud as sin these Spaniards were; the man -treated them like slaves or dogs. As for the woman, she was well -enough, but they could find as good a face and pair of breasts in -their native Genoa. If anyone so much as looked at her from half the -ship's length away it sent her possessor into a rage. He had struck -one man for smiling at her. Damned Catalonian, as jealous as a stag; -they wished him the stag's horns as well as its temper. - -It was intensely hot even under the awning. The man woke from his -uneasy sleep and reached out to where on a little table beside him -stood a deep silver cup of mixed wine and water. He drank a gulp of -it; it was as warm as blood and hardly cooled his throat. He turned -over and, leaning on his elbow, looked at his companion. She on her -back, quietly breathing through parted lips, still asleep. He leaned -across and pinched her on the breast, so that she woke up with a -sudden start and cry of pain. - -"Why did you wake me?" she asked. - -He laughed and shrugged his shoulders. He had, indeed, had no reason -for doing so, except that he did not like it that she should be -comfortably asleep, while he was awake and unpleasantly conscious of -the heat. - -"It is hotter than ever," he said, with a kind of gloomy satisfaction -at the thought that she would now have to suffer the same discomforts -as himself. "The wine scorches instead of cooling; the sun seems no -lower down the sky." - -The woman pouted. "You pinched me cruelly," she said. "And I still do -not know why you wanted to wake me." - -He smiled again, this time with a good-humoured lasciviousness. "I -wanted to kiss you," he said. He passed his hand over her body -possessively, as a man might caress a dog. - -Suddenly the quiet of the afternoon was shattered. A great clamour -rose up, ragged and uneven, on the air. Shrill yells pierced the dull -rumbling growl of bass voices, pierced the sound of beaten drums and -hammered metal. - -"What are they doing in the town?" asked the woman anxiously of her -lover. - -"God knows," he answered. "Perhaps the heathen hounds are making some -trouble with our men." - -He got up and walked to the rail of the ship. A quarter of a mile -away, across the smooth water of the bay, stood the little African -town at which they had stopped to call. The sunlight showed everything -with a hard and merciless definition. Sky, palms, white houses, domes, -and towers seemed as though made from some hard enamelled metal. A -ridge of low red hills rolled away to right and left. The sunshine -gave to everything in the scene the same clarity of detail, so that to -the eye of the onlooker there was no impression of distance. The whole -thing seemed to be painted in flat upon a single plane. - -The young man returned to his couch under the awning and lay down. It -was hotter than ever, or seemed so, at least, since he had made the -exertion of getting up. He thought of high cool pastures in the hills, -with the pleasant sound of streams, far down and out of sight in their -deep channels. He thought of winds that were fresh and scented--winds -that were not mere breaths of dust and fire. He thought of the shade -of cypresses, a narrow opaque strip of darkness; and he thought too of -the green coolness, more diffused and fluid and transparent, of -chestnut groves. And he thought of the people he remembered sitting -under the trees--young people, gay and brightly dressed, whose life -was all gaiety and deliciousness. There were the songs that they -sang--he recalled the voices and the dancing of the strings. And there -were perfumes and, when one drew closer, the faint intoxicating -fragrance of a woman's body. He thought of the stories they told; one -in particular came to his mind, a capital tale of a sorcerer who -offered to change a peasant's wife into a mare, and how he gulled the -husband and enjoyed the woman before his eyes, and the delightful -excuses he made when she failed to change her shape. He smiled to -himself at the thought of it, and stretching out a hand touched his -mistress. Her bosom was soft to his fingers and damp with sweat; he -had an unpleasant notion that she was melting in the heat. - -"Why do you touch me?" she asked. - -He made no reply, but turned away from her. He wondered how it would -come to pass that people would rise again in the body. It seemed -curious, considering the manifest activities of worms. And suppose one -rose in the body that one possessed in age. He shuddered, picturing to -himself what this woman would be like when she was sixty, seventy. She -would be beyond words repulsive. Old men too were horrible. They -stank, and their eyes were rheumy and rosiny, like the eyes of deer. -He decided that he would kill himself before he grew old. He was -eight-and-twenty now. He would give himself twelve years more. Then he -would end it. His thoughts dimmed and faded away into sleep. - -The woman looked at him as he slept. He was a good man, she thought, -though sometimes cruel. He was different from all the other men she -had known. Once, when she was sixteen and a beginner in the business -of love, she had thought that all men were always drunk when they made -love. They were all dirty and like beasts; she had felt herself -superior to them. But this man was a nobleman. She could not -understand him; his thoughts were always obscure. She felt herself -infinitely inferior to him. She was afraid of him and his occasional -cruelty; but still he was a good man, and he might do what he liked -with her. - -From far off came the sound of oars, a rhythmical splash and creak. -Somebody shouted, and from startlingly close at hand one of the -sailors hallooed back. - -The young man woke up with a start. - -"What is it?" he asked, turning with an angry look to the girl, as -though he held her to be responsible for this breaking in upon his -slumbers. - -"The boat, I think," she said. "It must be coming back from the -shore." - -The boat's crew came up over the side, and all the stagnant life of -the ship flowed excitedly round them. They were the centre of a vortex -towards which all were drawn. Even the young Catalonian, for all his -hatred of these stinking Genoese shipmen, was sucked into the eddy. -Everybody was talking at once, and in the general hubbub of question -and answer there was nothing coherent to be made out. Piercingly -distinct above all the noise came the voice of the little cabin-boy, -who had been to shore with the boat's crew. He was running round to -everyone in turn repeating: "I hit one of them. You know. I hit one. -With a stone on the forehead. Didn't he bleed, ooh! didn't he just!" -And he would dance with uncontrollable excitement. - -The captain held up his hand and shouted for silence. "One at a time, -there," he ordered, and when order had a little been restored, added -grumblingly, "Like a pack of dogs on a bone. You talk, boatswain." - -"I hit one of them," said the boy. Somebody cuffed him over the head, -and he relapsed into silence. - -When the boatswain's story had rambled through labyrinths of -digression, over countless obstacles of interruptions and emendations, -to its conclusion, the Spaniard went back to join his companion under -the awning. He had assumed again his habitual indifference. - -"Nearly butchered," he said languidly, in response to her eager -questions. "They"--he jerked a hand in the direction of the -town--"they were pelting an old fellow who had come there preaching -the Faith. Left him dead on the beach. Our men had to run for it." - -She could get no more out of him; he turned over and pretended to go -to sleep. - -* * * * * - -Towards evening they received a visit from the captain. He was a -large, handsome man, with gold ear-rings glinting from among a bush of -black hair. - -"Divine Providence," he remarked sententiously, after the usual -courtesies had passed, "has called upon us to perform a very notable -work." - -"Indeed?" said the young man. - -"No less a work," continued the captain, "than to save from the -clutches of the infidels and heathen the precious remains of a holy -martyr." - -The captain let fall his pompous manner. It was evident that he had -carefully prepared these pious sentences, they rolled so roundly off -his tongue. But he was eager now to get on with his story, and it was -in a homelier style that he went on: "If you knew these seas as well -as I--and it's near twenty years now that I've been sailing -them--you'd have some knowledge of this same holy man that--God rot -their souls for it!--these cursed Arabs have done to death here. I've -heard of him more than once in my time, and not always well spoken of; -for, to tell the honest truth, he does more harm with his preachments -to good Christian traders than ever he did good to black-hearted -heathen dogs. Leave the bees alone, I say, and if you can get a little -honey out of them quietly, so much the better; but he goes about among -the beehives with a pole, stirring up trouble for himself and others -too. Leave them alone to their damnation, is what I say, and get what -you can from them this side of hell. But, still, he has died a holy -martyr's death. God rest his soul! A martyr is a wonderful thing, you -know, and it's not for the likes of us to understand what they mean by -it all. - -"They do say, too, that he could make gold. And, to my mind, it would -have been a thing more pleasing to God and man if he had stopped at -home minting money for poor folks and dealing it round, so that -there'd be no need to work any more and break oneself for a morsel of -bread. Yes, he was great at gold-making and at the books too. They -tell me he was called the Illuminated Doctor. But I know him still as -plain Lully. I used to hear of him from my father, plain Lully, and no -better once than he should have been. - -"My father was a shipwright in Minorca in those days--how long since? -Fifty, sixty years perhaps. He knew him then; he has often told me the -tale. And a raffish young dog he was. Drinking, drabbing, and dicing -he outdid them all, and between the bouts wrote poems, they say, which -was more than the rest could do. But he gave it all up on the sudden. -Gave away his lands, quitted his former companions, and turned hermit -up in the hills, living alone like a fox in his burrow, high up above -the vines. And all because of a woman and his own qualmish stomach." - -The shipmaster paused and helped himself to a little wine. "And what -did this woman do?" the girl asked curiously. - -"Ah, it's not what she did but what she didn't do," the captain -answered, with a leer and wink. "She kept him at his distance--all but -once, all but once; and that was what put him on the road to being a -martyr. But there, I'm outrunning myself. I must go more soberly. - -"There was a lady of some consequence in the island--one of the -Castellos, I think she was; her first name has quite slipped my -memory--Anastasia, or something of the kind. Lully conceives a passion -for her, and sighs and importunes her through I know not how many -months and years. But her virtue stands steady as the judgment seat. -Well, in the end, what happens was this. The story leaked out after it -was all over, and he was turned hermit in the mountains. What -happened, I say, was this. She tells him at last that he may come and -see her, fixing some solitary twilight place and time, her own room at -nightfall. You can guess how he washes and curls and scents himself, -shaves his chin, chews anises, musks over whatever of the goat may -cling about the body. Off he goes, dreaming swoons and ecstasies, -foretasting inconceivable sweets. Arrived, he finds the lady a little -melancholy--her settled humour, but a man might expect a smile at such -a time. Still, nothing abashed, he falls at her feet and pours out his -piteous case, telling her he has sighed through seven years, not -closed an eye for above a hundred nights, is forepined to a shadow, -and, in a word, will perish unless she show some mercy. She, still -melancholy her--settled humour, mark you--makes answer that she is -ready to yield, and that her body is entirely his. With that, she lets -herself be done with as he pleases, but always sorrowfully. 'You are -all mine,' says he--'all mine'--and unlaces her gorgeret to prove the -same. But he was wrong. Another lover was already in her bosom, and -his kisses had been passionate--oh, burning passionate, for he had -kissed away half her left breast. From the nipple down it had all been -gnawed away by a cancer. - -"Bah, a man may see as bad as that any day in the street or at -church-doors where beggars most congregate. I grant you that it is a -nasty sight, worm-eaten flesh, but still--not enough, you will agree, -to make yourself a hermit over. But there, I told you he had a -queasiness of the stomach. But doubtless it was all in God's plan to -make a holy martyr of him. But for that same queasiness of his, he -would still be living there, a superannuated rake; or else have died -in very foul odour, instead of passing, all embalmed with sanctity, to -Paradise Gate. - -"I know not what happened to him between his hermit-hood and his quest -for martyrdom. I saw him first a dozen years ago, down Tunis way. They -were always clapping him into prison or pulling out his beard for -preaching. This time, it seems, they have made a holy martyr of him, -done the business thoroughly with no bungling. Well, may he pray for -our souls at the throne of God. I go in secretly to-night to steal his -body. It lies on the shore there beyond the jetty. It will be a -notable work, I tell you, to bring back so precious a corpse to -Christendom. A most notable work. . . ." - -The captain rubbed his hands. - -* * * * * - -It was after midnight, but there was still a bustle of activity on -board the galley. At any moment they were expecting the arrival of the -boat with the corpse of the martyr. A couch, neatly draped in black, -with at its head and foot candles burning two by two, had been set out -on the poop for the reception of the body. The captain called the -young Spaniard and his mistress to come and see the bier. - -"That's a good bit of work for you," he said, with justifiable pride. -"I defy anyone to make a more decent resting-place for a martyr than -that is. It could hardly have been done better on shore, with every -appliance at hand. But we sailors, you know, can make anything out of -nothing. A truckle-bed, a strip of tarred canvas, and four tallow dips -from the cabin lanterns--there you are, a bier for a king." - -He hurried away, and a little later the young man and the girl could -hear him giving orders and cursing somewhere down below. The candles -burned almost without a tremor in the windless air, and the -reflections of the stars were long, thin tracks of fire along the -utterly calm water. - -"Were there but perfumed flowers and the sound of a lute," said the -young Spaniard, "the night would tremble into passion of its own -accord. Love should come unsought on such a night as this, among these -black waters and the stars that sleep so peacefully on their bosom." - -He put his arm round the girl and bent his head to kiss her. But she -averted her face. He could feel a shudder run her through the body. - -"Not to-night," she whispered. "I think of the poor dead man. I would -rather pray." - -"No, no," he cried. "Forget him. Remember only that we are alive, and -that we have but little time and none to waste." - -He drew her into the shadow under the bulwark, and, sitting down on a -coil of rope, crushed her body to his own and began kissing her with -fury. She lay, at first, limp in his arms, but gradually she kindled -to his passion. - -A plash of oars announced the approach of the boat. The captain -hallooed into the darkness: "Did you find him?" - -"Yes, we have him here," came back the answer. - -"Good. Bring him alongside and we'll hoist him up. We have the bier in -readiness. He shall lie in state to-night." - -"But he's not dead," shouted back the voice from the night. - -"Not dead?" repeated the captain, thunderstruck. "But what about the -bier, then?" - -A thin, feeble voice came back. "Your work will not be wasted, my -friend. It will be but a short time before I need your bier." - -The captain, a little abashed, answered in a gentler tone, "We -thought, holy father, that the heathens had done their worst and that -Almighty God had already given you the martyr's crown." - -By this time the boat had emerged from the darkness. In the stern -sheets an old man was lying, his white hair and beard stained with -blood, his Dominican's robe torn and fouled with dust. At the sight of -him, the captain pulled off his cap and dropped upon his knees. - -"Give us your blessing, holy father," he begged. - -The old man raised his hand and wished him peace. - -They lifted him on board and, at his own desire, laid him upon the -bier which had been prepared for his dead body. "It would be a waste -of trouble," he said, "to put me anywhere else, seeing I shall in any -case be lying there so soon." - -So there he lay, very still under the four candles. One might have -taken him for dead already, but that his eyes, when he opened them, -shone so brightly. - -He dismissed from the poop everyone except the young Spaniard. "We are -countrymen," he said, "and of noble blood, both of us. I would rather -have you near me than anyone else." - -The sailors knelt for a blessing and disappeared; soon they could be -heard weighing the anchor; it was safest to be off before day. Like -mourners at either side of the lighted bier crouched the Spaniard and -his mistress. The body of the old man, who was not yet dead, lay quiet -under the candles. The martyr was silent for some time, but at last he -opened his eyes and looked at the young man and the woman. - -"I too," he said, "was in love, once. In this year falls the jubilee -of my last earthly passion; fifty years have run since last I longed -after the flesh--fifty years since God opened my eyes to the -hideousness of the corruption that man has brought upon himself. - -"You are young, and your bodies are clean and straight, with no blotch -or ulcer or leprous taint to mar their much-desired beauty; but -because of your outward pride, your souls, it may be, fester inwardly -the more. - -"And yet God made all perfect; it is but accident and the evil of will -that causes defaults. All metals should be gold, were it not that -their elements willed evilly in their desire to combine. And so with -men: the burning sulphur of passion, the salt of wisdom, the nimble -mercurial soul should come together to make a golden being, -incorruptible and rustless. But the elements mingle jarringly, not in -a pure harmony of love, and gold is rare, while lead and iron and -poisonous brass that leaves a taste as of remorse behind it are -everywhere common. - -"God opened my eyes to it before my youth had too utterly wasted -itself to rottenness. It was half a hundred years ago, but I see her -still, my Ambrosia, with her white, sad face and her naked body and -that monstrous ill eating away at her breast. - -"I have lived since then trying to amend the evil, trying to restore, -as far as my poor powers would go, some measure of original perfection -to the corrupted world. I have striven to give to all metals their -true nature, to make true gold from the false, the unreal, the -accidental metals, lead and copper and tin and iron. And I have -essayed that more difficult alchemy, the transformation of men. I die -now in my effort to purge away that most foul dross of misbelief from -the souls of these heathen men. Have I achieved anything? I know not." - -The galley was moving now, its head turned seaward. The candles -shivered in the wind of its speed, casting uncertain, changing shadows -upon his face. There was a long silence on the poop. The oars creaked -and splashed. Sometimes a shout would come up from below, orders given -by the overseer of the slaves, a curse, the sound of a blow. The old -man spoke again, more weakly now, as though to himself. - -"I have had eighty years of it," he said--"eighty years in the midst -of this corroding sea of hatred and strife. A man has need to keep -pure and unalloyed his core of gold, that little centre of perfection -with which all, even in this declination of time, are born. All other -metal, though it be as tough as steel, as shining-hard as brass, will -melt before the devouring bitterness of life. Hatred, lust, anger--the -vile passions will corrode your will of iron, the warlike pomp of your -front of brass. It needs the golden perfection of pure love and pure -knowledge to withstand them. - -"God has willed that I should be the stone--weak, indeed, in -virtue--that has touched and transformed at least a little of baser -metal into the gold that is above corruption. But it is hard -work--thankless work. Man has made a hell of his world, and has set up -gods of pain to rule it. Goatish gods, that revel and feast on the -agony of it all, poring over the tortured world, like those hateful -lovers, whose lust burns darkly into cruelty. - -"Fever goads us through life in a delirium of madness. Thirsting for -the swamps of evil whence the fever came, thirsting for the mirages of -his own delirium, man rushes headlong he knows not whither. And all -the time a devouring cancer gnaws at his entrails. It will kill him in -the end, when even the ghastly inspiration of fever will not be enough -to whip him on. He will lie there, cumbering the earth, a heap of -rottenness and pain, until at last the cleansing fire comes to sweep -the horror away. - -"Fever and cancer; acids that burn and corrode. . . . I have had -eighty years of it. Thank God, it is the end." - -It was already dawn; the candles were hardly visible now in the light, -faded to nothing, like souls in prosperity. In a little while the old -man was asleep. - -The captain tiptoed up on to the poop and drew the young Spaniard -aside for a confidential talk. - -"Do you think he will die to-day?" he asked. - -The young man nodded. - -"God rest his soul," said the captain piously. "But do you think it -would be best to take his body to Minorca or to Genoa? At Minorca they -would give much to have their own patron martyr. At the same time it -would add to the glory of Genoa to possess so holy a relic, though he -is in no way connected with the place. It's there is my difficulty. -Suppose, you see, that my people of Genoa did not want the body, he -being from Minorca and not one of them. I should look a fool then, -bringing it in in state. Oh, it's hard, it's hard. There's so much to -think about. I am not sure but what I hadn't better put in at Minorca -first. What do you think?" - -The Spaniard shrugged his shoulder. "I have no advice to offer." - -"Lord," said the captain as he bustled away, "life is a tangled knot -to unravel." - - -PRINTED BY MORRISON AND GIBB LTD., EDINBURGH - - - -Transcriber's Note - -This transcription is based on images scanned from a copy made -available by the University of Toronto and posted by the Internet -Archive at: - - archive.org/details/limbohux00huxluoft - -The following changes were noted: - --- p. 70: "Let it start smouldering at once I must--Inserted period -after "once". - --- p. 196: Even make pretences to re ard--Changed "re ard" to -"regard". - --- p. 203: Eupompus' next picture, representing an orchard of -identical trees--As this paragraph is a continuation of Emberlin's -speech, an opening double quotation mark was inserted at the beginning -of the paragraph. - --- p. 243: How exciting it was, wasn't it, HENRIKA?--Changed "HENRIKA" -from small caps to "Henrika". - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Limbo, by Aldous Huxley - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIMBO *** - -***** This file should be named 54895-8.txt or 54895-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/8/9/54895/ - -Produced by Paul Haxo from page images generously made -available by the University of Toronto and the Internet -Archive. - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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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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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Limbo - -Author: Aldous Huxley - -Release Date: June 11, 2017 [EBook #54895] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIMBO *** - - - - -Produced by Paul Haxo from page images generously made -available by the University of Toronto and the Internet -Archive. - - - - - - -</pre> - -<div class="center"> -<img alt="Cover" src="images/cover.jpg" title="Cover"/> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="Front_Matter"> -<p class="half-title">LIMBO</p> - -<div class="pagebreak"></div> - -<p class="pad_top_2em"><span class="smallerfont">BY THE SAME AUTHOR</span></p> - -<p>LEDA; <span class="smallerfont">AND OTHER POEMS</span></p> - -<div class="pagebreak"></div> - -<p class="title"><span class="border">LIMBO</span></p> - -<p class="author">BY ALDOUS HUXLEY</p> - -<p class="city">LONDON</p> - -<p class="publisher">CHATTO & WINDUS</p> - -<p class="year">1920</p> - -<div class="pagebreak"></div> - -<p class="rights">All rights reserved</p> - -<div class="pagebreak"></div> - -<h3 class="toc" id="toc_heading">CONTENTS</h3> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="Table of Contents"> -<tr> -<td> </td> - -<td class="tdr_page">PAGE</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><a id="Farcical_toc" href="#Farcical">FARCICAL HISTORY OF RICHARD -GREENOW</a></td> - -<td class="tdr">1</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><a id="Happily_toc" href="#Happily">HAPPILY EVER AFTER</a></td> - -<td class="tdr">116</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><a id="Eupompus_toc" href="#Eupompus">EUPOMPUS GAVE SPLENDOUR TO ART BY -NUMBERS</a></td> - -<td class="tdr">192</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><a id="Happy_Families_toc" href="#Happy_Families">HAPPY FAMILIES</a></td> - -<td class="tdr">211</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><a id="Cynthia_toc" href="#Cynthia">CYNTHIA</a></td> - -<td class="tdr">245</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><a id="Bookshop_toc" href="#Bookshop">THE BOOKSHOP</a></td> - -<td class="tdr">259</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><a id="Death_toc" href="#Death">THE DEATH OF LULLY</a></td> - -<td class="tdr">269</td> -</tr> -</table> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> - -<p class="text_title">LIMBO</p> - -<h3 class="first" id="Farcical"><a href="#Farcical_toc">FARCICAL HISTORY OF RICHARD -GREENOW</a></h3> - -<h4 class="first" id="Farcical_01">I</h4> - -<p class="noindent">T<small>HE</small> most sumptuous present that Millicent received on -her seventh birthday was a dollâs house. âWith love to darling little Mill from Aunty -Loo.â Aunt Loo was immensely rich, and the dollâs house was almost as grandiose and -massive as herself.</p> - -<p>It was divided into four rooms, each papered in a different colour and each furnished -as was fitting: beds and washstands and wardrobes in the upstair rooms, arm-chairs and -artificial plants below. âReplete with every modern convenience; sumptuous appointments.â -There was even a cold collation ready spread on the dining-room tableâtwo scarlet lobsters -on a dish, and a ham that <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-2">[Pg -2]</a></span>had been sliced into just enough to reveal an internal complexion of the -loveliest pink and white. One might go on talking about the dollâs house for ever, it was -so beautiful. Such, at any rate, was the opinion of Millicentâs brother Dick. He would -spend hours opening and shutting the front door, peeping through the windows, arranging -and rearranging the furniture. As for Millicent, the gorgeous present left her cold. She -had been hopingâand, what is more, praying, fervently, every night for a monthâthat Aunty -Loo would give her a toy sewing-machine (one of the kind that works, though) for her -birthday.</p> - -<p>She was bitterly disappointed when the dollâs house came instead. But she bore it all -stoically and managed to be wonderfully polite to Aunty Loo about the whole affair. She -never looked at the dollâs house: it simply didnât interest her.</p> - -<p>Dick had already been at a preparatory school for a couple of terms. Mr. Killigrew, the -headmaster, thought him a promising boy. âHas quite a remarkable aptitude for -mathematics,â he wrote in his report. âHe has started Algebra <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-3">[Pg 3]</a></span>this term and shows aâââquite remarkableâ -scratched out (the language of reports is apt to be somewhat limited)ââa very unusual -grasp of the subject.â Mr. Killigrew didnât know that his pupil also took an interest in -dolls: if he had, he would have gibed at Dick as unmercifully and in nearly the same terms -as Dickâs fellow-schoolboysâfor shepherds grow to resemble their sheep and pedagogues -their childish charges. But of course Dick would never have dreamt of telling anyone at -school about it. He was chary of letting even the people at home divine his weakness, and -when anyone came into the room where the dollâs house was, he would put his hands in his -pockets and stroll out, whistling the tune of, âThere is a Happy Land far, far away, where -they have Ham and Eggs seven times a day,â as though he had merely stepped in to have a -look at the beastly thingâjust to give it a kick.</p> - -<p>When he wasnât playing with the dollâs house, Dick spent his holiday time in reading, -largely, devouringly. No length or incomprehensibility could put him off; he had swallowed -down <i>Robert Elsmere</i> in <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-4">[Pg -4]</a></span>the three-volume edition at the age of eight. When he wasnât reading he used -to sit and think about Things in General and Nothing in Particular; in fact, as Millicent -reproachfully put it, he just mooned about. Millicent, on the other hand, was always -busily doing something: weeding in the garden, or hoeing, or fruit-picking (she could be -trusted not to eat more than the recognized tariffâone in twenty raspberries or one in -forty plums); helping Kate in the kitchen; knitting mufflers for those beings known -vaguely as The Cripples, while her mother read aloud in the evenings before bedtime. She -disapproved of Dickâs mooning, but Dick mooned all the same.</p> - -<p>When Dick was twelve and a half he knew enough about mathematics and history and the -dead languages to realize that his dear parents were profoundly ignorant and uncultured. -But, what was more pleasing to the dear parents, he knew enough to win a scholarship at -Ăsop College, which is one of our Greatest Public Schools.</p> - -<p>If this were a Public School story, I should record the fact that, while at <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-5">[Pg 5]</a></span>Ăsop, Dick swore, lied, -blasphemed, repeated dirty stories, read the articles in <i>John Bull</i> about brothels -disguised as nursing-homes and satyrs disguised as curates; that he regarded his masters, -with very few exceptions, as fools, not even always well-meaning. And so on. All which -would be quite true, but beside the point. For this is not one of the conventional studies -of those clever young men who discover Atheism and Art at School, Socialism at the -University, and, passing through the inevitable stage of Sex and Syphilis after taking -their B.A., turn into maturely brilliant novelists at the age of twenty-five. I prefer, -therefore, to pass over the minor incidents of a difficult pubescence, touching only on -those points which seem to throw a light on the future career of our hero.</p> - -<p>It is possible for those who desire itâincredible as the thing may appearâto learn -something at Ăsop College. Dick even learnt a great deal. From the beginning he was the -young Benjamin of his mathematical tutor, Mr. Skewbauld, a man of great abilities in his -own art, and who, though wholly incapable of keeping <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-6">[Pg 6]</a></span>a form in order, could make his private -tuition a source of much profit to a mathematically minded boy. Mr. Skewbauldâs house was -the worst in Ăsop: Dick described it as a mixture between a ghetto and a home for the -mentally deficient, and when he read in Sir Thomas Browne that it was a Vulgar Error to -suppose that Jews stink, he wrote a letter to the <i>School Magazine</i> exploding that -famous doctor as a quack and a charlatan, whose statements ran counter to the manifest -facts of everyday life in Mr. Skewbauldâs house. It may seem surprising that Dick should -have read Sir Thomas Browne at all. But he was more than a mere mathematician. He filled -the ample leisure, which is Ăsopâs most precious gift to those of its Alumni who know how -to use it, with much and varied reading in history, in literature, in physical science, -and in more than one foreign language. Dick was something of a prodigy.</p> - -<p>âGreenowâs an intellectual,â was Mr. Copthorne-Slazengerâs contemptuous verdict. âI -have the misfortune to have two or three intellectuals in my house. <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-7">[Pg 7]</a></span>Theyâre all of them -friends of his. I think heâs a Bad Influence in the School.â Copthorne-Slazenger regarded -himself as the perfect example of <i>mens sana in corpore sano</i>, the soul of an English -gentleman in the body of a Greek god. Unfortunately his legs were rather too short and his -lower lip was underhung like a salmonâs.</p> - -<p>Dick had, indeed, collected about him a band of kindred spirits. There was Partington, -who specialized in history; Gay, who had read all the classical writings of the golden age -and was engaged in the study of mediĂŚval Latin; Fletton, who was fantastically clever and -had brought the art of being idle to a pitch never previously reached in the annals of -Ăsop. These were his chief friends, and a queer-looking group they madeâDick, small and -dark and nervous; Partington, all roundness, and whose spectacles were two moons in a -moonface; Gay, with the stiff walk of a little old man; and Fletton, who looked like -nobody so much as Mr. Jingle, tall and thin with a twisted, comical face.</p> - -<p>âAn ugly skulking crew,â Copthorne-Slazenger, <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-8">[Pg 8]</a></span>conscious of his own Olympian splendour, would say as he saw -them pass.</p> - -<p>With these faithful friends Dick should have beenâand indeed for the most part wasâvery -happy. Between them they mustered up a great stock of knowledge; they could discuss every -subject under the sun. They were a liberal education and an amusement to one another. -There were times, however, when Dick was filled with a vague, but acute, discontent. He -wanted something which his friends could not give him; but what, but what? The discontent -rankled under the surface, like a suppressed measles. It was Lord Francis Quarles who -brought it out and made the symptoms manifest.</p> - -<p>Francis Quarles was a superb creature, with the curly forehead of a bull and the face -and limbs of a GrĂŚco-Roman statue. It was a sight worth seeing when he looked down through -half-shut eyelids, in his usual attitude of sleepy arrogance, on the world about him. He -was in effect what Mr. Copthorne-Slazenger imagined himself to be, and he shared that -gentlemanâs dislike for Dick and his <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-9">[Pg 9]</a></span>friends. âYellow little atheists,â he called them. He always -stood up for God and the Church of England; they were essential adjuncts to the -aristocracy. God, indeed, was almost a member of the Family; lack of belief in Him -amounted to a personal insult to the name of Quarles.</p> - -<p>It was half-way through the summer term, when Dick was sixteen, on one of those days of -brilliant sunshine and cloudless blue, when the sight of beautiful and ancient buildings -is peculiarly poignant. Their age and quiet stand out in melancholy contrast against the -radiant life of the summer; and at Ăsop the boys go laughing under their antique shadow; -âLittle victimsââyou feel how right Gray was. Dick was idly strolling across the -quadrangle, engaged in merely observing the beauty about himâthe golden-grey chapel, with -its deep geometrical shadows between the buttresses, the comely rose-coloured shapes of -the brick-built Tudor buildings, the weathercocks glittering in the sun, the wheeling -flurries of pigeons. His old discontent had seized on him again, and to-day in <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-10">[Pg 10]</a></span>the presence of all this -beauty it had become almost unbearable. All at once, out of the mouth of one of the dark -little tunnelled doors pierced in the flanks of the sleeping building, a figure emerged -into the light. It was Francis Quarles, clad in white flannels and the radiance of the -sunshine. He appeared like a revelation, bright, beautiful, and sudden, before Dickâs -eyes. A violent emotion seized him; his heart leapt, his bowels were moved within him; he -felt a little sick and faintâhe had fallen in love.</p> - -<p>Francis passed by without deigning to notice him. His head was high, his eyes drowsy -under their drooping lids. He was gone, and for Dick all the light was out, the beloved -quadrangle was a prison-yard, the pigeons a loathsome flock of carrion eaters. Gay and -Partington came up behind him with shouts of invitation. Dick walked rudely away. God! how -he hated them and their wretched, silly talk and their yellow, ugly faces.</p> - -<p>The weeks that followed were full of strangeness. For the first time in his <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-11">[Pg 11]</a></span>life Dick took to -writing poetry. There was one sonnet which began:</p> - -<table class="poem" border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="Poem on page 11"> -<tr> -<td class="tdl_poem" colspan="3">Is it a vision or a waking dream?</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdl_poem" colspan="3">Or is it truly Apollo that I see,</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdl_poem" colspan="3">Come from his sylvan haunts in Arcady</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdl_poem" rowspan="2">To</td> - -<td class="brace_2_lines" rowspan="2">{</td> - -<td class="tdl_poem">laugh and loiter</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdl_poem">sing and saunter by an English stream. . . .</td> -</tr> -</table> - -<p class="noindent">He kept on repeating the words to himself, âSylvan haunts in Arcady,â -âlaugh and loiterâ (after much thought he had adopted that as more liquidly melodious than -âsing and saunterâ). How beautiful they sounded!âas beautiful as Keatsâmore beautiful, for -they were his own.</p> - -<p>He avoided the company of Gay and Fletton and Partington; they had become odious to -him, and their conversation, when he could bring himself to listen to it, was, somehow, -almost incomprehensible. He would sit for hours alone in his study; not workingâfor he -could not understand the mathematical problems on which he had been engaged before the -fateful day in the quadrangleâbut reading novels and the poetry of Mrs. Browning, and at -intervals <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-12">[Pg 12]</a></span>writing -something rather ecstatic of his own. After a long preparatory screwing up of his courage, -he dared at last to send a fag with a note to Francis, asking him to tea; and when Francis -rather frigidly refused, he actually burst into tears. He had not cried like that since he -was a child.</p> - -<p>He became suddenly very religious. He would spend an hour on his knees every night, -praying, praying with frenzy. He mortified the flesh with fasting and watching. He even -went so far as to flagellate himselfâor at least tried to; for it is very difficult to -flagellate yourself adequately with a cane in a room so small that any violent gesture -imperils the bric-Ă -brac. He would pass half the night stark naked, in absurd postures, -trying to hurt himself. And then, after the dolorously pleasant process of self-maceration -was over, he used to lean out of the window and listen to the murmurs of the night and -fill his spirit with the warm velvet darkness of midsummer. Copthorne-Slazenger, coming -back by the late train from town one night, happened to see his moon-pale face hanging -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-13">[Pg 13]</a></span>out of window and -was delighted to be able to give him two hundred Greek lines to remind him that even a -member of the Sixth Form requires sleep sometimes.</p> - -<p>The fit lasted three weeks. âI canât think whatâs the matter with you, Greenow,â -complained Mr. Skewbauld snufflingly. âYou seem incapable or unwilling to do anything at -all. I suspect the cause is constipation. If only everyone would take a little paraffin -every night before going to bed! . . .â Mr. Skewbauldâs self-imposed mission in -life was the propagation of the paraffin habit. It was the universal panaceaâthe cure for -every ill.</p> - -<p>His friends of before the crisis shook their heads and could only suppose him mad. And -then the fit ended as suddenly as it had begun.</p> - -<p>It happened at a dinner-party given by the Cravisters. Dr. Cravister was the Headmaster -of Ăsopâa good, gentle, learned old man, with snow-white hair and a saintly face which the -spirit of comic irony had embellished with a nose that might, so red and bulbous it was, -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-14">[Pg 14]</a></span>have been borrowed -from the properties of a music-hall funny man. And then there was Mrs. Cravister, large -and stately as a galleon with all sails set. Those who met her for the first time might be -awed by the dignity of what an Elizabethan would have called her âswelling port.â But -those who knew her well went in terror of the fantastic spirit which lurked behind the -outward majesty. They were afraid of what that richly modulated voice of hers might utter. -It was not merely that she was maliciousâand she had a gift of ever-ready irony; no, what -was alarming in all her conversation was the element of the unexpected. With most people -one feels comfortably secure that they will always say the obvious and ordinary things; -with Mrs. Cravister, never. The best one could do was to be on guard and to try and look, -when she made a more than usually characteristic remark, less of a bewildered fool than -one felt.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Cravister received her guestsâthey were all of them boysâwith stately courtesy. -They found it pleasant to be taken so seriously, to be treated as <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-15">[Pg 15]</a></span>perfectly grown men; but at the same time, -they always had with Mrs. Cravister a faint uncomfortable suspicion that all her -politeness was an irony so exquisite as to be practically undistinguishable from -ingenuousness.</p> - -<p>âGood evening, Mr. Gay,â she said, holding out her hand and shutting her eyes; it was -one of her disconcerting habits, this shutting of the eyes. âWhat a pleasure it will be to -hear you talking to us again about eschatology.â</p> - -<p>Gay, who had never talked about eschatology and did not know the meaning of the word, -smiled a little dimly and made a protesting noise.</p> - -<p>âEschatology? What a charming subject!â The fluty voice belonged to Henry Cravister, -the Headmasterâs son, a man of about forty who worked in the British Museum. He was almost -too cultured, too erudite.</p> - -<p>âBut I donât know anything about it,â said Gay desperately.</p> - -<p>âSpare us your modesty,â Henry Cravister protested.</p> - -<p>His mother shook hands with the other guests, putting some at their ease with a <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-16">[Pg 16]</a></span>charming phrase and -embarrassing others by saying something baffling and unexpected that would have dismayed -even the hardiest diner-out, much more a schoolboy tremblingly on his good behaviour. At -the tail end of the group of boys stood Dick and Francis Quarles. Mrs. Cravister slowly -raised her heavy waxen eyelids and regarded them a moment in silence.</p> - -<p>âThe GrĂŚco-Roman and the Gothic side by side!â she exclaimed. âLord Francis is -something in the Vatican, a rather late piece of work; and Mr. Greenow is a little -gargoyle from the roof of Notre Dame de Paris. Two epochs of artâhow clearly one sees the -difference. And my husband, I always think, is purely Malayan in designâpurely Malayan,â -she repeated as she shook hands with the two boys.</p> - -<p>Dick blushed to the roots of his hair, but Francisâ impassive arrogance remained -unmoved. Dick stole a glance in his direction, and at the sight of his calm face he felt a -new wave of adoring admiration sweeping through him.</p> - -<p>The company was assembled and complete, Mrs. Cravister looked round the <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-17">[Pg 17]</a></span>room and remarking, âWe -wonât wait for Mr. Copthorne-Slazenger,â sailed majestically in the direction of the door. -She particularly disliked this member of her husbandâs staff, and lost no opportunity of -being rude to him. Thus, where an ordinary hostess might have said, âShall we come in to -dinner?â Mrs. Cravister employed the formula, âWe wonât wait for Mr. Copthorne-Slazengerâ; -and a guest unacquainted with Mrs. Cravisterâs habits would be surprised on entering the -dining-room to find that all the seats at the table were filled, and that the meal -proceeded smoothly without a single further reference to the missing Copthorne, who never -turned up at all, for the good reason that he had never been invited.</p> - -<p>Dinner began a little nervously and uncomfortably. At one end of the table the -Headmaster was telling anecdotes of Ăsop in the sixties, at which the boys in his -neighbourhood laughed with a violent nervous insincerity. Henry Cravister, still talking -about eschatology, was quoting from Sidonius Apollinarius and Commodianus of Gaza. Mrs. -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-18">[Pg 18]</a></span>Cravister, who had -been engaged in a long colloquy with the butler, suddenly turned on Dick with the remark, -âAnd so you have a deep, passionate fondness for cats,â as though they had been intimately -discussing the subject for the last hour. Dick had enough presence of mind to say that, -yes, he did like catsâall except those Manx ones that had no tails.</p> - -<p>âNo tails,â Mrs. Cravister repeatedââno tails. Like men. How symbolical everything -is!â</p> - -<p>Francis Quarles was sitting opposite him, so that Dick had ample opportunity to look at -his idol. How perfectly he did everything, down to eating his soup! The first lines of a -new poem began to buzz in Dickâs head:</p> - -<blockquote class="verse"> -<p class="i1">âAll, all I lay at thy proud marble feetâ</p> - -<p class="i1a">My heart, my love and all my future days.</p> - -<p class="i1a">Upon thy brow for ever let me gaze,</p> - -<p class="i1a">For ever touch thy hair: oh (something) sweet . . .â</p> -</blockquote> - -<p class="noindent">Would he be able to find enough rhymes to make it into a sonnet? Mrs. -Cravister, who had been leaning back in her chair for the last few minutes in a <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-19">[Pg 19]</a></span>state of exhausted -abstraction, opened her eyes and said to nobody in particular:</p> - -<p>âAh, how I envy the calm of those Chinese dynasties!â</p> - -<p>âWhich Chinese dynasties?â a well-meaning youth inquired.</p> - -<p>âAny Chinese dynasty, the more remote the better. Henry, tell us the names of some -Chinese dynasties.â</p> - -<p>In obedience to his mother, Henry delivered a brief disquisition on the history of -politics, art, and letters in the Far East.</p> - -<p>The Headmaster continued his reminiscences.</p> - -<p>An angel of silence passed. The boys, whose shyness had begun to wear off, became -suddenly and painfully conscious of hearing themselves eating. Mrs. Cravister saved the -situation.</p> - -<p>âLord Francis knows all about birds,â she said in her most thrilling voice. âPerhaps he -can tell us why it is the unhappy fate of the carrion crow to mate for life.â</p> - -<p>Conversation again became general. Dick was still thinking about his sonnet. Oh, these -rhymes!âpraise, bays, roundelays, <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-20">[Pg 20]</a></span>amaze: greet, bleat, defeat, beat, paraclete. -. . .</p> - -<blockquote class="verse"> -<p class="i1">â. . . to sing the praise</p> - -<p class="i1a">In anthems high and solemn roundelays</p> - -<p class="i1a">Of Holy Father, Son and Paraclete.â</p> -</blockquote> - -<p class="noindent">That was goodâdamned good; but it hardly seemed to fit in with the -first quatrain. It would do for one of his religious poems, though. He had written a lot -of sacred verse lately.</p> - -<p>Then suddenly, cutting across his ecstatic thoughts, came the sound of Henry -Cravisterâs reedy voice.</p> - -<p>âBut I always find Paterâs style so <i>coarse</i>,â it said.</p> - -<p>Something explosive took place in Dickâs head. It often happens when one blows oneâs -nose that some passage in the labyrinth connecting ears and nose and throat is momentarily -blocked, and one becomes deaf and strangely dizzy. Then, suddenly, the mucous bubble -bursts, sound rushes back to the brain, the head feels clear and stable once more. It was -something like this, but transposed into terms of the spirit, that seemed now to have -happened to Dick.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-21">[Pg 21]</a></span></p> - -<p>It was as though some mysterious obstruction in his brain, which had dammed up and -diverted his faculties from their normal course during the past three weeks, had been on a -sudden overthrown. His life seemed to be flowing once more along familiar channels.</p> - -<p>He was himself again.</p> - -<p>âBut I always find Paterâs style so <i>coarse</i>.â</p> - -<p>These few words of solemn foolery were the spell which had somehow performed the -miracle. It was just the sort of remark he might have made three weeks ago, before the -crisis. For a moment, indeed, he almost thought it was he himself who had spoken; his own -authentic voice, carried across the separating gulf of days, had woken him again to -life!</p> - -<p>He looked at Francis Quarles. Why, the fellow was nothing but a great prize ox, a -monstrous animal. âThere was a Lady loved a Swine. Honey, said she . . .â It was -ignoble, it was ridiculous. He could have hidden his face in his hands for pure shame; -shame tingled through his body. Goodness, how grotesquely he had behaved!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-22">[Pg 22]</a></span></p> - -<p>He leaned across and began talking to Henry Cravister about Pater and style and books -in general. Cravister was amazed at the maturity of the boyâs mind; for he possessed to a -remarkable degree that critical faculty which in the vast majority of boys isâand from -their lack of experience must beâwholly lacking.</p> - -<p>âYou must come and see me some time when youâre in London,â Henry Cravister said to him -when the time came for the boys to get back to their houses. Dick was flattered; he had -not said that to any of the others. He walked home with Gay, laughing and talking quite in -his old fashion. Gay marvelled at the change in his companion; strange, inexplicable -fellow! but it was pleasant to have him back again, to repossess the lost friend. Arrived -in his room, Dick sat down to attack the last set of mathematical problems that had been -set him. Three hours ago they had appeared utterly incomprehensible; now he understood -them perfectly. His mind was like a giant refreshed, delighting in its strength.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-23">[Pg 23]</a></span></p> - -<p>Next day Mr. Skewbauld congratulated him on his answers.</p> - -<p>âYou seem quite to have recovered your old form, Greenow,â he said. âDid you take my -advice? Paraffin regularly . . .â</p> - -<p>Looking back on the events of the last weeks, Dick was disquieted. Mr. Skewbauld might -be wrong in recommending paraffin, but he was surely right in supposing that something was -the matter and required a remedy. What could it be? He felt so well; but that, of course, -proved nothing. He began doing MĂźllerâs exercises, and he bought a jar of malt extract and -a bottle of hypophosphites. After much consultation of medical handbooks and the -encyclopĂŚdia, he came to the conclusion that he was suffering from anĂŚmia of the brain; -and for some time one fixed idea haunted him: Suppose the blood completely ceased to flow -to his brain, suppose he were to fall down suddenly dead or, worse, become utterly and -hopelessly paralysed. . . . Happily the distractions of Ăsop in the summer term -were sufficiently numerous and delightful to <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-24">[Pg 24]</a></span>divert his mind from this gloomy brooding, and he felt so -well and in such high spirits that it was impossible to go on seriously believing that he -was at deathâs door. Still, whenever he thought of the events of those strange weeks he -was troubled. He did not like being confronted by problems which he could not solve. -During the rest of his stay at school he was troubled by no more than the merest -velleities of a relapse. A fit of moon-gazing and incapacity to understand the higher -mathematics had threatened him one time when he was working rather too strenuously for a -scholarship. But a couple of daysâ complete rest had staved off the peril. There had been -rather a painful scene, too, at Dickâs last School Concert. Oh, those Ăsop concerts! -Musically speaking, of course, they are deplorable; but how rich from all other points of -view than the merely ĂŚsthetic! The supreme moment arrives at the very end when three of -the most eminent and popular of those about to leave mount the platform together and sing -the famous âĂsop, Farewell.â Greatest of school <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-25">[Pg 25]</a></span>songs! The words are not much, but the tune, which goes -swooning along in three-four time, is perhaps the masterpiece of the late organist, Dr. -Pilch.</p> - -<p>Dick was leaving, but he was not a sufficiently heroic figure to have been asked to -sing, âĂsop, Farewell.â He was simply a member of the audience, and one, moreover, who had -come to the concert in a critical and mocking spirit. For, as he had an ear for music, it -was impossible for him to take the concert very seriously. The choir had clamorously -re-crucified the Messiah; the soloists had all done their worst; and now it was time for -âĂsop, Farewell.â The heroes climbed on to the stage. They were three demi-gods, but -Francis Quarles was the most splendid of the group as he stood there with head thrown -back, eyes almost closed, calm and apparently unconscious of the crowd that seethed, -actually and metaphorically, beneath him. He was wearing an enormous pink orchid in the -buttonhole of his evening coat; his shirt-front twinkled with diamond studs; the buttons -of his waistcoat were of fine <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-26">[Pg -26]</a></span>gold. At the sight of him, Dick felt his heart beating violently; he was -not, he painfully realized, master of himself.</p> - -<p>The music struck upâDum, dum, dumdidi, dumdidi; dum, dum, dum, and so on. So like the -<i>Merry Widow.</i> In two daysâ time he would have left Ăsop for ever. The prospect had -never affected him very intensely. He had enjoyed himself at school, but he had never, -like so many Ăsopians, fallen in love with the place. It remained for him an institution; -for others it was almost an adored person. But to-night his spirit, rocked on a treacly -ocean of dominant sevenths, succumbed utterly to the sweet sorrow of parting. And there on -the platform stood Francis. Oh, how radiantly beautiful! And when he began, in his rich -tenor, the first verse of the Valedictory:</p> - -<blockquote class="verse"> -<p class="i2">âFarewell, Mother Ăsop,</p> - -<p class="i3a">Our childhoodâs home!</p> - -<p class="i2a">Our spirit is with thee,</p> - -<p class="i3a">Though far we roam . . .â</p> -</blockquote> - -<p class="noindent">he found himself hysterically sobbing.</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-27">[Pg 27]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Farcical_02">II</h4> - -<p class="noindent">C<small>ANTELOUP</small> C<small>OLLEGE</small> is perhaps the most -frightful building in Oxfordâand to those who know their Oxford well this will mean not a -little. Up till the middle of last century Canteloup possessed two quadrangles of -fifteenth-century buildings, unimpressive and petty, like so much of College architecture, -but at least quiet, unassuming, decent. After the accession of Victoria the College began -to grow in numbers, wealth, and pride. The old buildings were too small and unpretentious -for what had now become a Great College. In the summer of 1867 a great madness fell upon -the Master and Fellows. They hired a most distinguished architect, bred up in the school -of Ruskin, who incontinently razed all the existing buildings to the ground and erected in -their stead a vast pile in the approved Mauro-Venetian Gothic of the period. The New -Buildings contained a great number of rooms, each served by a separate and almost -perpendicular staircase; and if nearly<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-28"> [Pg 28]</a></span>half of them were so -dark as to make it necessary to light them artificially for all but three hours out of the -twenty-four, this slight defect was wholly outweighed by the striking beauty, from -outside, of the Neo-Byzantine loopholes by which they were, euphemistically, -âlighted.â</p> - -<p>Prospects in Canteloup may not please; but man, on the other hand, tends to be less -vile there than in many other places. There is an equal profusion at Canteloup of Firsts -and Blues; there are Union orators of every shade of opinion and young men so languidly -well bred as to take no interest in politics of any kind; there are drinkers of cocoa and -drinkers of champagne. Canteloup is a microcosm, a whole world in miniature; and whatever -your temperament and habits may be, whether you wish to drink, or row, or work, or hunt, -Canteloup will provide you with congenial companions and a spiritual home.</p> - -<p>Lack of athletic distinction had prevented Dick from being, at Ăsop, a hero or anything -like one. At Canteloup, in a less barbarically ordered state of society, things were -different. His rooms in the <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-29">[Pg -29]</a></span>Venetian gazebo over the North Gate became the meeting-place of all that was -most intellectually distinguished in Canteloup and the University at large. He had had his -sitting-room austerely upholstered and papered in grey. A large white Chinese figure of -the best period stood pedestalled in one corner, and on the walls there hung a few -uncompromisingly good drawings and lithographs by modern artists. Fletton, who had -accompanied Dick from Ăsop to Canteloup, called it the âcerebral chamberâ; and with its -prevailing tone of brain-coloured grey and the rather dry intellectual taste of its -decorations it deserved the name.</p> - -<p>To-night the cerebral chamber had been crammed. The Canteloup branch of the Fabian -Society, under Dickâs presidency, had been holding a meeting. âArt in the Socialist Stateâ -was what they had been discussing. And now the meeting had broken up, leaving nothing but -three empty jugs that had once contained mulled claret and a general air of untidiness to -testify to its having taken place at all. Dick stood leaning an elbow on the mantelpiece -and absent-mindedly <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-30">[Pg -30]</a></span>kicking, to the great detriment of his pumps, at the expiring red embers in -the grate. From the depths of a huge and cavernous arm-chair, Fletton, pipe in mouth, -fumed like a sleepy volcano.</p> - -<p>âI liked the way, Dick,â he said, with a laughââthe way you went for the Arty-Crafties. -You utterly destroyed them.â</p> - -<p>âI merely pointed out, what is sufficiently obvious, that crafts are not art, nor -anything like it, thatâs all.â Dick snapped out the words. He was nervous and excited, and -his body felt as though it were full of compressed springs ready to jump at the most -imponderable touch. He was always like that after making a speech.</p> - -<p>âYou did it very effectively,â said Fletton. There was a silence between the two young -men.</p> - -<p>A noise like the throaty yelling of savages in rut came wafting up from the quadrangle -on which the windows of the cerebral chamber opened. Dick started; all the springs within -him had gone off at onceâa thousand simultaneous Jack-in-the-boxes.</p> - -<p>âItâs only Francis Quarlesâ dinner-party <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-31">[Pg 31]</a></span>becoming vocal,â Fletton explained. âBlind mouths, as -Milton would call them.â</p> - -<p>Dick began restlessly pacing up and down the room. When Fletton spoke to him, he did -not reply or, at best, gave utterance to a monosyllable or a grunt.</p> - -<p>âMy dear Dick,â said the other at last, âyouâre not very good company to-night,â and -heaving himself up from the arm-chair, Fletton went shuffling in his loose, heelless -slippers towards the door. âIâm going to bed.â</p> - -<p>Dick paused in his lion-like prowling to listen to the receding sound of feet on the -stairs. All was silent now: Gott sei dank. He went into his bedroom. It was there that he -kept his piano, for it was a piece of furniture too smugly black and polished to have a -place in the cerebral chamber. He had been thirsting after his piano all the time Fletton -was sitting there, damn him! He drew up a chair and began to play over and over a certain -series of chords. With his left hand he struck an octave G in the base, while his right -dwelt lovingly on F, B, and E. A luscious chord, beloved by Mendelssohnâa chord in which -the native <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-32">[Pg -32]</a></span>richness of the dominant seventh is made more rich, more piercing sweet by -the addition of a divine discord. G, F, B, and Eâhe let the notes hang tremulously on the -silence, savoured to the full their angelic overtones; then, when the sound of the chord -had almost died away, he let it droop reluctantly through D to the simple, triumphal -beauty of C naturalâthe diapason closing full in what was for Dick a wholly ineffable -emotion.</p> - -<p>He repeated that dying fall again and again, perhaps twenty times. Then, when he was -satiated with its deliciousness, he rose from the piano and opening the lowest drawer of -the wardrobe pulled out from under his evening clothes a large portfolio. He undid the -strings; it was full of photogravure reproductions from various Old Masters. There was an -almost complete set of Greuzeâs works, several of the most striking Ary Scheffers, some -Alma Tadema, some Leighton, photographs of sculpture by Torwaldsen and Canova, Boecklinâs -âIsland of the Dead,â religious pieces by Holman Hunt, and a large packet of miscellaneous -pictures from the Paris Salons of the last forty years. <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-33">[Pg 33]</a></span>He took them into the cerebral chamber -where the light was better, and began to study them, lovingly, one by one. The CĂŠzanne -lithograph, the three admirable etchings by Van Gogh, the little Picasso looked on, -unmoved, from the walls.</p> - -<p>It was three oâclock before Dick got to bed. He was stiff and cold, but full of the -satisfaction of having accomplished something. And, indeed, he had cause to be satisfied; -for he had written the first four thousand words of a novel, a chapter and a half of -<i>Heartsease Fitzroy: the Story of a Young Girl</i>.</p> - -<p>Next morning Dick looked at what he had written overnight, and was alarmed. He had -never produced anything quite like this since the days of the Quarles incident at Ăsop. A -relapse? He wondered. Not a serious one in any case; for this morning he felt himself in -full possession of all his ordinary faculties. He must have got overtired speaking to the -Fabians in the evening. He looked at his manuscript again, and read: ââDaddy, do the -little girl angels in heaven have toys and kittens and teddy-bears?â</p> - -<p>ââI donât know,â said Sir Christopher <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-34">[Pg 34]</a></span>gently. âWhy does my little one ask?â</p> - -<p>ââBecause, daddy,â said the childââbecause I think that soon I too may be a little -angel, and I should so like to have my teddy-bear with me in heaven.â</p> - -<p>âSir Christopher clasped her to his breast. How frail she was, how ethereal, how nearly -an angel already! Would she have her teddy-bear in heaven? The childish question rang in -his ears. Great, strong man though he was, he was weeping. His tears fell in a rain upon -her auburn curls.</p> - -<p>ââTell me, daddy,â she insisted, âwill dearest God allow me my teddy-bear?â</p> - -<p>ââMy child,â he sobbed, âmy child . . .ââ</p> - -<p>The blushes mounted hot to his cheeks; he turned away his head in horror. He would -really have to look after himself for a bit, go to bed early, take exercise, not do much -work. This sort of thing couldnât be allowed to go on.</p> - -<p>He went to bed at half-past nine that night, and woke up the following morning to find -that he had added a dozen or more closely written pages to his original <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-35">[Pg 35]</a></span>manuscript during the -night. He supposed he must have written them in his sleep. It was all very disquieting. -The days passed by; every morning a fresh instalment was added to the rapidly growing bulk -of <i>Heartsease Fitzroy</i>. It was as though some goblin, some Lob-lie-by-the-Fire, came -each night to perform the appointed task, vanishing before the morning. In a little while -Dickâs alarm wore off; during the day he was perfectly well; his mind functioned with -marvellous efficiency. It really didnât seem to matter what he did in his sleep provided -he was all right in his waking hours. He almost forgot about <i>Heartsease</i>, and was -only reminded of her existence when by chance he opened the drawer in which the steadily -growing pile of manuscript reposed.</p> - -<p>In five weeks <i>Heartsease Fitzroy</i> was finished. Dick made a parcel of the -manuscript and sent it to a literary agent. He had no hopes of any publisher taking the -thing; but he was in sore straits for money at the moment, and it seemed worth trying, on -the off-chance. A fortnight later Dick received a letter<span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-36">[Pg 36]</a></span> beginning: âD<small>EAR</small> -M<small>ADAM</small>,âPermit me to hail in you a new authoress of real talent. -<i>Heartsease Fitzroy</i> is G<small>REAT</small>,ââand signed âE<small>BOR</small> W. -S<small>IMS</small>, Editor, <i>Hildebrandâs Home Weekly</i>.â</p> - -<p>Details of the circulation of <i>Hildebrandâs Home Weekly</i> were printed at the head -of the paper; its average net sale was said to exceed three and a quarter millions. The -terms offered by Mr. Sims seemed to Dick positively fabulous. And there would be the -royalties on the thing in book form after the serial had run its course.</p> - -<p>The letter arrived at breakfast; Dick cancelled all engagements for the day and set out -immediately for a long and solitary walk. It was necessary to be alone, to think. He made -his way along the Seven Bridges Road, up Cumnor Hill, through the village, and down the -footpath to Bablock Hithe, thence to pursue the course of the âstripling Thamesââhaunted -at every step by the Scholar Gipsy, damn him! He drank beer and ate some bread and cheese -in a little inn by a bridge, farther up the river; and it was there, in the inn <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-37">[Pg 37]</a></span>parlour, surrounded by -engravings of the late Queen, and breathing the slightly mouldy preserved air bottled some -three centuries ago into that hermetically sealed chamberâit was there that he solved the -problem, perceived the strange truth about himself.</p> - -<p>He was a hermaphrodite.</p> - -<p>A hermaphrodite, not in the gross obvious sense, of course, but spiritually. Two -persons in one, male and female. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde: or rather a new William Sharp -and Fiona MacLeodâa more intelligent William, a vulgarer Fiona. Everything was explained; -the deplorable Quarles incident was simple and obvious now. A sentimental young lady of -literary tastes writing sonnets to her Ouida guardsman. And what an unerring flair Mr. -Sims had shown by addressing him so roundly and unhesitatingly as âmadamâ!</p> - -<p>Dick was elated at this discovery. He had an orderly mind that disliked mysteries. He -had been a puzzle to himself for a long time; now he was solved. He was not in the least -distressed to discover this abnormality in his character. <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-38">[Pg 38]</a></span>As long as the two parts of him kept well -apart, as long as his male self could understand mathematics, and as long as his lady -novelistâs self kept up her regular habit of writing at night and retiring from business -during the day, the arrangement would be admirable. The more he thought about it, the more -it seemed an ideal state of affairs. His life would arrange itself so easily and well. He -would devote the day to the disinterested pursuit of knowledge, to philosophy and -mathematics, with perhaps an occasional excursion into politics. After midnight he would -write novels with a feminine pen, earning the money that would make his unproductive male -labours possible. A kind of spiritual <i>souteneur</i>. But the fear of poverty need haunt -him no more; no need to become a wage-slave, to sacrifice his intelligence to the needs of -his belly. Like a gentleman of the East, he would sit still and smoke his philosophic pipe -while the womenfolk did the dirty work. Could anything be more satisfactory?</p> - -<p>He paid for his bread and beer, and walked home, whistling as he went.</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-39">[Pg 39]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Farcical_03">III</h4> - -<p class="noindent">T<small>WO</small> months later the first instalment of <i>Heartsease -Fitzroy: the Story of a Young Girl</i>, by Pearl Bellairs, appeared in the pages of -<i>Hildebrandâs Home Weekly</i>. Three and a quarter millions read and approved. When the -story appeared in book form, two hundred thousand copies were sold in six weeks; and in -the course of the next two years no less than sixteen thousand female infants in London -alone were christened Heartsease. With her fourth novel and her two hundred and fiftieth -Sunday paper article, Pearl Bellairs was well on her way to becoming a household word.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Dick was in receipt of an income far beyond the wildest dreams of his -avarice. He was able to realize the two great ambitions of his lifeâto wear silk -underclothing and to smoke good (but really good) cigars.</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-40">[Pg 40]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Farcical_04">IV</h4> - -<p class="noindent">D<small>ICK</small> went down from Canteloup in a blaze of glory. The -most brilliant man of his generation, exceptional mind, prospects, career. But his head -was not turned. When people congratulated him on his academic successes, he thanked them -politely and then invited them to come and see his Memento Mori. His Memento Mori was -called Mr. Glottenham and could be found at any hour of the day in the premises of the -Union, or if it was evening, in the Senior Common Room at Canteloup. He was an old member -of the College, and the dons in pity for his age and loneliness had made him, some years -before, a member of their Common Room. This act of charity was as bitterly regretted as -any generous impulse in the history of the world. Mr. Glottenham made the life of the -Canteloup fellows a burden to them; he dined in Hall with fiendish regularity, never -missing a night, and he was always the last to leave the Common Room. Mr. Glottenham did -not prepossess at a first glance; <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-41"> [Pg 41]</a></span>the furrows of his -face were covered with a short grey sordid stubble; his clothes were disgusting with the -spilth of many years of dirty feeding; he had the shoulders and long hanging arms of an -apeâan ape with a horribly human look about it. When he spoke, it was like the sound of a -man breaking coke; he spoke incessantly and on every subject. His knowledge was enormous; -but he possessed the secret of a strange inverted alchemyâhe knew how to turn the richest -gold to lead, could make the most interesting topic so intolerably tedious that it was -impossible, when he talked, not to loathe it.</p> - -<p>This was the deathâs-head to which Dick, like an ancient philosopher at a banquet, -would direct the attention of his heartiest congratulators. Mr. Glottenham had had the -most dazzling academic career of his generation. His tutors had prophesied for him a -future far more brilliant than that of any of his contemporaries. They were now Ministers -of State, poets, philosophers, judges, millionaires. Mr. Glottenham frequented the Union -and the Canteloup <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-42">[Pg -42]</a></span>Senior Common Room, and wasâwell, he was just Mr. Glottenham. Which was why -Dick did not think too highly of his own laurels.</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h4 id="Farcical_05">V</h4> - -<p class="noindent">âW<small>HAT</small> shall I do? what ought I to do?â Dick walked up -and down the room smoking, furiously and without at all savouring its richness, one of his -opulent cigars.</p> - -<p>âMy dear,â said Cravisterâfor it was in Cravisterâs high-ceilinged Bloomsbury room that -Dick was thus unveiling his distress of spiritââmy dear, this isnât a revival meeting. You -speak as though there were an urgent need for your soul to be saved from hell fire. Itâs -not as bad as that, you know.â</p> - -<p>âBut it <i>is</i> a revival meeting,â Dick shouted in exasperationââit is. Iâm a -revivalist. You donât know what itâs like to have a feeling about your soul. Iâm -terrifyingly earnest; you donât seem to understand that. I have all the feelings of Bunyan -without his religion. I regard the salvation of my soul as important. <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-43">[Pg 43]</a></span>How simple everything -would be if one could go out with those creatures in bonnets and sing hymns like, âHip, -hip for the blood of the Lamb, hurrah!â or that exquisite one:</p> - -<blockquote class="verse"> -<p class="i1">ââThe bells of Hell ring tingalingaling</p> - -<p class="i3">For you, but not for me.</p> - -<p class="i1b">For me the angels singalingaling;</p> - -<p class="i3">Theyâve got the goods for me.â</p> -</blockquote> - -<p class="noindent">Unhappily itâs impossible.â</p> - -<p>âYour ideas,â said Cravister in his flutiest voice, âare somewhat Gothic. I think I can -understand them, though of course I donât sympathize or approve. My advice to people in -doubt about what course of action they ought to pursue is always the same: do what you -want to.â</p> - -<p>âCravister, youâre hopeless,â said Dick, laughing. âI suppose I am rather Gothic, but I -do feel that the question of ought as well as of want does arise.â</p> - -<p>Dick had come to his old friend for advice about Life. What ought he to do? The -indefatigable pen of Pearl Bellairs solved for him the financial problem. There remained -only the moral problem: how could he best expend his energies and <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-44">[Pg 44]</a></span>his time? Should he devote himself to -knowing or doing, philosophy or politics? He felt in himself the desire to search for -truth and the abilityâwho knows?âto find it. On the other hand, the horrors of the world -about him seemed to call on him to put forth all his strength in an effort to ameliorate -what was so patently and repulsively bad. Actually, what had to be decided was this: -Should he devote himself to the researches necessary to carry out the plan, long ripening -in his brain, of a new system of scientific philosophy; or should he devote his powers and -Pearl Bellairsâ money in propaganda that should put life into the English revolutionary -movement? Great moral principles were in the balance. And Cravisterâs advice was, do what -you want to!</p> - -<p>After a month of painful indecision, Dick, who was a real Englishman, arrived at a -satisfactory compromise. He started work on his new Synthetic Philosophy, and at the same -time joined the staff of the <i>Weekly International</i>, to which he contributed both -money and articles. The weeks slipped pleasantly and profitably along. The secret of -happiness lies in <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-45">[Pg -45]</a></span>congenial work, and no one could have worked harder than Dick, unless it was -the indefatigable Pearl Bellairs, whose nightly output of five thousand words sufficed to -support not only Dick but the <i>Weekly International</i> as well. These months were -perhaps the happiest period of Dickâs life. He had friends, money, liberty; he knew -himself to be working well; and it was an extra, a supererogatory happiness that he began -at this time to get on much better with his sister Millicent than he had ever done before. -Millicent had come up to Oxford as a student at St. Mungo Hall in Dickâs third year. She -had grown into a very efficient and very intelligent young woman. A particularly handsome -young woman as well. She was boyishly slender, and a natural grace kept on breaking -through the somewhat rigid deportment, which she always tried to impose upon herself, in -little beautiful gestures and movements that made the onlooker catch his breath with -astonished pleasure.</p> - -<blockquote class="verse"> -<p class="i1">âWincing she was as is a jolly colt,</p> - -<p class="i1a">Straight as a mast and upright as a bolt:â</p> -</blockquote> - -<p class="noindent">Chaucer had as good an eye for youthful <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-46"> [Pg -46]</a></span>grace as for mormals and bristly nostrils and thick red jovial -villainousness.</p> - -<p>Millicent lost no time in making her presence at St. Mungoâs felt. Second- and -third-year heroines might snort at the forwardness of a mere fresh-girl, might resent the -complete absence of veneration for their glory exhibited by this youthful bejauna; -Millicent pursued her course unmoved. She founded new societies and put fresh life into -the institutions which already existed at St. Mungoâs to take cocoa and discuss the -problems of the universe. She played hockey like a tornado, and she worked alarmingly -hard. Decidedly, Millicent was a Force, very soon the biggest Force in the St. Mungo -world. In her fifth term she organized the famous St. Mungo general strike, which -compelled the authorities to relax a few of the more intolerably tyrannical and -anachronistic rules restricting the liberty of the students. It was she who went, on -behalf of the strikers, to interview the redoubtable Miss Prosser, Principal of St. -Mungoâs. The redoubtable Miss Prosser looked grim and invited her to sit down, Millicent -sat down and, without <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-47">[Pg -47]</a></span>quailing, delivered a short but pointed speech attacking the fundamental -principles of the St. Mungo system of discipline.</p> - -<p>âYour whole point of view,â she assured Miss Prosser, âis radically wrong. Itâs an -insult to the female sex; itâs positively obscene. Your root assumption is simply this: -that weâre all in a chronic state of sexual excitement; leave us alone for a moment and -weâll immediately put our desires into practice. Itâs disgusting. It makes me blush. After -all, Miss Prosser, we are a college of intelligent women, not an asylum of -nymphomaniacs.â</p> - -<p>For the first time in her career, Miss Prosser had to admit herself beaten. The -authorities gave inâreluctantly and on only a few points; but the principle had been -shaken, and that, as Millicent pointed out, was what really mattered.</p> - -<p>Dick used to see a good deal of his sister while he was still in residence at -Canteloup, and after he had gone down he used to come regularly once a fortnight during -term to visit her. That horrible mutual reserve, which poisons the social life of most -families and which <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-48">[Pg -48]</a></span>had effectively made of their brotherly and sisterly relation a prolonged -discomfort in the past, began to disappear. They became the best of friends.</p> - -<p>âI like you, Dick, a great deal better than I did,â said Millicent one day as they were -parting at the gate of St. Mungoâs after a long walk together.</p> - -<p>Dick took off his hat and bowed. âMy dear, I reciprocate the sentiment. And, whatâs -more, I esteem and admire you. So there.â</p> - -<p>Millicent curtsied, and they laughed. They both felt very happy.</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h4 id="Farcical_06">VI</h4> - -<p class="noindent">âW<small>HAT</small> a life!â said Dick, with a sigh of weariness as -the train moved out of Euston.</p> - -<p>Not a bad life, Millicent thought.</p> - -<p>âBut horribly fatiguing. I am quite outreined by it.â</p> - -<p>âOutreinedâ was Dickâs translation of <i>ĂŠreintĂŠ</i>. He liked using words of his own -manufacture; one had to learn his idiom before one could properly appreciate his intimate -conversation.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-49">[Pg 49]</a></span></p> - -<p>Dick had every justification for being outreined. The spring and summer had passed for -him in a whirl of incessant activity. He had written three long chapters of the <i>New -Synthetic Philosophy</i>, and had the material for two more ready in the form of notes. He -had helped to organize and bring to its successful conclusion the great carpentersâ strike -of May and June. He had written four pamphlets and a small army of political articles. And -this comprised only half his labour; for nightly, from twelve till two, Pearl Bellairs -emerged to compose the masterpieces which supplied Dick with his bread and butter. <i>Apes -in Purple</i> had been published in May. Since then she had finished <i>La Belle Dame sans -Morality</i>, and had embarked on the first chapters of <i>Daisyâs Voyage to Cythera</i>. -Her weekly articles, âFor the Girls of Britain,â had become, during this period, a regular -and favourite feature in the pages of <i>Hildebrandâs Sabbath</i>, that prince of Sunday -papers. At the beginning of July, Dick considered that he had earned a holiday, and now -they were off, he and Millicent, for the North.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-50">[Pg 50]</a></span></p> - -<p>Dick had taken a cottage on the shore of one of those long salt-water lochs that give -to the west coast of Scotland such a dissipated appearance on the map. For miles around -there was not a living soul who did not bear the name of Campbellâtwo families only -excepted, one of whom was called Murray-Drummond and the other Drummond-Murray. However, -it was not for the people that Dick and Millicent had come, so much as for the landscape, -which made up in variety for anything that the inhabitants might lack. Behind the cottage, -in the midst of a narrow strip of bog lying between the loch and the foot of the -mountains, stood one of the numerous tombs of Ossian, a great barrow of ancient stones. -And a couple of miles away the remains of Deirdreâs Scottish refuge bore witness to the -Celtic past. The countryside was dotted with the black skeletons of mediĂŚval castles. -Astonishing country, convulsed into fantastic mountain shapes, cut and indented by winding -fiords. On summer days the whole of this improbable landscape became blue and remote and -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-51">[Pg 51]</a></span>aerially -transparent. Its beauty lacked all verisimilitude. It was for that reason that Dick chose -the neighbourhood for his holidays. After the insistent actuality of London this frankly -unreal coast was particularly refreshing to a jaded spirit.</p> - -<p>âNous sommes ici en plein romantisme,â said Dick on the day of their arrival, making a -comprehensive gesture towards the dream-like scenery, and for the rest of his holiday he -acted the part of a young romantic of the palmy period. He sat at the foot of Ossianâs -tomb and read Lamartine; he declaimed Byron from the summit of the mountains and Shelley -as he rowed along the loch. In the evening he read George Sandâs <i>Indiana</i>; he -agonized with the pure, but passionate, heroine, while his admiration for Sir Brown, her -English lover, the impassive giant who never speaks and is always clothed in faultless -hunting costume, knew no bounds. He saturated himself in the verses of Victor Hugo, and at -last almost came to persuade himself that the words, <i>Dieu</i>, <i>infinitĂŠ</i>, -<i>eternitĂŠ</i>, with which the works of that deplorable genius are so profusely -sprinkled, actually <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-52">[Pg -52]</a></span>possessed some meaning, though what that meaning was he could not, even in -his most romantic transports, discover. Pearl Bellairs, of course, understood quite -clearly their significance, and though she was a very poor French scholar she used -sometimes to be moved almost to tears by the books she found lying about when she came -into existence after midnight. She even copied out extracts into her notebooks with a view -to using them in her next novel.</p> - -<blockquote class="verse"> -<p class="i0">âLes plus dĂŠsespĂŠrĂŠs sont les chants les plus beaux,</p> - -<p class="i0a">Et jâen sais dâimmortels qui sont de purs sanglots,â</p> -</blockquote> - -<p class="noindent">was a couplet which struck her as sublime.</p> - -<p>Millicent, meanwhile, did the housekeeping with extraordinary efficiency, took a great -deal of exercise, and read long, serious books; she humoured her brother in his holiday -romanticism, but refused to take part in the game.</p> - -<p>The declaration of war took them completely by surprise. It is true that a -<i>Scotsman</i> found its way into the cottage by about lunch-time every day, but it was -never read, and served only to light fires and wrap up fish and things of that <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-53">[Pg 53]</a></span>sort. No letters were -being forwarded, for they had left no address; they were isolated from the world. On the -fatal morning Dick had, indeed, glanced at the paper, without however noticing anything -out of the ordinary. It was only later when, alarmed by the rumours floating round the -village shop, he came to examine his <i>Scotsman</i> more closely, that he found about -half-way down the third column of one of the middle pages an admirable account of all that -had been so tragically happening in the last twenty-four hours; he learnt with horror that -Europe was at war and that; his country too had entered the arena. Even in the midst of -his anguish of spirit he could not help admiring the <i>Scotsmanâs</i> splendid -impassivityâno headlines, no ruffling of the traditional aristocratic dignity. Like Sir -Rodolphe Brown in <i>Indiana</i>, he thought, with a sickly smile.</p> - -<p>Dick determined to start for London at once. He felt that he must act, or at least -create the illusion of action; he could not stay quietly where he was. It was arranged -that he should set out that afternoon, while Millicent should follow <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-54">[Pg 54]</a></span>a day or two later with -the bulk of the luggage. The train which took him to Glasgow was slower than he thought it -possible for any train to be. He tried to read, he tried to sleep; it was no good. His -nervous agitation was pitiable; he made little involuntary movements with his limbs, and -every now and then the muscles of his face began twitching in a spasmodic and -uncontrollable tic. There were three hours to wait in Glasgow; he spent them in wandering -about the streets. In the interminable summer twilight the inhabitants of Glasgow came -forth into the open to amuse themselves; the sight almost made him sick. Was it possible -that there should be human beings so numerous and so uniformly hideous? Small, deformed, -sallow, they seemed malignantly ugly, as if on purpose. The words they spoke were -incomprehensible. He shuddered; it was an alien placeâit was hell.</p> - -<p>The London train was crammed. Three gross Italians got into Dickâs carriage, and after -they had drunk and eaten with loud, unpleasant gusto, they prepared themselves for sleep -by taking off their <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-55">[Pg -55]</a></span>boots. Their feet smelt strongly ammoniac, like a cage of mice long -uncleaned. Acutely awake, while the other occupants of the compartment enjoyed a happy -unconsciousness, he looked at the huddled carcasses that surrounded him. The warmth and -the smell of them was suffocating, and there came to his mind, with the nightmarish -insistence of a fixed idea, the thought that every breath they exhaled was saturated with -disease. To be condemned to sit in a hot bath of consumption and syphilisâit was too -horrible! The moment came at last when he could bear it no longer; he got up and went into -the corridor. Standing there, or sitting sometimes for a few dreary minutes in the -lavatory, he passed the rest of the night. The train roared along without a stop. The -roaring became articulate: in the days of his childhood trains used to run to the tune of -âLancashire, to Lancashire, to fetch a pocket-handkercher; to Lancashire, to Lancashire -. . .â But to-night the wheels were shouting insistently, a million times over, -two words onlyââthe War, the War; the War, the War.â He tried <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-56">[Pg 56]</a></span>desperately to make them say something -else, but they refused to recite Milton; they refused to go to Lancashire; they went on -with their endless Tibetan litanyâthe War, the War, the War.</p> - -<p>By the time he reached London, Dick was in a wretched state. His nerves were twittering -and jumping within him; he felt like a walking aviary. The tic in his face had become more -violent and persistent. As he stood in the station, waiting for a cab, he overheard a -small child saying to its mother, âWhatâs the matter with that manâs face, mother?â</p> - -<p>âShâsh, darling,â was the reply. âItâs rude.â</p> - -<p>Dick turned and saw the childâs big round eyes fixed with fascinated curiosity upon -him, as though he were a kind of monster. He put his hand to his forehead and tried to -stop the twitching of the muscles beneath the skin. It pained him to think that he had -become a scarecrow for children.</p> - -<p>Arrived at his flat, Dick drank a glass of brandy and lay down for a rest. He felt -exhaustedâill. At half-past one he got up, drank some more brandy, and crept <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-57">[Pg 57]</a></span>down into the street. It -was intensely hot; the pavements reverberated the sunlight in a glare which hurt his eyes; -they seemed to be in a state of grey incandescence. A nauseating smell of wetted dust rose -from the roadway, along which a water-cart was slowly piddling its way. He realized -suddenly that he ought not to have drunk all that brandy on an empty stomach; he was -definitely rather tipsy. He had arrived at that state of drunkenness when the senses -perceive things clearly, but do not transmit their knowledge to the understanding. He was -painfully conscious of this division, and it needed all the power of his will to establish -contact between his parted faculties. It was as though he were, by a great and prolonged -effort, keeping his brain pressed against the back of his eyes; as soon as he relaxed the -pressure, the understanding part slipped back, the contact was broken, and he relapsed -into a state bordering on imbecility. The actions which ordinarily one does by habit and -without thinking, he had to perform consciously and voluntarily. He had to reason out the -problem of walkingâfirst the left foot <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-58">[Pg 58]</a></span>forward, then the right. How ingeniously he worked his -ankles and knees and hips! How delicately the thighs slid past one another!</p> - -<p>He found a restaurant and sat there drinking coffee and trying to eat an omelette until -he felt quite sober. Then he drove to the offices of the <i>Weekly International</i> to -have a talk with Hyman, the editor. Hyman was sitting in his shirt-sleeves, writing.</p> - -<p>He lifted his head as Dick came in. âGreenow,â he shouted delightedly, âwe were all -wondering what had become of you. We thought youâd joined the Army.â</p> - -<p>Dick shook his head, but did not speak; the hot stuffy smell of printerâs ink and -machinery combined with the atrocious reek of Hymanâs Virginian cigarettes to make him -feel rather faint. He sat down on the window-ledge, so as to be able to breathe an -uncontaminated air.</p> - -<p>âWell,â he said at last, âwhat about it?â</p> - -<p>âItâs going to be hell.â</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-59">[Pg 59]</a></span></p> - -<p>âDid you suppose I thought it was going to be paradise?â Dick replied irritably. -âInternationalism looks rather funny now, doesnât it?â</p> - -<p>âI believe in it more than ever I did,â cried Hyman. His face lit up with the fervour -of his enthusiasm. It was a fine face, gaunt, furrowed, and angular, for all that he was -barely thirty, looking as though it had been boldly chiselled from some hard stone. âThe -rest of the world may go mad; weâll try and keep our sanity. The time will come when -theyâll see we were right.â</p> - -<p>Hyman talked on. His passionate sincerity and singleness of purpose were an inspiration -to Dick. He had always admired Hymanâwith the reservations, of course, that the man was -rather a fanatic and not so well-educated as he might have beenâbut to-day he admired him -more than ever. He was even moved by that perhaps too facile eloquence which of old had -been used to leave him cold. After promising to do a series of articles on international -relations for the paper, Dick went home, feeling better than he had done all day.</p> - -<p>He decided that he would begin writing his articles at once. He collected pens, <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-60">[Pg 60]</a></span>paper, and ink and sat -down in a business-like way at his bureau. He remembered distinctly biting the tip of his -pen-holder; it tasted rather bitter.</p> - -<p>And then he realized he was standing in Regent Street, looking in at one of the windows -of Libertyâs.</p> - -<p>For a long time he stood there quite still, absorbed to all appearance in the -contemplation of a piece of peacock-blue fabric. But all his attention was concentrated -within himself, not on anything outside. He was wonderingâwondering how it came about that -he was sitting at his writing-table at one moment, and standing, at the next, in Regent -Street. He hadnâtâthe thought flashed upon himâhe hadnât been drinking any more of that -brandy, had he? No, he felt himself to be perfectly sober. He moved slowly away and -continued to speculate as he walked.</p> - -<p>At Oxford Circus he bought an evening paper. He almost screamed aloud when he saw that -the date printed at the head of the page was August 12th. It was on August 7th that he had -sat down at his writing-table to compose those articles. <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-61">[Pg 61]</a></span>Five days ago, and he had not the faintest -recollection of what had happened in those five days.</p> - -<p>He made all haste back to the flat. Everything was in perfect order. He had evidently -had a picnic lunch that morningâsardines, bread and jam, and raisins; the remains of it -still covered the table. He opened the sideboard and took out the brandy bottle. Better -make quite sure. He held it up to the light; it was more than three-quarters full. Not a -drop had gone since the day of his return. If brandy wasnât the cause, then what was?</p> - -<p>As he sat there thinking, he began in an absent-minded way to look at his evening -paper. He read the news on the front page, then turned to the inner sheets. His eye fell -on these words printed at the head of the column next the leading article:</p> - -<p>âTo the Women of the Empire. Thoughts in War-Time. By Pearl Bellairs.â Underneath in -brackets: âThe first of a series of inspiring patriotic articles by Miss Bellairs, the -well-known novelist.â</p> - -<p>Dick groaned in agony. He saw in a <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-62">[Pg 62]</a></span>flash what had happened to his five missing days. Pearl had -got hold of them somehow, had trespassed upon his life out of her own reserved nocturnal -existence. She had taken advantage of his agitated mental state to have a little fun in -her own horrible way.</p> - -<p>He picked up the paper once more and began to read Pearlâs article. âInspiring and -patrioticâ: those were feeble words in which to describe Pearlâs shrilly raucous -chauvinism. And the style! Christ! to think that he was responsible, at least in part, for -this. Responsible, for had not the words been written by his own hand and composed in some -horrible bluebeardâs chamber of his own brain? They had, there was no denying it. Pearlâs -literary atrocities had never much distressed him; he had long given up reading a word she -wrote. Her bank balance was the only thing about her that interested him. But now she was -invading the sanctities of his private life. She was trampling on his dearest convictions, -denying his faith. She was a public danger. It was all too frightful.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-63">[Pg 63]</a></span></p> - -<p>He passed the afternoon in misery. Suicide or brandy seemed the only cures. Not very -satisfactory ones, though. Towards evening an illuminating idea occurred to him. He would -go and see Rogers. Rogers knew all about psychologyâfrom books, at any rate: Freud, Jung, -Morton Prince, and people like that. He used to try hypnotic experiments on his friends -and even dabbled in amateur psychotherapy. Rogers might help him to lay the ghost of -Pearl. He ate a hasty dinner and went to see Rogers in his Kensington rooms.</p> - -<p>Rogers was sitting at a table with a great book open in front of him. The reading-lamp, -which was the only light in the room, brightly illumined one side of the pallid, puffy, -spectacled face, leaving the other in complete darkness, save for a little cedilla of -golden light caught on the fold of flesh at the corner of his mouth. His huge shadow -crossed the floor, began to climb the wall, and from the shoulders upwards mingled itself -with the general darkness of the room.</p> - -<p>âGood evening, Rogers,â said Dick <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-64">[Pg 64]</a></span>wearily. âI wish you wouldnât try and look like Rembrandtâs -âChrist at Emmausâ with these spectacular chiaroscuro effects.â</p> - -<p>Rogers gave vent to his usual nervous giggling laugh. âThis is very nice of you to come -and see me, Greenow.â</p> - -<p>âHowâs the Board of Trade?â Rogers was a Civil Servant by profession.</p> - -<p>âOh, business as usual, as the <i>Daily Mail</i> would say.â Rogers laughed again as -though he had made a joke.</p> - -<p>After a little talk of things indifferent, Dick brought the conversation round to -himself.</p> - -<p>âI believe Iâm getting a bit neurasthenic,â he said. âFits of depression, nervous -pains, lassitude, anĂŚmia of the will. Iâve come to you for professional advice. I want you -to nose out my suppressed complexes, analyse me, dissect me. Will you do that for me?â</p> - -<p>Rogers was evidently delighted. âIâll do my best,â he said, with assumed modesty. âBut -Iâm no good at the thing, so you mustnât expect much.â</p> - -<p>âIâm at your disposal,â said Dick.</p> - -<p>Rogers placed his guest in a large arm-chair. <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-65">[Pg 65]</a></span>âRelax your muscles and think of nothing at all.â Dick sat -there flabby and abstracted while Rogers made his preparations. His apparatus consisted -chiefly in a notebook and a stop-watch. He seated himself at the table.</p> - -<p>âNow,â he said solemnly, âI want you to listen to me. I propose to read out a list of -words; after each of the words you must say the first word that comes into your head. The -very first, mind, however foolish it may seem. And say it as soon as it crosses your mind; -donât wait to think. I shall write down your answers and take the time between each -question and reply.â</p> - -<p>Rogers cleared his throat and started.</p> - -<p>âMother,â he said in a loud, clear voice. He always began his analyses with the family. -For since the majority of kinks and complexes date from childhood, it is instructive to -investigate the relations between the patient and those who surrounded him at an early -age. âMother.â</p> - -<p>âDead,â replied Dick immediately. He had scarcely known his mother.</p> - -<p>âFather.â</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-66">[Pg 66]</a></span></p> - -<p>âDull.â One and a fifth secondsâ interval.</p> - -<p>âSister.â Rogers pricked his ears for the reply: his favourite incest-theory depended -on it.</p> - -<p>âFabian Society,â said Dick, after two secondsâ interval. Rogers was a little -disappointed. He was agreeably thrilled and excited by the answer he received to his next -word: âAunt.â</p> - -<p>The seconds passed, bringing nothing with them; and then at last there floated into -Dickâs mind the image of himself as a child, dressed in green velvet and lace, a perfect -Bubbles boy, kneeling on Auntie Looâs lap and arranging a troop of lead soldiers on the -horizontal projection of her corsage.</p> - -<p>âBosom,â he said.</p> - -<p>Rogers wrote down the word and underlined it. Six and three-fifths seconds: very -significant. He turned now to the chapter of possible accidents productive of nervous -shocks.</p> - -<p>âFire.â</p> - -<p>âCoal.â</p> - -<p>âSea.â</p> - -<p>âSick.â</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-67">[Pg 67]</a></span></p> - -<p>âTrain.â</p> - -<p>âSmell.â</p> - -<p>And so on. Dull answers all the time. Evidently, nothing very catastrophic had ever -happened to him. Now for a frontal attack on the fortress of sex itself.</p> - -<p>âWomen.â There was rather a long pause, four seconds, and then Dick replied, -âNovelist.â Rogers was puzzled.</p> - -<p>âBreast.â</p> - -<p>âChicken.â That was disappointing. Rogers could find no trace of those sinister moral -censors, expurgators of impulse, suppressors of happiness. Perhaps the trouble lay in -religion.</p> - -<p>âChrist,â he said.</p> - -<p>Dick replied, âAmen,â with the promptitude of a parish clerk.</p> - -<p>âGod.â</p> - -<p>Dickâs mind remained a perfect blank. The word seemed to convey to him nothing at all. -God, God. After a long time there appeared before his inward eye the face of a boy he had -known at school and at Oxford, one Godfrey Wilkinson, called God for short.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-68">[Pg 68]</a></span></p> - -<p>âWilkinson.â Ten seconds and a fifth.</p> - -<p>A few more miscellaneous questions, and the list was exhausted. Almost suddenly, Dick -fell into a kind of hypnotic sleep. Rogers sat pensive in front of his notes; sometimes he -consulted a text-book. At the end of half an hour he awakened Dick to tell him that he had -had, as a child, consciously or unconsciously, a great Freudian passion for his aunt; that -later on he had had another passion, almost religious in its fervour and intensity, for -somebody called Wilkinson; and that the cause of all his present troubles lay in one or -other of these episodes. If he liked, he (Rogers) would investigate the matter further -with a view to establishing a cure.</p> - -<p>Dick thanked him very much, thought it wasnât worth taking any more trouble, and went -home.</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h4 id="Farcical_07">VII</h4> - -<p class="noindent">M<small>ILLICENT</small> was organizing a hospital supply dĂŠpĂ´t, -organizing indefatigably, from morning till night. It was October; Dick had not seen his -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-69"> - [Pg 69]</a></span>sister since those first hours of the war in -Scotland; he had had too much to think about these last months to pay attention to anyone -but himself. To-day, at last, he decided that he would go and pay her a visit. Millicent -had commandeered a large house in Kensington from a family of Jews, who were anxious to -live down a deplorable name by a display of patriotism. Dick found her sitting there in -her officeâyoung, formidable, beautiful, severeâat a big desk covered with papers.</p> - -<p>âWell,â said Dick, âyouâre winning the war, I see.â</p> - -<p>âYou, I gather, are not,â Millicent replied.</p> - -<p>âI believe in the things I always believed in.â</p> - -<p>âSo do I.â</p> - -<p>âBut in a different way, my dearâin a different way,â said Dick sadly. There was a -silence.</p> - -<p>âHad we better quarrel?â Millicent asked meditatively.</p> - -<p>âI think we can manage with nothing worse than a coolnessâfor the duration.â</p> - -<p>âVery well, a coolness.â</p> - -<p>âA smouldering coolness.â</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-70">[Pg 70]</a></span></p> - -<p>âGood,â said Millicent briskly. âLet it start smouldering at once. I must get on with -my work. Good-bye, Dick. God bless you. Let me know sometimes how you get on.â</p> - -<p>âNo need to ask how you get on,â said Dick with a smile, as he shook her hand. âI know -by experience that you always get on, only too well, ruthlessly well.â</p> - -<p>He went out. Millicent returned to her letters with concentrated ardour; a frown -puckered the skin between her eyebrows.</p> - -<p>Probably, Dick reflected as he made his way down the stairs, he wouldnât see her again -for a year or so. He couldnât honestly say that it affected him much. Other people became -daily more and more like ghosts, unreal, thin, vaporous; while every hour the -consciousness of himself grew more intense and all-absorbing. The only person who was more -than a shadow to him now was Hyman of the <i>Weekly International</i>. In those first -horrible months of the war, when he was wrestling with Pearl Bellairs and failing to cast -her out, it was Hyman who kept him from melancholy and suicide. Hyman made him write a -long article every week, <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-71">[Pg -71]</a></span>dragged him into the office to do sub-editorial work, kept him so busy that -there were long hours when he had no time to brood over his own insoluble problems. And -his enthusiasm was so passionate and sincere that sometimes even Dick was infected by it; -he could believe that life was worth living and the cause worth fighting for. But not for -long; for the devil would return, insistent and untiring. Pearl Bellairs was greedy for -life; she was not content with her short midnight hours; she wanted the freedom of whole -days. And whenever Dick was overtired, or ill or nervous, she leapt upon him and stamped -him out of existence, till enough strength came back for him to reassert his personality. -And the articles she wrote! The short stories! The recruiting songs! Dick dared not read -them; they were terrible, terrible.</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h4 id="Farcical_08">VIII</h4> - -<p class="noindent">THE months passed by. The longer the war lasted, the longer it seemed -likely to last. Dick supported life somehow. Then came the menace of conscription. <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-72"> [Pg -72]</a></span>The <i>Weekly International</i> organized a great anti-conscription -campaign, in which Hyman and Dick were the leading spirits. Dick was almost happy. This -kind of active work was new to him and he enjoyed it, finding it exciting and at the same -time sedative. For a self-absorbed and brooding mind, pain itself is an anodyne. He -enjoyed his incessant journeys, his speechmaking to queer audiences in obscure halls and -chapels; he liked talking with earnest members of impossible Christian sects, pacifists -who took not the faintest interest in the welfare of humanity at large, but were wholly -absorbed in the salvation of their own souls and in keeping their consciences clear from -the faintest trace of blood-guiltiness. He enjoyed the sense of power which came to him, -when he roused the passion of the crowd to enthusiastic assent, or breasted the storm of -antagonism. He enjoyed everythingâeven getting a bloody nose from a patriot hired and -intoxicated by a great evening paper to break up one of his meetings. It all seemed -tremendously exciting and important at the time. And yet when, in quiet moments, he came -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-73"> - [Pg 73]</a></span>to look back on his days of activity, they seemed -utterly empty and futile. What was left of them? Nothing, nothing at all. The momentary -intoxication had died away, the stirred antâs-nest had gone back to normal life. Futility -of action! There was nothing permanent, or decent, or worth while, except thought. And of -that he was almost incapable now. His mind, when it was not occupied by the immediate and -actual, turned inward morbidly upon itself. He looked at the manuscript of his book and -wondered whether he would ever be able to go on with it. It seemed doubtful. Was he, then, -condemned to pass the rest of his existence enslaved to the beastliness and futility of -mere quotidian action? And even in action his powers were limited; if he exerted himself -too muchâand the limits of fatigue were soon reachedâPearl Bellairs, watching perpetually -like a hungry tigress for her opportunity, leapt upon him and took possession of his -conscious faculties. And then, it might be for a matter of hours or of days, he was lost, -blotted off the register of living souls, while she performed, with intense and <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-74"> [Pg -74]</a></span>hideous industry, her self-appointed task. More than once his -anti-conscription campaigns had been cut short and he himself had suddenly disappeared -from public life, to return with the vaguest stories of illness or private affairsâstories -that made his friends shake their heads and wonder which it was among the noble army of -vices that poor Dick Greenow was so mysteriously addicted to. Some said drink, some said -women, some said opium, and some hinted at things infinitely darker and more horrid. Hyman -asked him point-blank what it was, one morning when he had returned to the office after -three daysâ unaccountable absence.</p> - -<p>Dick blushed painfully. âIt isnât anything you think,â he said.</p> - -<p>âWhat is it, then?â Hyman insisted.</p> - -<p>âI canât tell you,â Dick replied desperately and in torture, âbut I swear itâs nothing -discreditable. I beg you wonât ask me any more.â</p> - -<p>Hyman had to pretend to be satisfied with that.</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Farcical_09">IX</h4> - -<p class="noindent">A <small>TACTICAL</small> move in the anti-conscription campaign was -the foundation of a club, a place where people with pacific or generally advanced ideas -could congregate.</p> - -<p>âA club like this would soon be the intellectual centre of London,â said Hyman, ever -sanguine.</p> - -<p>Dick shrugged his shoulders. He had a wide experience of pacifists.</p> - -<p>âIf you bring people together,â Hyman went on, âthey encourage one another to be -boldâstrengthen one anotherâs faith.â</p> - -<p>âYes,â said Dick dyspeptically. âWhen theyâre in a herd, they can believe that theyâre -much more numerous and important than they really are.â</p> - -<p>âBut, man, they are numerous, they are important!â Hyman shouted and gesticulated.</p> - -<p>Dick allowed himself to be persuaded into an optimism which he knew to be ill-founded. -The consolations of religion <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-76">[Pg -76]</a></span>do not console the less efficaciously for being illusory.</p> - -<p>It was a longtime before they could think of a suitable name for their club. Dick -suggested that it should be called the Sclopis Club. âSuch a lovely name,â he explained. -âSclopisâSclopis; it tastes precious in the mouth.â But the rest of the committee would -not hear of it; they wanted a name that meant something. One lady suggested that it should -be called the Everyman Club; Dick objected with passion. âIt makes one shudder,â he said. -The lady thought it was a beautiful and uplifting name, but as Mr. Greenow was so strongly -opposed, she wouldnât press the claims of Everyman. Hyman wanted to call it the Pacifist -Club, but that was judged too provocative. Finally, they agreed to call it the Novembrist -Club, because it was November and they could think of no better title.</p> - -<p>The inaugural dinner of the Novembrist Club was held at Piccolominiâs Restaurant. -Piccolomini is in, but not exactly of, Soho, for it is a cross between a Soho restaurant -and a Corner House, a hybrid which combines the worst qualities <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-77">[Pg 77]</a></span>of both parentsâthe dirt and inefficiency -of Soho, the size and vulgarity of Lyons. There is a large upper chamber reserved for -agapes. Here, one wet and dismal winterâs evening, the Novembrists assembled.</p> - -<p>Dick arrived early, and from his place near the door he watched his fellow-members come -in. He didnât much like the look of them. âMiddle classâ was what he found himself -thinking; and he had to admit, when his conscience reproached him for it, that he did not -like the middle classes, the lower middle classes, the lower classes. He was, there was no -denying it, a bloodsucker at heartâcultured and intelligent, perhaps, but a bloodsucker -none the less.</p> - -<p>The meal began. Everything about it was profoundly suspect. The spoons were made of -some pale pinchbeck metal, very light and flimsy; one expected them to melt in the soup, -or one would have done, if the soup had been even tepid. The food was thick and greasy. -Dick wondered what it really looked like under the concealing sauces. The wine left an -indescribable taste that lingered on the palate, <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-78">[Pg 78]</a></span>like the savour of brass or of charcoal fumes.</p> - -<p>From childhood upwards Dick had suffered from the intensity of his visceral reactions -to emotion. Fear and shyness were apt to make him feel very sick, and disgust produced in -him a sensation of intolerable queasiness. Disgust had seized upon his mind to-night. He -grew paler with the arrival of every dish, and the wine, instead of cheering him, made him -feel much worse. His neighbours to right and left ate with revolting heartiness. On one -side sat Miss Gibbs, garishly dressed in ill-assorted colours that might be called -futuristic; on the other was Mr. Something in pince-nez, rather ambrosial about the hair. -Mr. Something was a poet, or so the man who introduced them had said. Miss Gibbs was just -an ordinary member of the Intelligentsia, like the rest of us.</p> - -<p>The Lower Classes, the Lower Classes . . .</p> - -<p>âAre you interested in the Modern Theatre?â asked Mr. Something in his mellow voice. -Too mellowâoh, much too mellow!</p> - -<p>âPassably,â said Dick.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-79">[Pg 79]</a></span></p> - -<p>âSo am I,â said Mr. Thingummy. âI am a vice-president of the Craftsmenâs League of Joy, -which perhaps you may have heard of.â</p> - -<p>Dick shook his head; this was going to be terrible.</p> - -<p>âThe objects of the Craftsmenâs League of Joy,â Mr. Thingummy continued, âor rather, -one of the objectsâfor it has manyâis to establish Little Theatres in every town and -village in England, where simple, uplifting, beautiful plays might be acted. The people -have no joy.â</p> - -<p>âThey have the cinema and the music hall,â said Dick. He was filled with a sudden -senseless irritation. âThey get all the joy they want out of the jokes of the comics and -the legs of the women.â</p> - -<p>âAh, but that is an impure joy,â Mr. Whatâs-his-name protested.</p> - -<p>âImpure purple, Herbert Spenserâs favourite colour,â flashed irrelevantly through -Dickâs brain.</p> - -<p>âWell, speaking for myself,â he said aloud, âI know I get more joy out of a good pair -of legs than out of any number of uplifting plays of the kind theyâd be <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-80">[Pg 80]</a></span>sure to act in your -little theatres. The people ask for sex and you give them a stone.â</p> - -<p>How was it, he wondered, that the right opinions in the mouths of these people sounded -so horribly cheap and wrong? They degraded what was noble; beauty became fly-blown at -their touch. Their intellectual tradition was all wrong. Lower classes, it always came -back to that. When they talked about war and the International, Dick felt a hot geyser of -chauvinism bubbling up in his breast. In order to say nothing stupid, he refrained from -speaking at all. Miss Gibbs switched the conversation on to art. She admired all the right -people. Dick told her that he thought Sir Luke Fildes to be the best modern artist. But -his irritation knew no bounds when he found out a little later that Mr. Something had read -the poems of Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke. He felt inclined to say, âYou may have read -them, but of course you canât understand or appreciate them.â</p> - -<p>Lower Classes . . .</p> - -<p>How clear and splendid were the ideas of right and justice! If only one <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-81">[Pg 81]</a></span>could filter away the -contaminating human element. . . . Reason compelled him to believe in democracy, -in internationalism, in revolution; morality demanded justice for the oppressed. But -neither morality nor reason would ever bring him to take pleasure in the company of -democrats or revolutionaries, or make him find the oppressed, individually, any less -antipathetic.</p> - -<p>At the end of this nauseating meal, Dick was called on to make a speech. Rising to his -feet, he began stammering and hesitating; he felt like an imbecile. Then suddenly -inspiration came. The great religious ideas of Justice and Democracy swept like a rushing -wind through his mind, purging it of all insignificant human and personal preferences or -dislikes. He was filled with pentecostal fire. He spoke in a white heat of intellectual -passion, dominating his hearers, infecting them with his own high enthusiasm. He sat down -amid cheers. Miss Gibbs and Mr. Thingummy leaned towards him with flushed, shining -faces.</p> - -<p>âThat was wonderful, Mr. Greenow. Iâve never heard anything like it,â <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-82">[Pg 82]</a></span>exclaimed Miss Gibbs, -with genuine, unflattering enthusiasm.</p> - -<p>Mr. Thing said something poetical about a trumpet-call. Dick looked from one to the -other with blank and fishy eyes. So it was for these creatures he had been speaking!</p> - -<p>Good God! . . .</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h4 id="Farcical_10">X</h4> - -<p class="noindent">D<small>ICK</small>â<small>S</small> life was now a monotonous -nightmare. The same impossible situation was repeated again and again. If it were not for -the fact that he knew Pearl Bellairs to be entirely devoid of humour, Dick might have -suspected that she was having a little quiet fun with him, so grotesque were the anomalies -of his double life. Grotesque, but dreary, intolerably dreary. Situations which seem, in -contemplation, romantic and adventurous have a habit of proving, when actually -experienced, as dull and daily as a bank clerkâs routine. When you read about it, a Jekyll -and Hyde existence sounds delightfully amusing; but when you live through it, as Dick -found to his cost, it is merely a boring horror.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-83">[Pg 83]</a></span></p> - -<p>In due course Dick was called up by the Military Authorities. He pleaded conscientious -objection. The date of his appearance before the Tribunal was fixed. Dick did not much -relish the prospect of being a Christian martyr; it seemed an anachronism. However, it -would have to be done. He would be an absolutist; there would be a little buffeting, -spitting, and scourging, followed by an indefinite term of hard labour. It was all very -unpleasant. But nothing could be much more unpleasant than life as he was now living it. -He didnât even mind very much if they killed him. Being or not beingâthe alternatives left -him equally cold.</p> - -<p>The days that preceded his appearance before the Tribunal were busy days, spent in -consulting solicitors, preparing speeches, collecting witnesses.</p> - -<p>âWeâll give you a good run for your money,â said Hyman. âI hope theyâll be feeling a -little uncomfortable by the time they have done with you, Greenow.â</p> - -<p>âNot nearly so uncomfortable as I <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-84">[Pg 84]</a></span>shall be feeling,â Dick replied, with a slightly melancholy -smile.</p> - -<p>The South Marylebone Tribunal sat in a gloomy and fetid chamber in a police station. -Dick, who was extremely sensitive to his surroundings, felt his fatigue and nervousness -perceptibly increase as he entered the room. Five or six pitiable creatures with paralytic -mothers or one-man businesses were briskly disposed of, and then it was Dickâs turn to -present himself before his judges. He looked round the court, nodded to Hyman, smiled at -Millicent, who had so far thawed their wartime coolness as to come and see him condemned, -caught other friendly eyes. It was as though he were about to be electrocuted. The -preliminaries passed off; he found himself answering questions in a loud, clear voice. -Then the Military Representative began to loom horribly large. The Military Representative -was a solicitorâs clerk disguised as a lieutenant in the Army Service Corps. He spoke in -an accent that was more than genteel; it was rich, noble, aristocratic. Dick tried to -remember where he had heard a <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-85">[Pg -85]</a></span>man speaking like that before. He had it now. Once when he had been at -Oxford after term was over. He had gone to see the Varieties, which come twice nightly and -with cheap seats to the theatre after the undergraduates have departed. One of the turns -had been a Nut, a descendant of the bloods and Champagne Charlies of earlier days. A young -man in an alpaca evening suit and a monocle. He had danced, sung a song, spoken some -patter. Sitting in the front row of the stalls, Dick had been able to see the large, -swollen, tuberculous glands in his neck. They wobbled when he danced or sang. -Fascinatingly horrible, those glands; and the young man, how terribly, painfully pathetic. -. . . When the Military Representative spoke, he could hear again that wretched -Nutâs rendering of the Eton and Oxford voice. It unnerved him.</p> - -<p>âWhat is your religion, Mr. Greenow?â the Military Representative asked.</p> - -<p>Fascinated, Dick looked to see whether he too had tuberculous glands. The Lieutenant -had to repeat his question <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-86">[Pg -86]</a></span>sharply. When he was irritated, his voice went back to its more natural -nasal twang. Dick recovered his presence of mind.</p> - -<p>âI have no religion,â he answered.</p> - -<p>âBut, surely, sir, you must have some kind of religion.â</p> - -<p>âWell, if I must, if itâs in the Army Regulations, you had better put me down as an -Albigensian, or a Bogomile, or, better still, as a Manichean. One canât find oneself in -this court without possessing a profound sense of the reality and active existence of a -power of evil equal to, if not greater than, the power of good.â</p> - -<p>âThis is rather irrelevant, Mr. Greenow,â said the Chairman.</p> - -<p>âI apologize.â Dick bowed to the court.</p> - -<p>âBut if,â the Military Representative continuedââif your objection is not religious, -may I ask what it is?â</p> - -<p>âIt is based on a belief that all war is wrong, and that the solidarity of the human -race can only be achieved in practice by protesting against war, wherever it appears and -in whatever form.â</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-87">[Pg 87]</a></span></p> - -<p>âDo you disbelieve in force, Mr. Greenow?â</p> - -<p>âYou might as well ask me if I disbelieve in gravitation. Of course, I believe in -force: it is a fact.â</p> - -<p>âWhat would you do if you saw a German violating your sister?â said the Military -Representative, putting his deadliest question.</p> - -<p>âPerhaps I had better ask my sister first,â Dick replied. âShe is sitting just behind -you in the court.â</p> - -<p>The Military Representative was covered with confusion. He coughed and blew his nose. -The case dragged on. Dick made a speech; the Military Representative made a speech; the -Chairman made a speech. The atmosphere of the court-room grew fouler and fouler. Dick -sickened and suffocated in the second-hand air. An immense lassitude took possession of -him; he did not care about anythingâabout the cause, about himself, about Hyman or -Millicent or Pearl Bellairs. He was just tired. Voices buzzed and drawled in his -earsâsometimes his own voice, sometimes other peopleâs. He did not listen to <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-88">[Pg 88]</a></span>what they said. He was -tiredâtired of all this idiotic talk, tired of the heat and smell. . . .</p> - -<p class="transition"> </p> - -<p>Tired of picking up very thistly wheat sheaves and propping them up in stooks on the -yellow stubble. For that was what, suddenly, he found himself doing. Overhead the sky -expanded in endless steppes of blue-hot cobalt. The pungent prickly dust of the dried -sheaves plucked at his nose with imminent sneezes, made his eyes smart and water. In the -distance a reaping-machine whirred and hummed. Dick looked blankly about him, wondering -where he was. He was thankful, at any rate, not to be in that sweltering court-room; and -it was a mercy, too, to have escaped from the odious gentility of the Military -Representativeâs accent. And, after all, there were worse occupations than harvesting.</p> - -<p class="transition"> </p> - -<p>Gradually, and bit by bit, Dick pieced together his history. He had, it seemed, done a -cowardly and treacherous thing: deserted in the face of the enemy, betrayed his cause. He -had a bitter letter <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-89">[Pg -89]</a></span>from Hyman. âWhy couldnât you have stuck it out? I thought it was in you. -Youâve urged others to go to prison for their beliefs, but you get out of it yourself by -sneaking off to a soft alternative service job on a friendâs estate. Youâve brought -discredit on the whole movement.â It was very painful, but what could he answer? The truth -was so ridiculous that nobody could be expected to swallow it. And yet the fact was that -he had been as much startled to find himself working at Crome as anyone. It was all -Pearlâs doing.</p> - -<p>He had found in his room a piece of paper covered with the large, flamboyant feminine -writing which he knew to be Pearlâs. It was evidently the rough copy of an article on the -delights of being a land-girl: dewy dawns, rosy childrenâs faces, quaint cottages, mossy -thatch, milkmaids, healthy exercise. Pearl was being a land-girl; but he could hardly -explain the fact to Hyman. Better not attempt to answer him.</p> - -<p>Dick hated the manual labour of the farm. It was hard, monotonous, dirty, and -depressing. It inhibited almost completely <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-90">[Pg 90]</a></span>the functions of his brain. He was unable to think about -anything at all; there was no opportunity to do anything but feel uncomfortable. God had -not made him a Caliban to scatter ordure over fields, to pick up ordure from cattle-yards. -His rĂ´le was Prospero.</p> - -<p>âBan, Ban, Calibanââit was to that derisive measure that he pumped water, sawed wood, -mowed grass; it was a march for his slow, clotted feet as he followed the dung-carts up -the winding lanes. âBan, Ban, CalibanâBan, Ban, Ban . . .â</p> - -<p>âOh, that bloody old fool Tolstoy,â was his profoundest reflection on a general subject -in three months of manual labour and communion with mother earth.</p> - -<p>He hated the work, and his fellow-workers hated him. They mistrusted him because they -could not understand him, taking the silence of his overpowering shyness for arrogance and -the contempt of one class for another. Dick longed to become friendly with them. His chief -trouble was that he did not know what to say. At meal-times he would spend long minutes in -cudgelling his brains for some suitable remark to make. And even if <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-91">[Pg 91]</a></span>he thought of something -good, likeââIt looks as though it were going to be a good year for roots,â he somehow -hesitated to speak, feeling that such a remark, uttered in his exquisitely modulated -tones, would be, somehow, a little ridiculous. It was the sort of thing that ought to be -said rustically, with plenty of Zâs and long vowels, in the manner of William Barnes. In -the end, for lack of courage to act the yokelâs part, he generally remained silent. While -the others were eating their bread and cheese with laughter and talk, he sat like the -skeleton at the feastâa skeleton that longed to join in the revelry, but had not the power -to move its stony jaws. On the rare occasions that he actually succeeded in uttering -something, the labourers looked at one another in surprise and alarm, as though it were -indeed a skeleton that had spoken.</p> - -<p>He was not much more popular with the other inhabitants of the village. Often, in the -evenings, as he was returning from work, the children would pursue him, yelling. With the -unerringly cruel instinct of the young they had recognized in him a fit object for abuse -and lapidation. <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-92">[Pg 92]</a></span>An -outcast member of another class, from whom that class in casting him out had withdrawn its -protection, an alien in speech and habit, a criminal, as their zealous schoolmaster lost -no opportunity of reminding them, guilty of the blackest treason against God and manâhe -was the obviously predestined victim of childish persecution. When stones began to fly, -and dung and precocious obscenity, he bowed his head and pretended not to notice that -anything unusual was happening. It was difficult, however, to look quite dignified.</p> - -<p>There were occasional short alleviations to the dreariness of his existence. One day, -when he was engaged in his usual occupation of manuring, a familiar figure suddenly -appeared along the footpath through the field. It was Mrs. Cravister. She was evidently -staying at the big house; one of the Manorial dachshunds preceded her. He took off his -cap.</p> - -<p>âMr. Greenow!â she exclaimed, coming to a halt. âAh, what a pleasure to see you again! -Working on the land: so Tolstoyan. But I trust it doesnât affect your ĂŚsthetic ideas in -the same way <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-93">[Pg 93]</a></span>as it -did his. Fifty peasants singing together is music; but Bachâs chromatic fantasia is mere -gibbering incomprehensibility.â</p> - -<p>âI donât do this for pleasure,â Dick explained. âItâs hard labour, meted out to the -Conscientious Objector.â</p> - -<p>âOf course, of course,â said Mrs. Cravister, raising her hand to arrest any further -explanation. âI had forgotten. A conscientious objector, a Bible student. I remember how -passionately devoted you were, even at school, to the Bible.â</p> - -<p>She closed her eyes and nodded her head several times.</p> - -<p>âOn the contraryâââ Dick began; but it was no good. Mrs. Cravister had determined that -he should be a Bible student and it was no use gainsaying her. She cut him short.</p> - -<p>âDear me, the Bible. . . . What a style! That alone would prove it to have -been directly inspired. You remember how Mahomet appealed to the beauty of his style as a -sign of his divine mission. Why has nobody done the same for the Bible? It remains for -you, Mr. Greenow, to do so. You will <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-94">[Pg 94]</a></span>write a book about it. How I envy you!â</p> - -<p>âThe style is very fine,â Dick ventured, âbut donât you think the matter occasionally -leaves something to be desired?â</p> - -<p>âThe matter is nothing,â cried Mrs. Cravister, making a gesture that seemed to send all -meaning flying like a pinch of salt along the windâânothing at all. Itâs the style that -counts. Think of Madame Bovary.â</p> - -<p>âI certainly will,â said Dick.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Cravister held out her hand. âGood-bye. Yes, I certainly envy you. I envy you your -innocent labour and your incessant study of that most wonderful of books. If I were asked, -Mr. Greenow, what book I should take with me to a desert island, what single solitary -book, I should certainly say the Bible, though, indeed, there are moments when I think I -should choose <i>Tristram Shandy</i>. Good-bye.â</p> - -<p>Mrs. Cravister sailed slowly away. The little brown basset trotted ahead, straining his -leash. One had the impression of a great ship being towed into harbour by a diminutive -tug.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-95">[Pg 95]</a></span></p> - -<p>Dick was cheered by this glimpse of civilization and humanity. The unexpected arrival, -one Saturday afternoon, of Millicent was not quite such an unmixed pleasure. âIâve come to -see how youâre getting on,â she announced, âand to put your cottage straight and make you -comfortable.â</p> - -<p>âVery kind of you,â said Dick. He didnât want his cottage put straight.</p> - -<p>Millicent was in the Ministry of Munitions now, controlling three thousand female -clerks with unsurpassed efficiency. Dick looked at her curiously, as she talked that -evening of her doings. âTo think I should have a sister like that,â he said to himself. -She was terrifying.</p> - -<p>âYou do enjoy bullying other people!â he exclaimed at last. âYouâve found your true -vocation. One sees now how the new world will be arranged after the war. The women will -continue to do all the bureaucratic jobs, all that entails routine and neatness and -interfering with other peopleâs affairs. And man, it is to be hoped, will be left free for -the important statesmanâs business, <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-96">[Pg 96]</a></span>free for creation and thought. He will stay at home and -give proper education to the children, too. He is fit to do these things, because his mind -is disinterested and detached. Itâs an arrangement which will liberate all manâs best -energies for their proper uses. The only flaw I can see in the system is that you women -will be so fiendishly and ruthlessly tyrannical in your administration.â</p> - -<p>âYou canât seriously expect me to argue with you,â said Millicent.</p> - -<p>âNo, please donât. I am not strong enough. My dung-carrying has taken the edge off all -my reasoning powers.â</p> - -<p>Millicent spent the next morning in completely rearranging Dickâs furniture. By -lunch-time every article in the cottage was occupying a new position.</p> - -<p>âThatâs much nicer,â said Millicent, surveying her work and seeing that it was -good.</p> - -<p>There was a knock at the door. Dick opened it and was astonished to find Hyman.</p> - -<p>âI just ran down to see how you were getting on,â he explained.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-97">[Pg 97]</a></span></p> - -<p>âIâm getting on very well since my sister rearranged my furniture,â said Dick. He found -it pleasing to have an opportunity of exercising his long unused powers of malicious -irony. This was very mild, but with practice he would soon come on to something more -spiteful and amusing.</p> - -<p>Hyman shook hands with Millicent, scowling as he did so. He was irritated that she was -there; he wanted to talk with Dick alone. He turned his back on her and began addressing -Dick.</p> - -<p>âWell,â he said, âI havenât seen you since the fatal day. How is the -turnip-hoeing?â</p> - -<p>âPretty beastly,â said Dick.</p> - -<p>âBetter than doing hard labour in a gaol, I suppose?â</p> - -<p>Dick nodded his head wearily, foreseeing what must inevitably come.</p> - -<p>âYouâve escaped that all right,â Hyman went on.</p> - -<p>âYes; you ought to be thankful,â Millicent chimed in.</p> - -<p>âI still canât understand why you did it, Greenow. It was a blow to me. I didnât expect -it of you.â Hyman <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-98">[Pg -98]</a></span>spoke with feeling. âIt was desertion; it was treason.â</p> - -<p>âI agree,â said Millicent judicially. âHe ought to have stuck to his principles.â</p> - -<p>âHe ought to have stuck to what was right, oughtnât he, Miss Greenow?â Hyman turned -towards Millicent, pleased at finding someone who shared his views.</p> - -<p>âOf course,â she repliedââof course. I totally disagree with you about what is right. -But if he believed it right not to fight, he certainly ought to have gone to prison for -his belief.â</p> - -<p>Dick lit a pipe with an air of nonchalance. He tried to disguise the fact that he was -feeling extremely uncomfortable under these two pairs of merciless, accusing eyes.</p> - -<p>âTo my mind, at any rate,â said Millicent, âyour position seems quite illogical and -untenable, Dick.â</p> - -<p>It was a relief to be talked to and not about.</p> - -<p>âIâm sorry about that,â said Dick rather huskilyânot a very intelligent remark, but -what was there to say?</p> - -<p>âOf course, itâs illogical and untenable. <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-99">[Pg 99]</a></span>Your sister is quite right.â Hyman banged the table.</p> - -<p>âI canât understand what induced you to take it upâââ</p> - -<p>âAfter youâd said you were going to be one of the absolutes,â cried Hyman, interrupting -and continuing Millicentâs words.</p> - -<p>âWhy?â said Millicent.</p> - -<p>âWhy, why, why?â Hyman echoed.</p> - -<p>Dick, who had been blowing out smoke at a great rate, put down his pipe. The taste of -the tobacco was making him feel rather sick. âI wish you would stop,â he said wearily. âIf -I gave you the real reasons, you wouldnât believe me. And I canât invent any others that -would be in the least convincing.â</p> - -<p>âI believe the real reason is that you were afraid of prison.â</p> - -<p>Dick leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes. He did not mind being insulted now; it -made no difference. Hyman and Millicent were still talking about him, but what they said -did not interest him; he scarcely listened.</p> - -<p>They went back to London together in the evening.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-100">[Pg 100]</a></span></p> - -<p>âVery intelligent woman, your sister,â said Hyman just before they were starting. âPity -sheâs not on the right side about the war and so forth.â</p> - -<p>Four weeks later Dick received a letter in which Hyman announced that he and Millicent -had decided to get married.</p> - -<p>âI am happy to think,â Dick wrote in his congratulatory reply, âthat it was I who -brought you together.â</p> - -<p>He smiled as he read through the sentence; that was what the Christian martyr might say -to the two lions who had scraped acquaintance over his bones in the amphitheatre.</p> - -<p class="transition"> </p> - -<p>One warm afternoon in the summer of 1918, Mr. Hobart, Clerk to the Wibley Town Council, -was disturbed in the midst of his duties by the sudden entry into his office of a small -dark man, dressed in corduroys and gaiters, but not having the air of a genuine -agricultural labourer.</p> - -<p>âWhat may I do for you?â inquired Mr. Hobart.</p> - -<p>âI have come to inquire about my vote,â said the stranger.</p> - -<p>âArenât you already registered?â</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-101">[Pg 101]</a></span></p> - -<p>âNot yet. You see, it isnât long since the Act was passed giving us the vote.â</p> - -<p>Mr. Hobart stared.</p> - -<p>âI donât quite follow,â he said.</p> - -<p>âI may not look it,â said the stranger, putting his head on one side and looking -archââI may not look it, but I will confess to you, Mr.âerâMr.âerâââ</p> - -<p>âHobart.â</p> - -<p>âMr. Hobart, that I am a woman of over thirty.â</p> - -<p>Mr. Hobart grew visibly paler. Then, assuming a forced smile and speaking as one speaks -to a child or a spoiled animal, he said:</p> - -<p>âI seeâI see. Over thirty, dear me.â</p> - -<p>He looked at the bell, which was over by the fireplace at the other side of the room, -and wondered how he should ring it without rousing the maniacâs suspicions.</p> - -<p>âOver thirty,â the stranger went on. âYou know my womanâs secret. I am Miss Pearl -Bellairs, the novelist. Perhaps you have read some of my books. Or are you too busy?â</p> - -<p>âOh no, Iâve read several,â Mr. Hobart replied, smiling more and more <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-102">[Pg 102]</a></span>brightly and speaking -in even more coaxing and indulgent tones.</p> - -<p>âThen weâre friends already, Mr. Hobart. Anyone who knows my books, knows me. My whole -heart is in them. Now, you must tell me all about my poor little vote. I shall be very -patriotic with it when the time comes to use it.â</p> - -<p>Mr. Hobart saw his opportunity.</p> - -<p>âCertainly, Miss Bellairs,â he said. âI will ring for my clerk and weâllâerâweâll take -down the details.â</p> - -<p>He got up, crossed the room, and rang the bell with violence.</p> - -<p>âIâll just go and see that he brings the right books,â he added, and darted to the -door. Once outside in the passage, he mopped his face and heaved a sigh of relief. That -had been a narrow shave, by Jove. A loony in the officeâdangerous-looking brute, too.</p> - -<p class="transition"> </p> - -<p>On the following day Dick woke up and found himself in a bare whitewashed room, -sparsely furnished with a little iron bed, a washstand, a chair, and table. He looked -round him in surprise. Where had he got to this time? He went to the <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-103">[Pg 103]</a></span>door and tried to open -it; it was locked. An idea entered his mind: he was in barracks somewhere; the Military -Authorities must have got hold of him somehow in spite of his exemption certificate. Or -perhaps Pearl had gone and enlisted. . . . He turned next to the window, which -was barred. Outside, he could see a courtyard, filled, not with soldiers, as he had -expected, but a curious motley crew of individuals, some men and some women, wandering -hither and thither with an air of complete aimlessness. Very odd, he thoughtâvery odd. -Beyond the courtyard, on the farther side of a phenomenally high wall, ran a railway line -and beyond it a village, roofed with tile and thatch, and a tall church spire in the -midst. Dick looked carefully at the spire. Didnât he know it? Surelyâyes, those imbricated -copper plates with which it was covered, that gilded ship that served as wind vane, the -little gargoyles at the corner of the tower there could be no doubt; it was Belbury -church. Belburyâthat was where the . . . No, no; he wouldnât believe it. But -looking down again into that high-walled courtyard, <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-104">[Pg 104]</a></span>full of those queer, aimless folk, he was -forced to admit it. The County Asylum stands at Belbury. He had often noticed it from the -train, a huge, gaunt building of sausage-coloured brick, standing close to the railway, on -the opposite side of the line to Belbury village and church. He remembered how, the last -time he had passed in the train, he had wondered what they did in the asylum. He had -regarded it then as one of those mysterious, unapproachable places, like Lhassa or a -Ladiesâ Lavatory, into which he would never penetrate. And now, here he was, looking out -through the bars, like any other madman. It was all Pearlâs doing, as usual. If there had -been no bars, he would have thrown himself out of the window.</p> - -<p>He sat down on his bed and began to think about what he should do. He would have to be -very sane and show them by his behaviour and speech that he was no more mad than the -commonalty of mankind. He would be extremely dignified about it all. If a warder or a -doctor or somebody came in to see him, he would rise to his feet and say in <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-105">[Pg 105]</a></span>the calmest and -severest tones: âMay I ask, pray, why I am detained here and upon whose authority?â That -ought to stagger them. He practised that sentence, and the noble attitude with which he -would accompany it, for the best part of an hour. Then, suddenly, there was the sound of a -key in the lock. He hastily sat down again on the bed. A brisk little man of about forty, -clean shaven and with pince-nez, stepped into the room, followed by a nurse and a warder -in uniform. The doctor! Dickâs heart was beating with absurd violence; he felt like an -amateur actor at the first performance of an imperfectly rehearsed play. He rose, rather -unsteadily, to his feet, and in a voice that quavered a little with an emotion he could -not suppress, began:</p> - -<p>âPray I ask, may . . .â</p> - -<p>Then, realizing that something had gone wrong, he hesitated, stammered, and came to a -pause.</p> - -<p>The doctor turned to the nurse.</p> - -<p>âDid you hear that?â he asked. âHe called me May. He seems to think everybodyâs a -woman, not only himself.â</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-106">[Pg 106]</a></span></p> - -<p>Turning to Dick with a cheerful smile, he went on:</p> - -<p>âSit down, Miss Bellairs, please sit down.â</p> - -<p>It was too much. Dick burst into tears, flung himself upon the bed, and buried his face -in the pillow. The doctor looked at him as he lay there sobbing, his whole body shaken and -convulsed.</p> - -<p>âA bad case, I fear.â</p> - -<p>And the nurse nodded.</p> - -<p class="transition"> </p> - -<p>For the next three days Dick refused to eat. It was certainly unreasonable, but it -seemed the only way of making a protest. On the fourth day the doctor signed a certificate -to the effect that forcible feeding had become necessary. Accompanied by two warders and a -nurse, he entered Dickâs room.</p> - -<p>âNow, Miss Bellairs,â he said, making a last persuasive appeal, âdo have a little of -this nice soup. We have come to have lunch with you.â</p> - -<p>âI refuse to eat,â said Dick icily, âas a protest against my unlawful detention in this -place. I am as sane as any of you here.â</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-107">[Pg 107]</a></span></p> - -<p>âYes, yes.â The doctorâs voice was soothing. He made a sign to the warders. One was -very large and stout, the other wiry, thin, sinister, like the second murderer in a play. -They closed in on Dick.</p> - -<p>âI wonât eat and I wonât be made to eat!â Dick cried. âLet me go!â he shouted at the -fat warder, who had laid a hand on his shoulder. His temper was beginning to rise.</p> - -<p>âNow, do behave yourself,â said the fat warder. âIt ainât a bit of use kicking up a -row. Now, do take a little of this lovely soup,â he added wheedlingly.</p> - -<p>âLet me go!â Dick screamed again, all his self-control gone. âI will not let myself be -bullied.â</p> - -<p>He began to struggle violently. The fat warder put an arm round his shoulders, as -though he were an immense mother comforting an irritable child. Dick felt himself -helpless; the struggle had quite exhausted him; he was weaker than he had any idea of. He -began kicking the fat manâs shins; it was the only way he could still show fight.</p> - -<p>âTemper, temper,â remonstrated the <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-108">[Pg 108]</a></span>warder, more motherly than ever. The thin warder stooped -down, slipped a strap round the kicking legs, and drew it tight. Dick could move no more. -His fury found vent in wordsâvain, abusive, filthy words, such as he had not used since he -was a schoolboy.</p> - -<p>âLet me go,â he screamedââlet me go, you devils! You beasts, you swine! beasts and -swine!â he howled again and again.</p> - -<p>They soon had him securely strapped in a chair, his head held back ready for the doctor -and his horrible-looking tubes. They were pushing the horrors up his nostrils. He coughed -and choked, spat, shouted inarticulately, retched. It was like having a spoon put on your -tongue and being told to say A-a-h, but worse; it was like jumping into the river and -getting water up your noseâhow he had always hated that!âonly much worse. It was like -almost everything unpleasant, only much, much worse than all. He exhausted himself -struggling against his utterly immovable bonds. They had to carry him to his bed, he was -so weak.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-109">[Pg 109]</a></span></p> - -<p>He lay there, unmovingâfor he was unable to moveâstaring at the ceiling. He felt as -though he were floating on air, unsupported, solid no longer; the sensation was not -unpleasant. For that reason he refused to let his mind dwell upon it; he would think of -nothing that was not painful, odious, horrible. He thought about the torture which had -just been inflicted on him and of the monstrous injustice of which he was a victim. He -thought of the millions who had been and were still being slaughtered in the war; he -thought of their pain, all the countless separate pains of them; pain incommunicable, -individual, beyond the reach of sympathy; infinities of pain pent within frail finite -bodies; pain without sense or object, bringing with it no hope and no redemption, futile, -unnecessary, stupid. In one supreme apocalyptic moment he saw, he felt the universe in all -its horror.</p> - -<p>They forcibly fed him again the following morning and again on the day after. On the -fourth day pneumonia, the result of shock, complicated by <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-110">[Pg 110]</a></span>acute inflammation of the throat and -pleura, set in. The fever and pain gained ground. Dick had not the strength to resist -their ravages, and his condition grew hourly worse. His mind, however, continued to work -clearlyâtoo clearly. It occurred to him that he might very likely die. He asked for pencil -and paper to be brought him, and putting forth all the little strength he had left, he -began to make his testament.</p> - -<p>âI am perfectly sane,â he wrote at the top of the page, and underlined the words three -times. âI am confined here by the most intol. injust.â As soon as he began, he realized -how little time and strength were left him; it was a waste to finish the long words. âThey -are killing me for my opins. I regard this war and all wars as utter bad. Capitalistsâ -war. The devils will be smashed sooner later. Wish I could help. But it wonât make any -difference,â he added on a new line and as though by an afterthought. âWorld will always -be hell. Cap. or Lab., Engl. or Germ.âall beasts. One in a mill. is G<small>OOD</small>. -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-111">[Pg 111]</a></span>I wasnât. -Selfish intellect. Perhaps Pearl Bellairs better. If die, send corp. to hosp. for anatomy. -Useful for once in my life!â</p> - -<p>Quite suddenly, he lapsed into delirium. The clear lucidity of his mind became -troubled. The real world disappeared from before his eyes, and in its place he saw a -succession of bright, unsteady visions created by his sick fantasy. Scenes from his -childhood, long forgotten, bubbled up and disappeared. Unknown, hideous faces crowded in -upon him; old friends revisited him. He was living in a bewildering mixture of the -familiar and the strange. And all the while, across this changing unsubstantial world, -there hurried a continual, interminable procession of dromedariesâcountless high-domed -beasts, with gargoyle faces and stiff legs and necks that bobbed as though on springs. Do -what he could, he was unable to drive them away. He lost his temper with the brutes at -last, struck at them, shouted; but in vain. The room rang with his cries of, âGet away, -you beasts. Bloody humps. None of your nonconformist faces here.â And while <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-112">[Pg 112]</a></span>he was yelling and -gesticulating (with his left hand only), his right hand was still busily engaged in -writing. The words were clear and legible; the sentences consecutive and eminently sane. -Dick might rave, but Pearl Bellairs remained calm and in full possession of her deplorable -faculties. And what was Pearl doing with her busy pencil, while Dick, like a frenzied -Betsy Trotwood, shouted at the trespassing camels? The first thing she did was to scratch -out all that poor Dick had said about the war. Underneath it she wrote:</p> - -<p>âWe shall not sheathe the sword, which we have not lightly . . .â And then, -evidently finding that memorable sentence too long, particularly so since the addition of -Poland and Czecho-Slovakia to the list of Allies, she began again.</p> - -<p>âWe are fighting for honour and the defence of Small Nationalities. Plucky little -Belgium! We went into the war with clean hands.â</p> - -<p>A little of Pearlâs thought seemed at this moment to have slopped over into Dickâs -mind; for he suddenly stopped abusing his dromedaries and began to cry <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-113">[Pg 113]</a></span>out in the most -pitiable fashion, âClean hands, clean hands! I canât get mine clean. I canât, I canât, I -canât. I contaminate everything.â And he kept rubbing his left hand against the -bed-clothes and putting his fingers to his nose, only to exclaim, âUgh, they still stink -of goat!â and then to start rubbing again.</p> - -<p>The right hand wrote on unperturbed. âNo peace with the Hun until he is crushed and -humiliated. Self-respecting Britons will refuse to shake a Hunnish hand for many a long -year after the war. No more German waiters. Intern the Forty-Seven Thousand Hidden Hands -in High Places!â</p> - -<p>At this point, Pearl seemed to have been struck by a new idea. She took a clean page -and began:</p> - -<p>âTo the Girls of England. I am a woman and proud of the fact. But, girls, I blushed for -my sex to-day when I read in the papers that there had been cases of English girls talking -to Hun prisoners, and not only talking to them, but allowing themselves to be kissed by -them. Imagine! Clean, healthy British girls allowing themselves to be kissed by the -swinish and <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-114">[Pg -114]</a></span>bloodstained lips of the unspeakable Hun! Do you wonder that I blush for my -sex? Stands England where she did? No, emphatically no, if these stories are true, and -trueâsadly and with a heavy bleeding heart do I admit itâtrue they are.â</p> - -<p>âClean hands, clean hands,â Dick was still muttering, and applying his ringers to his -nose once more, âChrist,â he cried, âhow they stink! Goats, dung . . .â</p> - -<p>âIs there any excuse for such conduct?â the pencil continued. âThe most that can be -said in palliation of the offence is that girls are thoughtless, that they do not consider -the full significance of their actions. But listen to me, girls of all ages, classes and -creeds, from the blue-eyed, light-hearted flapper of sixteen to the stern-faced, -hard-headed business womanâlisten to me. There is a girlish charm about thoughtlessness, -but there is a point beyond which thoughtlessness becomes criminal. A flapper may kiss a -Hun without thinking what she is doing, merely for the fun of the thing; perhaps, even, -out of misguided pity. Will she repeat the offence if she realizes, as she <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-115">[Pg 115]</a></span>must realize if she -will only think, that this thoughtless fun, this mawkish and hysterical pity, is nothing -less than Treason? Treasonâit is a sinister word, but . . .â</p> - -<p>The pencil stopped writing; even Pearl was beginning to grow tired. Dickâs shouting had -died away to a hoarse, faint whisper. Suddenly her attention was caught by the last words -that Dick had writtenâthe injunction to send his body, if he died, to a hospital for an -anatomy. She put forth a great effort.</p> - -<p>âNO. NO,â she wrote in huge capitals. âBury me in a little country churchyard, with -lovely marble angels like the ones in St. Georgeâs at Windsor, over Princess Charlotteâs -tomb. Not anatomy. Too horrible, too disgus . . .â</p> - -<p>The coma which had blotted out Dickâs mind fell now upon hers as well. Two hours later -Dick Greenow was dead; the fingers of his right hand still grasped a pencil. The scribbled -papers were thrown away as being merely the written ravings of a madman; they were -accustomed that sort of thing at the asylum.</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-116">[Pg 116]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Happily"><a href="#Happily_toc">HAPPILY EVER AFTER</a></h3> - -<h4 class="first" id="Happily_01">I</h4> - -<p class="noindent">A<small>T</small> the best of times it is a long way from Chicago to -Blaybury in Wiltshire, but war has fixed between them a great gulf. In the circumstances, -therefore, it seemed an act of singular devotion on the part of Peter Jacobsen to have -come all the way from the Middle West, in the fourth year of war, on a visit to his old -friend Petherton, when the project entailed a single-handed struggle with two Great Powers -over the question of passports and the risk, when they had been obtained, of perishing -miserably by the way, a victim of frightfulness.</p> - -<p>At the expense of much time and more trouble Jacobsen had at last arrived; the gulf -between Chicago and Blaybury was spanned. In the hall of Pethertonâs house a scene of -welcome was being enacted under the dim gaze of six or seven <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-117">[Pg 117]</a></span>brown family portraits by unknown masters -of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.</p> - -<p>Old Alfred Petherton, a grey shawl over his shouldersâfor he had to be careful, even in -June, of draughts and coldsâwas shaking his guestâs hand with interminable cordiality.</p> - -<p>âMy dear boy,â he kept repeating, âit <i>is</i> a pleasure to see you. My dear boy -. . .â</p> - -<p>Jacobsen limply abandoned his forearm and waited in patience.</p> - -<p>âI can never be grateful enough,â Mr. Petherton went onâânever grateful enough to you -for having taken all this endless trouble to come and see an old decrepit manâfor thatâs -what I am now, thatâs what I am, believe me.â</p> - -<p>âOh, I assure you . . .â said Jacobsen, with vague deprecation. âLe vieux -crĂŠtin qui pleurniche,â he said to himself. French was a wonderfully expressive language, -to be sure.</p> - -<p>âMy digestion and my heart have got much worse since I saw you last. But I think I must -have told you about that in my letters.â</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-118">[Pg 118]</a></span></p> - -<p>âYou did indeed, and I was most grieved to hear it.â</p> - -<p>âGrievedââwhat a curious flavour that word had! Like somebodyâs tea which used to -recall the most delicious blends of forty years ago. But it was decidedly the <i>mot -juste</i>. It had the right obituary note about it.</p> - -<p>âYes,â Mr. Petherton continued, âmy palpitations are very bad now. Arenât they, -Marjorie?â He appealed to his daughter who was standing beside him.</p> - -<p>âFatherâs palpitations are very bad,â she replied dutifully.</p> - -<p>It was as though they were talking about some precious heirloom long and lovingly -cherished.</p> - -<p>âAnd my digestion. . . . This physical infirmity makes all mental activity so -difficult. All the same, I manage to do a little useful work. Weâll discuss that later, -though. You must be feeling tired and dusty after your journey down. Iâll guide you to -your room. Marjorie, will you get someone to take up his luggage?â</p> - -<p>âI can take it myself,â said Jacobsen, and he picked up a small gladstone-bag that had -been deposited by the door.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-119">[Pg 119]</a></span></p> - -<p>âIs that all?â Mr. Petherton asked.</p> - -<p>âYes, thatâs all.â</p> - -<p>As one living the life of reason, Jacobsen objected to owning things. One so easily -became the slave of things and not their master. He liked to be free; he checked his -possessive instincts and limited his possessions to the strictly essential. He was as much -or as little at home at Blaybury or Pekin. He could have explained all this if he liked. -But in the present case it wasnât worth taking the trouble.</p> - -<p>âThis is your humble chamber,â said Mr. Petherton, throwing open the door of what was, -indeed, a very handsome spare-room, bright with chintzes and cut flowers and silver -candlesticks. âA poor thing, but your own.â</p> - -<p>Courtly grace! Dear old man! Apt quotation! Jacobsen unpacked his bag and arranged its -contents neatly and methodically in the various drawers and shelves of the wardrobe.</p> - -<p class="transition"> </p> - -<p>It was a good many years now since Jacobsen had come in the course of his grand -educational tour to Oxford. He <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-120">[Pg -120]</a></span>spent a couple of years there, for he liked the place, and its inhabitants -were a source of unfailing amusement to him.</p> - -<p>A Norwegian, born in the Argentine, educated in the United States, in France, and in -Germany; a man with no nationality and no prejudices, enormously old in experience, he -found something very new and fresh and entertaining about his fellow-students with their -comic public-school traditions and fabulous ignorance of the world. He had quietly watched -them doing their little antics, feeling all the time that a row of bars separated them -from himself, and that he ought, after each particularly amusing trick, to offer them a -bun or a handful of pea-nuts. In the intervals of sight-seeing in this strange and -delightful Jardin des Plantes he read Greats, and it was through Aristotle that he had -come into contact with Alfred Petherton, fellow and tutor of his college.</p> - -<p>The name of Petherton is a respectable one in the academic world. You will find it on -the title-page of such meritorious, if not exactly brilliant, books as <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-121">[Pg 121]</a></span><i>Platoâs -Predecessors</i>, <i>Three Scottish Metaphysicians</i>, <i>Introduction to the Study of -Ethics</i>, <i>Essays in Neo-Idealism</i>. Some of his works are published in cheap -editions as text-books.</p> - -<p>One of those curious inexplicable friendships that often link the most unlikely people -had sprung up between tutor and pupil, and had lasted unbroken for upwards of twenty -years. Petherton felt a fatherly affection for the younger man, together with a fatherâs -pride, now that Jacobsen was a man of world-wide reputation, in having, as he supposed, -spiritually begotten him. And now Jacobsen had travelled three or four thousand miles -across a world at war just to see the old man. Petherton was profoundly touched.</p> - -<p class="transition"> </p> - -<p>âDid you see any submarines on the way over?â Marjorie asked, as she and Jacobsen were -strolling together in the garden after breakfast the next day.</p> - -<p>âI didnât notice any; but then I am very unobservant about these things.â</p> - -<p>There was a pause. At last, âI suppose <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-122">[Pg 122]</a></span>there is a great deal of war-work being done in America -now?â said Marjorie.</p> - -<p>Jacobsen supposed so; and there floated across his mind a vision of massed bands, of -orators with megaphones, of patriotic sky-signs, of streets made perilous by the organized -highway robbery of Red Cross collectors. He was too lazy to describe it all; besides, she -wouldnât see the point of it.</p> - -<p>âI should like to be able to do some war-work,â Marjorie explained apologetically. âBut -I have to look after father, and thereâs the housekeeping, so I really havenât the -time.â</p> - -<p>Jacobsen thought he detected a formula for the benefit of strangers. She evidently -wanted to make things right about herself in peopleâs minds. Her remark about the -housekeeping made Jacobsen think of the late Mrs. Petherton, her mother; she had been a -good-looking, painfully sprightly woman with a hankering to shine in University society at -Oxford. One quickly learned that she was related to bishops and country families; a hunter -of ecclesiastical <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-123">[Pg -123]</a></span>lions and a snob. He felt glad she was dead.</p> - -<p>âWonât it be awful when thereâs no war-work,â he said. âPeople will have nothing to do -or think about when peace comes.â</p> - -<p>âI shall be glad. Housekeeping will be so much easier.â</p> - -<p>âTrue. There are consolations.â</p> - -<p>Marjorie looked at him suspiciously; she didnât like being laughed at. What an -undistinguished-looking little man he was! Short, stoutish, with waxed brown moustaches -and a forehead that incipient baldness had made interminably high. He looked like the sort -of man to whom one says: âThank you, Iâll take it in notes with a poundâs worth of -silver.â There were pouches under his eyes and pouches under his chin, and you could never -guess from his expression what he was thinking about. She was glad that she was taller -than he and could look down on him.</p> - -<p>Mr. Petherton appeared from the house, his grey shawl over his shoulders and the -crackling expanse of the <i>Times</i> between his hands.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-124">[Pg 124]</a></span></p> - -<p>âGood morrow,â he cried.</p> - -<p>To the Shakespearian heartiness of this greeting Marjorie returned her most icily -modern âMorning.â Her father always said âGood morrowâ instead of âGood morning,â and the -fact irritated her with unfailing regularity every day of her life.</p> - -<p>âThereâs a most interesting account,â said Mr. Petherton, âby a young pilot of an air -fight in to-dayâs paper,â and as they walked up and down the gravel path he read the -article, which was a column and a half in length.</p> - -<p>Marjorie made no attempt to disguise her boredom, and occupied herself by reading -something on the other side of the page, craning her neck round to see.</p> - -<p>âVery interesting,â said Jacobsen when it was finished.</p> - -<p>Mr. Petherton had turned over and was now looking at the Court Circular page.</p> - -<p>âI see,â he said, âthereâs someone called Beryl Camberley-Belcher going to be married. -Do you know if thatâs any relation of the Howard Camberley-Belchers, Marjorie?â</p> - -<p>âIâve no idea who the Howard Camberley-Belchers <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-125">[Pg 125]</a></span>are,â Marjorie answered rather -sharply.</p> - -<p>âOh, I thought you did. Let me see. Howard Camberley-Belcher was at college with me. -And he had a brother called Jamesâor was it William?âand a sister who married one of the -Riders, or at any rate some relation of the Riders; for I know the Camberley-Belchers and -the Riders used to fit in somewhere. Dear me, Iâm afraid my memory for names is -going.â</p> - -<p>Marjorie went indoors to prepare the dayâs domestic campaign with the cook. When that -was over she retired to her sitting-room and unlocked her very private desk. She must -write to Guy this morning. Marjorie had known Guy Lambourne for years and years, almost as -long as she could remember. The Lambournes were old family friends of the Pethertons: -indeed they were, distantly, connections; they âfitted in somewhere,â as Mr. Petherton -would sayâsomewhere, about a couple of generations back. Marjorie was two years younger -than Guy; they were both only children; circumstances had naturally thrown them <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-126">[Pg 126]</a></span>a great deal together. -Then Guyâs father had died, and not long afterwards his mother, and at the age of -seventeen Guy had actually come to live with the Pethertons, for the old man was his -guardian. And now they were engaged; had been, more or less, from the first year of the -war.</p> - -<p>Marjorie took pen, ink, and paper. âD<small>EAR</small> G<small>UY</small>,â she -beganâ(â<i>We</i> arenât sentimental,â she had once remarked, with a mixture of contempt -and secret envy, to a friend who had confided that she and her fiancĂŠ never began with -anything less than Darling.)ââI am longing for another of your letters. . . .â -She went through the usual litany of longing. âIt was fatherâs birthday yesterday; he is -sixty-five. I cannot bear to think that some day you and I will be as old as that. Aunt -Ellen sent him a Stilton cheeseâa useful war-time present. How boring housekeeping is. By -dint of thinking about cheeses my mind is rapidly turning into oneâa Gruyère; where there -isnât cheese there are just holes, full of vacuum . . .â</p> - -<p>She didnât really mind housekeeping so <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-127">[Pg 127]</a></span>much. She took it for granted, and did it just because it -was there to be done. Guy, on the contrary, never took anything for granted; she made -these demonstrations for his benefit.</p> - -<p>âI read Keatsâs letters, as you suggested, and thought them <i>too</i> beautiful -. . .â</p> - -<p>At the end of a page of rapture she paused and bit her pen. What was there to say next? -It seemed absurd one should have to write letters about the books one had been reading. -But there was nothing else to write about; nothing ever happened. After all, what had -happened in her life? Her mother dying when she was sixteen; then the excitement of Guy -coming to live with them; then the war, but that hadnât meant much to her; then Guy -falling in love, and their getting engaged. That was really all. She wished she could -write about her feelings in an accurate, complicated way, like people in novels; but when -she came to think about it, she didnât seem to have any feelings to describe.</p> - -<p>She looked at Guyâs last letter from France. âSometimes,â he had written, âI am -tortured by an intense physical <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-128">[Pg -128]</a></span>desire for you. I can think of nothing but your beauty, your young, strong -body. I hate that; I have to struggle to repress it. Do you forgive me?â It rather -thrilled her that he should feel like that about her: he had always been so cold, so -reserved, so much opposed to sentimentalityâto the kisses and endearments she would, -perhaps, secretly have liked. But he had seemed so right when he said, âWe must love like -rational beings, with our minds, not with our hands and lips.â All the same -. . .</p> - -<p>She dipped her pen in the ink and began to write again. âI know the feelings you spoke -of in your letter. Sometimes I long for you in the same way. I dreamt the other night I -was holding you in my arms, and woke up hugging the pillow.â She looked at what she had -written. It was too awful, too vulgar! She would have to scratch it out. But no, she would -leave it in spite of everything, just to see what he would think about it. She finished -the letter quickly, sealed and stamped it, and rang for the maid to take it to the post. -When the servant had gone, she shut up her desk with a bang. Bangâthe letter had gone, -irrevocably.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-129">[Pg 129]</a></span></p> - -<p>She picked up a large book lying on the table and began to read. It was the first -volume of the <i>Decline and Fall</i>. Guy had said she must read Gibbon; she wouldnât be -educated till she had read Gibbon. And so yesterday she had gone to her father in his -library to get the book.</p> - -<p>âGibbon,â Mr. Petherton had said, âcertainly, my dear. How delightful it is to look at -these grand old books again. One always finds something new every time.â</p> - -<p>Marjorie gave him to understand that she had never read it. She felt rather proud of -her ignorance.</p> - -<p>Mr. Petherton handed the first of eleven volumes to her. âA great book,â he -murmuredââan essential book. It fills the gap between your classical history and your -mediĂŚval stuff.â</p> - -<p>âYourâ classical history, Marjorie repeated to herself, âyourâ classical history -indeed! Her father had an irritating way of taking it for granted that she knew -everything, that classical history was as much hers as his. Only a day or two before he -had turned to her at luncheon with, âDo you remember, dear <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-130">[Pg 130]</a></span>child, whether it was Pomponazzi who -denied the personal immortality of the soul, or else that queer fellow, Laurentius Valla? -Itâs gone out of my head for the moment.â Marjorie had quite lost her temper at the -questionâmuch to the innocent bewilderment of her poor father.</p> - -<p>She had set to work with energy on the Gibbon; her bookmarker registered the fact that -she had got through one hundred and twenty-three pages yesterday. Marjorie started -reading. After two pages she stopped. She looked at the number of pages still remaining to -be readâand this was only the first volume. She felt like a wasp sitting down to eat a -vegetable marrow. Gibbonâs bulk was not perceptibly diminished by her first bite. It was -too long. She shut the book and went out for a walk. Passing the Whitesâ house, she saw -her friend, Beatrice White that was, sitting on the lawn with her two babies. Beatrice -hailed her, and she turned in.</p> - -<p>âPat a cake, pat a cake,â she said. At the age of ten months, baby John had already -learnt the art of patting cakes. He slapped the outstretched hand offered <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-131">[Pg 131]</a></span>him, and his face, -round and smooth and pink like an enormous peach, beamed with pleasure.</p> - -<p>âIsnât he a darling!â Marjorie exclaimed. âYou know, Iâm sure heâs grown since last I -saw him, which was on Tuesday.â</p> - -<p>âHe put on eleven ounces last week,â Beatrice affirmed.</p> - -<p>âHow wonderful! His hairâs coming on splendidly . . .â</p> - -<p class="transition"> </p> - -<p>It was Sunday the next day. Jacobsen appeared at breakfast in the neatest of black -suits. He looked, Marjorie thought, more than ever like a cashier. She longed to tell him -to hurry up or heâd miss the 8.53 for the second time this week and the manager would be -annoyed. Marjorie herself was, rather consciously, not in Sunday best.</p> - -<p>âWhat is the name of the Vicar?â Jacobsen inquired, as he helped himself to bacon.</p> - -<p>âTrubshaw. Luke Trubshaw, I believe.â</p> - -<p>âDoes he preach well?â</p> - -<p>âHe didnât when I used to hear him. <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-132">[Pg 132]</a></span>But I donât often go to church now, so I donât know what -heâs like these days.â</p> - -<p>âWhy donât you go to church?â Jacobsen inquired, with a silkiness of tone which veiled -the crude outlines of his leading question.</p> - -<p>Marjorie was painfully conscious of blushing. She was filled with rage against -Jacobsen. âBecause,â she said firmly, âI donât think it necessary to give expression to my -religious feelings by making a lot ofââshe hesitated a momentââa lot of meaningless -gestures with a crowd of other people.â</p> - -<p>âYou used to go,â said Jacobsen.</p> - -<p>âWhen I was a child and hadnât thought about these things.â</p> - -<p>Jacobsen was silent, and concealed a smile in his coffee-cup. Really, he said to -himself, there ought to be religious conscription for womenâand for most men, too. It was -grotesque the way these people thought they could stand by themselvesâthe fools, when -there was the infinite authority of organized religion to support their ridiculous -feebleness.</p> - -<p>âDoes Lambourne go to church?â <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-133">[Pg 133]</a></span>he asked maliciously, and with an air of perfect naĂŻvetĂŠ -and good faith.</p> - -<p>Marjorie coloured again, and a fresh wave of hatred surged up within her. Even as she -had said the words she had wondered whether Jacobsen would notice that the phrase -âmeaningless gesturesâ didnât ring very much like one of her own coinages. âGestureââthat -was one of Guyâs words, like âincredible,â âexacerbate,â âimpinge,â âsinister.â Of course -all her present views about religion had come from Guy. She looked Jacobsen straight in -the face and replied:</p> - -<p>âYes, I think he goes to church pretty regularly. But I really donât know: his religion -has nothing to do with me.â</p> - -<p>Jacobsen was lost in delight and admiration.</p> - -<p>Punctually at twenty minutes to eleven he set out for church. From where she was -sitting in the summer-house Marjorie watched him as he crossed the garden, incredibly -absurd and incongruous in his black clothes among the blazing flowers and the young -emerald of the trees. Now he was hidden behind the sweet-briar hedge, all except the hard -black melon of <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-134">[Pg -134]</a></span>his bowler hat, which she could see bobbing along between the topmost -sprays.</p> - -<p>She went on with her letter to Guy. â. . . What a strange man Mr. Jacobsen -is. I suppose he is very clever, but I canât get very much out of him. We had an argument -about religion at breakfast this morning; I rather scored off him. He has now gone off to -church all by himself;âI really couldnât face the prospect of going with himâI hope heâll -enjoy old Mr. Trubshawâs preaching!â</p> - -<p>Jacobsen did enjoy Mr. Trubshawâs preaching enormously. He always made a point, in -whatever part of Christendom he happened to be, of attending divine service. He had the -greatest admiration of churches as institutions. In their solidity and unchangeableness he -saw one of the few hopes for humanity. Further, he derived great pleasure from comparing -the Church as an institutionâsplendid, powerful, eternalâwith the childish imbecility of -its representatives. How delightful it was to sit in the herded congregation and listen to -the sincere outpourings of an intellect only a little less limited than that of an -Australian <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-135">[Pg -135]</a></span>aboriginal! How restful to feel oneself a member of a flock, guided by a -good shepherdâhimself a sheep! Then there was the scientific interest (he went to church -as student of anthropology, as a Freudian psychologist) and the philosophic amusement of -counting the undistributed middles and tabulating historically the exploded fallacies in -the parsonâs discourse.</p> - -<p>To-day Mr. Trubshaw preached a topical sermon about the Irish situation. His was the -gospel of the <i>Morning Post</i>, slightly tempered by Christianity. It was our duty, he -said, to pray for the Irish first of all, and if that had no effect upon recruiting, why, -then, we must conscribe them as zealously as we had prayed before.</p> - -<p>Jacobsen leaned back in his pew with a sigh of contentment. A connoisseur, he -recognized that this was the right stuff.</p> - -<p>âWell,â said Mr. Petherton over the Sunday beef at lunch, âhow did you like our dear -Vicar?â</p> - -<p>âHe was splendid,â said Jacobsen, with grave enthusiasm. âOne of the best sermons Iâve -ever heard.â</p> - -<p>âIndeed? I shall really have to go and <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-136">[Pg 136]</a></span>hear him again. It must be nearly ten years since I -listened to him.â</p> - -<p>âHeâs inimitable.â</p> - -<p>Marjorie looked at Jacobsen carefully. He seemed to be perfectly serious. She was more -than ever puzzled by the man.</p> - -<p>The days went slipping by, hot blue days that passed like a flash almost without oneâs -noticing them, cold grey days, seeming interminable and without number, and about which -one spoke with a sense of justified grievance, for the season was supposed to be summer. -There was fighting going on in Franceâterrific battles, to judge from the headlines in the -<i>Times</i>; but, after all, one dayâs paper was very much like anotherâs. Marjorie read -them dutifully, but didnât honestly take in very much; at least she forgot about things -very soon. She couldnât keep count with the battles of Ypres, and when somebody told her -that she ought to go and see the photographs of the <i>Vindictive</i>, she smiled vaguely -and said Yes, without remembering precisely what the <i>Vindictive</i> wasâa ship, she -supposed.</p> - -<p>Guy was in France, to be sure, but he was an Intelligence Officer now, so that <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-137">[Pg 137]</a></span>she was hardly anxious -about him at all. Clergymen used to say that the war was bringing us all back to a sense -of the fundamental realities of life. She supposed it was true: Guyâs enforced absences -were a pain to her, and the difficulties of housekeeping continually increased and -multiplied.</p> - -<p>Mr. Petherton took a more intelligent interest in the war than did his daughter. He -prided himself on being able to see the thing as a whole, on taking an historical, -Godâs-eye view of it all. He talked about it at meal-times, insisting that the world must -be made safe for democracy. Between meals he sat in the library working at his monumental -History of Morals. To his dinner-table disquisitions Marjorie would listen more or less -attentively, Jacobsen with an unfailing, bright, intelligent politeness. Jacobsen himself -rarely volunteered a remark about the war; it was taken for granted that he thought about -it in the same way as all other right-thinking folk. Between meals he worked in his room -or discussed the morals of the Italian Renaissance with his host. Marjorie <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-138">[Pg 138]</a></span>could write to Guy -that nothing was happening, and that but for his absence and the weather interfering so -much with tennis, she would be perfectly happy.</p> - -<p>Into the midst of this placidity there fell, delightful bolt from the blue, the -announcement that Guy was getting leave at the end of July. âD<small>ARLING</small>,â -Marjorie wrote, âI am so excited to think that you will be with me in such a littleâsuch a -long, long time.â Indeed, she was so excited and delighted that she realized with a touch -of remorse how comparatively little she had thought of him when there seemed no chance of -seeing him, how dim a figure in absence he was. A week later she heard that George White -had arranged to get leave at the same time so as to see Guy. She was glad; George was a -charming boy, and Guy was so fond of him. The Whites were their nearest neighbours, and -ever since Guy had come to live at Blaybury he had seen a great deal of young George.</p> - -<p>âWe shall be a most festive party,â said Mr. Petherton. âRoger will be coming to us -just at the same time as Guy.â</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-139">[Pg 139]</a></span></p> - -<p>âIâd quite forgotten Uncle Roger,â said Marjorie. âOf course, his holidays begin then, -donât they?â</p> - -<p>The Reverend Roger was Alfred Pethertonâs brother and a master at one of our most -glorious public schools. Marjorie hardly agreed with her father in thinking that his -presence would add anything to the âfestivenessâ of the party. It was a pity he should be -coming at this particular moment. However, we all have our little cross to bear.</p> - -<p>Mr. Petherton was feeling playful. âWe must bring down,â he said, âthe choicest -Falernian, bottled when Gladstone was consul, for the occasion. We must prepare wreaths -and unguents and hire a flute player and a couple of dancing girls . . .â</p> - -<p>He spent the rest of the meal in quoting Horace, Catullus, the Greek Anthology, -Petronius, and Sidonius Apollinarius. Marjorieâs knowledge of the dead languages was -decidedly limited. Her thoughts were elsewhere, and it was only dimly and as it were -through a mist that she heard her father murmuringâwhether merely to himself or with the -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-140">[Pg 140]</a></span>hope of -eliciting an answer from somebody, she hardly knewââLet me see: how does that epigram -go?âthat one about the different kinds of fish and the garlands of roses, by Meleager, or -is it Poseidippus? . . .â</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h4 id="Happily_02">II</h4> - -<p class="noindent">G<small>UY</small> and Jacobsen were walking in the Dutch garden, an -incongruous couple. On Guy military servitude had left no outwardly visible mark; out of -uniform, he still looked like a tall, untidy undergraduate; he stooped and drooped as much -as ever; his hair was still bushy and, to judge by the dim expression of his face, he had -not yet learnt to think imperially. His khaki always looked like a disguise, like the most -absurd fancy dress. Jacobsen trotted beside him, short, fattish, very sleek, and correct. -They talked in a desultory way about things indifferent. Guy, anxious for a little -intellectual exercise after so many months of discipline, had been trying to inveigle his -companion into a philosophical discussion. Jacobsen consistently <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-141"> [Pg -141]</a></span>eluded his efforts; he was too lazy to talk seriously; there was no profit -that he could see to be got out of this young manâs opinions, and he had not the faintest -desire to make a disciple. He preferred, therefore, to discuss the war and the weather. It -irritated him that people should want to trespass on the domain of thoughtâpeople who had -no right to live anywhere but on the vegetative plane of mere existence. He wished they -would simply be content to <i>be</i> or <i>do</i>, not try, so hopelessly, to think, when -only one in a million can think with the least profit to himself or anyone else.</p> - -<p>Out of the corner of his eye he looked at the dark, sensitive face of his companion; he -ought to have gone into business at eighteen, was Jacobsenâs verdict. It was bad for him -to think; he wasnât strong enough.</p> - -<p>A great sound of barking broke upon the calm of the garden. Looking up, the two -strollers saw George White running across the green turf of the croquet lawn with a huge -fawn-coloured dog bounding along at his side.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-142">[Pg 142]</a></span></p> - -<p>âMorning,â he shouted. He was hatless and out of breath. âI was taking Bella for a run, -and thought Iâd look in and see how you all were.â</p> - -<p>âWhat a lovely dog!â Jacobsen exclaimed.</p> - -<p>âAn old English mastiff ourâone aboriginal dog. She has a pedigree going straight back -to Edward the Confessor.â</p> - -<p>Jacobsen began a lively conversation with George on the virtues and shortcomings of -dogs. Bella smelt his calves and then lifted up her gentle black eyes to look at him. She -seemed satisfied.</p> - -<p>He looked at them for a little; they were too much absorbed in their doggy conversation -to pay attention to him. He made a gesture as though he had suddenly remembered something, -gave a little grunt, and with a very preoccupied expression on his face turned to go -towards the house. His elaborate piece of by-play escaped the notice of the intended -spectators; Guy saw that it had, and felt more miserable and angry and jealous than ever. -They would think he had slunk off because he wasnât wantedâwhich was quite trueâinstead -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-143">[Pg 143]</a></span>of believing -that he had something very important to do, which was what he had intended they should -believe.</p> - -<p>A cloud of self-doubt settled upon him. Was his mind, after all, worthless, and the -little things he had writtenârubbish, not potential genius as he had hoped? Jacobsen was -right in preferring Georgeâs company. George was perfect, physically, a splendid creature; -what could he himself claim?</p> - -<p>âIâm second-rate,â he thoughtââsecond-rate, physically, morally, mentally. Jacobsen is -quite right.â</p> - -<p>The best he could hope to be was a pedestrian literary man with quiet tastes.</p> - -<p>NO, no, no! He clenched his hands and, as though to register his resolve before the -universe, he said, aloud:</p> - -<p>âI will do it; I will be first-rate, I will.â</p> - -<p>He was covered with confusion on seeing a gardener pop up, surprised from behind a bank -of rose-bushes. Talking to himselfâthe man must have thought him mad!</p> - -<p>He hurried on across the lawn, entered the house, and ran upstairs to his room. <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-144">[Pg 144]</a></span>There was not a second -to lose; he must begin at once. He would write somethingâsomething that would last, solid, -hard, shining. . . .</p> - -<p>âDamn them all! I will do it, I can . . .â</p> - -<p>There were writing materials and a table in his room. He selected a penâwith a Relief -nib he would be able to go on for hours without getting tiredâand a large square sheet of -writing-paper.</p> - -<blockquote class="stationery"> -<p class="house">âH<small>ATCH</small> H<small>OUSE</small>,</p> - -<p class="town">B<small>LAYBURY</small>,</p> - -<p class="county">W<small>ILTS</small>.</p> - -<p>Station: Cogham, 3 miles; Nobes Monacorum, 4½ miles.â</p> -</blockquote> - -<p>Stupid of people to have their stationery printed in red, when black or blue is so much -nicer! He inked over the letters.</p> - -<p>He held up the paper to the light; there was a watermark, âPimlico Bond.â What an -admirable name for the hero of a novel! Pimlico Bond. . . .</p> - -<blockquote class="verse"> -<p class="i2">âThereâs be-eef in the la-arder</p> - -<p class="i2a">And du-ucks in the pond;</p> - -<p class="i2a">Crying dilly dilly, dilly dilly . . .â</p> -</blockquote> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-145">[Pg 145]</a></span></p> - -<p class="noindent">He bit the end of his pen. âWhat I want to get,â he said to himself, -âis something very hard, very external. Intense emotion, but one will somehow have got -outside it.â He made a movement of hands, arms, and shoulders, tightening his muscles in -an effort to express to himself physically that hardness and tightness and firmness of -style after which he was struggling!</p> - -<p>He began to draw on his virgin paper. A woman, naked, one arm lifted over her head, so -that it pulled up her breast by that wonderful curving muscle that comes down from the -shoulder. The inner surface of the thighs, remember, is slightly concave. The feet, seen -from the front, are always a difficulty.</p> - -<p>It would never do to leave that about. What would the servants think? He turned the -nipples into eyes, drew heavy lines for nose, mouth, and chin, slopped on the ink thick; -it made a passable face nowâthough an acute observer might have detected the original -nudity. He tore it up into very small pieces.</p> - -<p>A crescendo booming filled the house. It was the gong. He looked at his watch. <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-146">[Pg 146]</a></span>Lunch-time, and he had -done nothing. O God! . . .</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h4 id="Happily_03">III</h4> - -<p class="noindent">I<small>T</small> was dinner-time on the last evening of Guyâs leave. -The uncovered mahogany table was like a pool of brown unruffled water within whose depths -flowers and the glinting shapes of glass and silver hung dimly reflected. Mr. Petherton -sat at the head of the board, flanked by his brother Roger and Jacobsen. Youth, in the -persons of Marjorie, Guy, and George White, had collected at the other end. They had -reached the stage of dessert.</p> - -<p>âThis is excellent port,â said Roger, sleek and glossy like a well-fed black cob under -his silken clerical waistcoat. He was a strong, thick-set man of about fifty, with a red -neck as thick as his head. His hair was cropped with military closeness; he liked to set a -good example to the boys, some of whom showed distressing âĂŚstheticâ tendencies and wore -their hair long.</p> - -<p>âIâm glad you like it. I maynât touch it myself, of course. Have another <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-147">[Pg 147]</a></span>glass.â Alfred -Pethertonâs face wore an expression of dyspeptic melancholy. He was wishing he hadnât -taken quite so much of that duck.</p> - -<p>âThank you, I will.â Roger took the decanter with a smile of satisfaction. âThe tired -schoolmaster is worthy of his second glass. White, you look rather pale; I think you must -have another.â Roger had a hearty, jocular manner, calculated to prove to his pupils that -he was not one of the slimy sort of parsons, not a Creeping Jesus.</p> - -<p>There was an absorbing conversation going on at the youthful end of the table. Secretly -irritated at having been thus interrupted in the middle of it, White turned round and -smiled vaguely at Roger.</p> - -<p>âOh, thank you, sir,â he said, and pushed his glass forward to be filled. The âsirâ -slipped out unawares; it was, after all, such a little while since he had been a schoolboy -under Rogerâs dominion.</p> - -<p>âOne is lucky,â Roger went on seriously, âto get any port wine at all now. Iâm thankful -to say I bought ten dozen <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-148">[Pg -148]</a></span>from my old college some years ago to lay down; otherwise I donât know what -I should do. My wine merchant tells me he couldnât let me have a single bottle. Indeed, he -offered to buy some off me, if Iâd sell. But I wasnât having any. A bottle in the cellar -is worth ten shillings in the pocket these days. I always say that port has become a -necessity now one gets so little meat. Lambourne! you are another of our brave defenders; -you deserve a second glass.â</p> - -<p>âNo, thanks,â said Guy, hardly looking up. âIâve had enough.â He went on talking to -Marjorieâabout the different views of life held by the French and the Russians.</p> - -<p>Roger helped himself to cherries. âOne has to select them carefully,â he remarked for -the benefit of the unwillingly listening George. âThere is nothing that gives you such -stomach-aches as unripe cherries.â</p> - -<p>âI expect youâre glad, Mr. Petherton, that holidays have begun at last?â said -Jacobsen.</p> - -<p>âGlad? I should think so. One is <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-149">[Pg 149]</a></span>utterly dead beat at the end of the summer term. Isnât -one, White?â</p> - -<p>White had taken the opportunity to turn back again and listen to Guyâs conversation; -recalled, like a dog who has started off on a forbidden scent, he obediently assented that -one did get tired at the end of the summer term.</p> - -<p>âI suppose,â said Jacobsen, âyou still teach the same old thingsâCĂŚsar, Latin verses, -Greek grammar, and the rest? We Americans can hardly believe that all that still goes -on.â</p> - -<p>âThank goodness,â said Roger, âwe still hammer a little solid stuff into them. But -thereâs been a great deal of fuss lately about new curriculums and so forth. They do a lot -of science now and things of that kind, but I donât believe the children learn anything at -all. Itâs pure waste of time.â</p> - -<p>âSo is all education, I dare say,â said Jacobsen lightly.</p> - -<p>âNot if you teach them discipline. Thatâs whatâs wantedâdiscipline. Most of these -little boys need plenty of beating, and they donât get enough now. Besides, if you canât -hammer knowledge <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-150">[Pg -150]</a></span>in at their heads, you can at least beat a little in at their tails.â</p> - -<p>âYouâre very ferocious, Roger,â said Mr. Petherton, smiling. He was feeling better; the -duck was settling down.</p> - -<p>âNo, itâs the vital thing. The best thing the war has brought us is discipline. The -country had got slack and wanted tightening up.â Rogerâs face glowed with zeal.</p> - -<p>From the other end of the table Guyâs voice could be heard saying, âDo you know CĂŠsar -Franckâs âDieu sâavance Ă travers la landeâ? Itâs one of the finest bits of religious -music I know.â</p> - -<p>Mr. Pethertonâs face lighted up; he leaned forward. âNo,â he said, throwing his answer -unexpectedly into the midst of the young peopleâs conversation. âI donât know it; but do -you know this? Wait a minute.â He knitted his brows, and his lips moved as though he were -trying to recapture a formula. âAh, Iâve got it. Now, can you tell me this? The name of -what famous piece of religious music do I utter when I order an old carpenter, once a -Liberal <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-151">[Pg 151]</a></span>but now -a renegade to Conservatism, to make a hive for bees?â</p> - -<p>Guy gave it up; his guardian beamed delightedly.</p> - -<p>âHoary Tory, oh, Judas! Make a bee-house,â he said. âDo you see? Oratorio <i>Judas -Maccabeus.</i>â</p> - -<p>Guy could have wished that this bit of flotsam from Mr. Pethertonâs sportive youth had -not been thus washed up at his feet. He felt that he had been peeping indecently close -into the dark backward and abysm of time.</p> - -<p>âThat was a good one,â Mr. Petherton chuckled. âI must see if I can think of some -more.â</p> - -<p>Roger, who was not easily to be turned away from his favourite topic, waited till this -irrelevant spark of levity had quite expired, and continued: âItâs a remarkable and -noticeable fact that you never seem to get discipline combined with the teaching of -science or modern languages. Who ever heard of a science master having a good house at a -school? Scientistsâ houses are always bad.â</p> - -<p>âHow very strange!â said Jacobsen.</p> - -<p>âStrange, but a fact. It seems to me <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-152">[Pg 152]</a></span>a great mistake to give them houses at all if they canât -keep discipline. And then thereâs the question of religion. Some of these men never come -to chapel except when theyâre on duty. And then, I ask you, what happens when they prepare -their boys for Confirmation? Why, Iâve known boys come to me who were supposed to have -been prepared by one or other of these men, and, on asking them, Iâve found that they know -nothing whatever about the most solemn facts of the Eucharist.âMay I have some more of -those excellent cherries please, White?âOf course, I do my best in such cases to tell the -boys what I feel personally about these solemn things. But there generally isnât the time; -oneâs life is so crowded; and so they go into Confirmation with only the very haziest -knowledge of what itâs all about. You see how absurd it is to let anyone but the classical -men have anything to do with the boysâ lives.â</p> - -<p>âShake it well, dear,â Mr. Petherton was saying to his daughter, who had come with his -medicine.</p> - -<p>âWhat is that stuff?â asked Roger.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-153">[Pg 153]</a></span></p> - -<p>âOh, itâs merely my peptones. I can hardly digest at all without it, you know.â</p> - -<p>âYou have all my sympathies. My poor colleague, Flexner, suffers from chronic colitis. -I canât imagine how he goes on with his work.â</p> - -<p>âNo, indeed. I find I can do nothing strenuous.â</p> - -<p>Roger turned and seized once more on the unhappy George. âWhite,â he said, âlet this be -a lesson to you. Take care of your inside; itâs the secret of a happy old age.â</p> - -<p>Guy looked up quickly. âDonât worry about his old age,â he said in a strange harsh -voice, very different from the gentle, elaborately modulated tone in which he generally -spoke. âHe wonât have an old age. His chances against surviving are about fourteen to -three if the war goes on another year.â</p> - -<p>âCome,â said Roger, âdonât letâs be pessimistic.â</p> - -<p>âBut Iâm not. I assure you, Iâm giving you a most rosy view of Georgeâs chance of -reaching old age.â</p> - -<p>It was felt that Guyâs remarks had been <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-154">[Pg 154]</a></span>in poor taste. There was a silence; eyes floated vaguely -and uneasily, trying not to encounter one another. Roger cracked a nut loudly. When he had -sufficiently relished the situation, Jacobsen changed the subject by remarking:</p> - -<p>âThat was a fine bit of work by our destroyers this morning, wasnât it?â</p> - -<p>âIt did one good to read about it,â said Mr. Petherton. âQuite the Nelson touch.â</p> - -<p>Roger raised his glass. âNelson!â he said, and emptied it at a gulp. âWhat a man! I am -trying to persuade the Headmaster to make Trafalgar Day a holiday. It is the best way of -reminding boys of things of that sort.â</p> - -<p>âA curiously untypical Englishman to be a national hero, isnât he?â said Jacobsen. âSo -emotional and lacking in Britannic phlegm.â</p> - -<p>The Reverend Roger looked grave. âThereâs one thing Iâve never been able to understand -about Nelson, and that is, how a man who was so much the soul of honour and of patriotism -could have beenâerâimmoral with Lady Hamilton. <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-155">[Pg 155]</a></span>I know people say that it was the custom of the age, that -these things meant nothing then, and so forth; but all the same, I repeat, I cannot -understand how a man who was so intensely a patriotic Englishman could have done such a -thing.â</p> - -<p>âI fail to see what patriotism has got to do with it,â said Guy.</p> - -<p>Roger fixed him with his most pedagogic look and said slowly and gravely, âThen I am -sorry for you. I shouldnât have thought it was necessary to tell an Englishman that purity -of morals is a national tradition: you especially, a public-school man.â</p> - -<p>âLet us go and have a hundred up at billiards,â said Mr. Petherton. âRoger, will you -come? And you, George, and Guy?â</p> - -<p>âIâm so incredibly bad,â Guy insisted, âIâd really rather not.â</p> - -<p>âSo am I,â said Jacobsen.</p> - -<p>âThen, Marjorie, you must make the fourth.â</p> - -<p>The billiard players trooped out; Guy and Jacobsen were left alone, brooding over the -wreckage of dinner. There was <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-156">[Pg -156]</a></span>a long silence. The two men sat smoking, Guy sitting in a sagging, crumpled -attitude, like a half-empty sack abandoned on a chair, Jacobsen very upright and -serene.</p> - -<p>âDo you find you can suffer fools gladly?â asked Guy abruptly.</p> - -<p>âPerfectly gladly.â</p> - -<p>âI wish I could. The Reverend Roger has a tendency to make my blood boil.â</p> - -<p>âBut such a good soul,â Jacobsen insisted.</p> - -<p>âI dare say, but a monster all the same.â</p> - -<p>âYou should take him more calmly. I make a point of never letting myself be moved by -external things. I stick to my writing and thinking. Truth is beauty, beauty is truth, and -so forth: after all, theyâre the only things of solid value.â Jacobsen looked at the young -man with a smile as he said these words. There is no doubt, he said to himself, that that -boy ought to have gone into business; what a mistake this higher education is, to be -sure.</p> - -<p>âOf course, theyâre the only things,â Guy burst out passionately. âYou can afford to -say so because you had the luck <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-157">[Pg -157]</a></span>to be born twenty years before I was, and with five thousand miles of good -deep water between you and Europe. Here am I, called upon to devote my life, in a very -different way from which you devote yours to truth and beautyâto devote my life toâwell, -what? Iâm not quite sure, but I preserve a touching faith that it is good. And you tell me -to ignore external circumstances. Come and live in Flanders a little and try -. . .â He launched forth into a tirade about agony and death and blood and -putrefaction.</p> - -<p>âWhat is one to do?â he concluded despairingly. âWhat the devil is right? I had meant -to spend my life writing and thinking, trying to create something beautiful or discover -something true. But oughtnât one, after all, if one survives, to give up everything else -and try to make this hideous den of a world a little more habitable?â</p> - -<p>âI think you can take it that a world which has let itself be dragooned into this -criminal folly is pretty hopeless. Follow your inclinations; or, better, go into a bank -and make a lot of money.â</p> - -<p>Guy burst out laughing, rather too <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-158">[Pg 158]</a></span>loudly. âAdmirable, admirable!â he said. âTo return to -our old topic of fools: frankly, Jacobsen, I cannot imagine why you should elect to pass -your time with my dear old guardian. Heâs a charming old man, but one must admitâââ He -waved his hand.</p> - -<p>âOne must live somewhere,â said Jacobsen. âI find your guardian a most interesting man -to be with.âOh, do look at that dog!â On the hearth-rug Marjorieâs little Pekingese, -Confucius, was preparing to lie down and go to sleep. He went assiduously through the -solemn farce of scratching the floor, under the impression, no doubt, that he was making a -comfortable nest to lie in. He turned round and round, scratching earnestly and -methodically. Then he lay down, curled himself up in a ball, and was asleep in the -twinkling of an eye.</p> - -<p>âIsnât that too wonderfully human!â exclaimed Jacobsen delightedly. Guy thought he -could see now why Jacobsen enjoyed living with Mr. Petherton. The old man was so -wonderfully human.</p> - -<p class="transition"> </p> - -<p>Later in the evening, when the billiards <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-159">[Pg 159]</a></span>was over and Mr. Petherton had duly commented on the -anachronism of introducing the game into Anthony and Cleopatra, Guy and Marjorie went for -a stroll in the garden. The moon had risen above the trees and lit up the front of the -house with its bright pale light that could not wake the sleeping colours of the -world.</p> - -<p>âMoonlight is the proper architectural light,â said Guy, as they stood looking at the -house. The white light and the hard black shadows brought out all the elegance of its -Georgian symmetry.</p> - -<p>âLook, hereâs the ghost of a rose.â Marjorie touched a big cool flower, which one -guessed rather than saw to be red, a faint equivocal lunar crimson. âAnd, oh, smell the -tobacco-plant flowers. Arenât they delicious!â</p> - -<p>âI always think thereâs something very mysterious about perfume drifting through the -dark like this. It seems to come from some perfectly different immaterial world, peopled -by unembodied sensations, phantom passions. Think of the spiritual effect of incense in a -dark church. One isnât surprised that people have believed in the existence of the -soul.â</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-160">[Pg 160]</a></span></p> - -<p>They walked on in silence. Sometimes, accidentally, his hand would brush against hers -in the movement of their march. Guy felt an intolerable emotion of expectancy, akin to -fear. It made him feel almost physically sick.</p> - -<p>âDo you remember,â he said abruptly, âthat summer holiday our families spent together -in Wales? It must have been nineteen four or five. I was ten and you were eight or -thereabouts.â</p> - -<p>âOf course I remember,â cried Marjorie. âEverything. There was that funny little toy -railway from the slate quarries.â</p> - -<p>âAnd do you remember our gold-mine? All those tons of yellow ironstone we collected and -hoarded in a cave, fully believing they were nuggets. How incredibly remote it seems!â</p> - -<p>âAnd you had a wonderful process by which you tested whether the stuff was real gold or -not. It all passed triumphantly as genuine, I remember!â</p> - -<p>âHaving that secret together first made us friends, I believe.â</p> - -<p>âI dare say,â said Marjorie. âFourteen years agoâwhat a time! And you <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-161">[Pg 161]</a></span>began educating me -even then: all that stuff you told me about gold-mining, for instance.â</p> - -<p>âFourteen years,â Guy repeated reflectively, âand I shall be going out again to-morrow -. . .â</p> - -<p>âDonât speak about it. I am so miserable when youâre away.â She genuinely forgot what a -delightful summer she had had, except for the shortage of tennis.</p> - -<p>âWe must make this the happiest hour of our lives. Perhaps it may be the last we shall -be together.â Guy looked up at the moon, and he perceived, with a sudden start, that it -was a sphere islanded in an endless night, not a flat disk stuck on a wall not so very far -away. It filled him with an infinite dreariness; he felt too insignificant to live at -all.</p> - -<p>âGuy, you mustnât talk like that,â said Marjorie appealingly.</p> - -<p>âWeâve got twelve hours,â said Guy in a meditative voice, âbut thatâs only clock-work -time. You can give an hour the quality of everlastingness, and spend years which are as -though they had never been. We get our immortality here and now; itâs a question of -quality, not of quantity. <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-162">[Pg -162]</a></span>I donât look forward to golden harps or anything of that sort. I know that -when I am dead, I shall be dead; there isnât any afterwards. If Iâm killed, my immortality -will be in your memory. Perhaps, too, somebody will read the things Iâve written, and in -his mind I shall survive, feebly and partially. But in your mind I shall survive intact -and whole.â</p> - -<p>âBut Iâm sure we shall go on living after death. It canât be the end.â Marjorie was -conscious that she had heard those words before. Where? Oh yes, it was earnest Evangeline -who had spoken them at the school debating society.</p> - -<p>âI wouldnât count on it,â Guy replied, with a little laugh. âYou may get such a -disappointment when you die.â Then in an altered voice, âI donât want to die. I hate and -fear death. But probably I shanât be killed after all. All the same . . .â His -voice faded out. They stepped into a tunnel of impenetrable darkness between two tall -hornbeam hedges. He had become nothing but a voice, and now that had ceased; he had -disappeared. The voice began again, low, quick, monotonous, a little breathless. âI <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-163">[Pg 163]</a></span>remember once reading -a poem by one of the old Provençal troubadours, telling how God had once granted him -supreme happiness; for the night before he was to set out for the Crusade, it had been -granted him to hold his lady in his armsâall the short eternal night through. Ains que -jâaille oltre mer: when I was going beyond sea.â The voice stopped again. They were -standing at the very mouth of the hornbeam alley, looking out from that close-pent river -of shadow upon an ocean of pale moonlight.</p> - -<p>âHow still it is.â They did not speak; they hardly breathed. They became saturated with -the quiet.</p> - -<p>Marjorie broke the silence. âDo you want me as much as all that, Guy?â All through that -long, speechless minute she had been trying to say the words, repeating them over to -herself, longing to say them aloud, but paralysed, unable to. And at last she had spoken -them, impersonally, as though through the mouth of someone else. She heard them very -distinctly, and was amazed at the matter-of-factness of the tone.</p> - -<p>Guyâs answer took the form of a question. <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-164">[Pg 164]</a></span>âWell, suppose I were killed now,â he said, âshould I -ever have really lived?â</p> - -<p>They had stepped out of the cavernous alley into the moonlight. She could see him -clearly now, and there was something so drooping and dejected and pathetic about him, he -seemed so much of a great, overgrown child that a wave of passionate pitifulness rushed -through her, reinforcing other emotions less maternal. She longed to take him in her arms, -stroke his hair, lullaby him, baby-fashion, to sleep upon her breast. And Guy, on his -side, desired nothing better than to give his fatigues and sensibilities to her maternal -care, to have his eyes kissed fast, and sleep to her soothing. In his relations with -womenâbut his experience in this direction was deplorably smallâhe had, unconsciously at -first but afterwards with a realization of what he was doing, played this child part. In -moments of self-analysis he laughed at himself for acting the âchild stunt,â as he called -it. Here he wasâhe hadnât noticed it yetâdoing it again, drooping, dejected, wholly -pathetic, feeble . . .</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-165">[Pg 165]</a></span></p> - -<p>Marjorie was carried away by her emotion. She would give herself to her lover, would -take possession of her helpless, pitiable child. She put her arms round his neck, lifted -her face to his kisses, whispered something tender and inaudible.</p> - -<p>Guy drew her towards him and began kissing the soft, warm mouth. He touched the bare -arm that encircled his neck; the flesh was resilient under his fingers; he felt a desire -to pinch it and tear it.</p> - -<p>It had been just like this with that little slut Minnie. Just the sameâall horrible -lust. He remembered a curious physiological fact out of Havelock Ellis. He shuddered as -though he had touched something disgusting, and pushed her away.</p> - -<p>âNo, no, no. Itâs horrible; itâs odious. Drunk with moonlight and sentimentalizing -about death. . . . Why not just say with Biblical frankness, Lie with meâLie -with me?â</p> - -<p>That this love, which was to have been so marvellous and new and beautiful, should end -libidinously and bestially like the affair, never remembered without a <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-166">[Pg 166]</a></span>shiver of shame, with -Minnie (the vulgarity of her!)âfilled him with horror.</p> - -<p>Marjorie burst into tears and ran away, wounded and trembling, into the solitude of the -hornbeam shadow. âGo away, go away,â she sobbed, with such intensity of command that Guy, -moved by an immediate remorse and the sight of tears to stop her and ask forgiveness, was -constrained to let her go her ways.</p> - -<p>A cool, impersonal calm had succeeded almost immediately to his outburst. Critically, -he examined what he had done, and judged it, not without a certain feeling of -satisfaction, to be the greatest âfloaterâ of his life. But at least the thing was done -and couldnât be undone. He took the weak-willed manâs delight in the irrevocability of -action. He walked up and down the lawn smoking a cigarette and thinking, clearly and -quietlyâremembering the past, questioning the future. When the cigarette was finished he -went into the house.</p> - -<p>He entered the smoking-room to hear Roger saying, â. . . Itâs the poor who -are having the good time now. Plenty to eat, plenty of money, and no taxes to pay. <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-167">[Pg 167]</a></span>No taxesâthatâs the -sickening thing. Look at Alfredâs gardener, for instance. He gets twenty-five or thirty -bob a week and an uncommon good house. Heâs married, but only has one child. A man like -that is uncommonly well off. He ought to be paying income-tax; he can perfectly well -afford it.â</p> - -<p>Mr. Petherton was listening somnolently, Jacobsen with his usual keen, intelligent -politeness; George was playing with the blue Persian kitten.</p> - -<p>It had been arranged that George should stay the night, because it was such a bore -having to walk that mile and a bit home again in the dark. Guy took him up to his room and -sat down on the bed for a final cigarette, while George was undressing. It was the hour of -confidenceâthat rather perilous moment when fatigue has relaxed the fibres of the mind, -making it ready and ripe for sentiment.</p> - -<p>âIt depresses me so much,â said Guy, âto think that youâre only twenty and that Iâm -just on twenty-four. You will be young and sprightly when the war ends; I shall be an old -antique man.â</p> - -<p>âNot so old as all that,â George <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-168">[Pg 168]</a></span>answered, pulling off his shirt. His skin was very white, -face, neck, and hands seeming dark brown by comparison; there was a sharply demarcated -high-water mark of sunburn at throat and wrist.</p> - -<p>âIt horrifies me to think of the time one is wasting in this bloody war, growing -stupider and grosser every day, achieving nothing at all. It will be five, sixâGod knows -how manyâyears cut clean out of oneâs life. Youâll have the world before you when itâs all -over, but I shall have spent my best time.â</p> - -<p>âOf course, it doesnât make so much difference to me,â said George through a foam of -tooth-brushing; âIâm not capable of doing anything of any particular value. Itâs really -all the same whether I lead a blameless life broking stocks or spend my time getting -killed. But for you, I agree, itâs too bloody. . . .â</p> - -<p>Guy smoked on in silence, his mind filled with a languid resentment against -circumstance. George put on his pyjamas and crept under the sheet; he had to curl himself -up into a ball, because Guy was lying across the end of the bed, and he couldnât put his -feet down.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-169">[Pg 169]</a></span></p> - -<p>âI suppose,â said Guy at last, meditativelyââI suppose the only consolations are, after -all, women and wine. I shall really have to resort to them. Only women are mostly so -fearfully boring and wine is so expensive now.â</p> - -<p>âBut not all women!â George, it was evident, was waiting to get a confidence off his -chest.</p> - -<p>âI gather youâve found the exceptions.â</p> - -<p>George poured forth. He had just spent six months at Chelseaâsix dreary months on the -barrack square; but there had been lucid intervals between the drills and the special -courses, which he had filled with many notable voyages of discovery among unknown worlds. -And chiefly, Columbus to his own soul, he had discovered all those psychological -intricacies and potentialities, which only the passions bring to light. <i>Nosce -teipsum</i>, it has been commanded; and a judicious cultivation of the passions is one of -the surest roads to self-knowledge. To George, at barely twenty, it was all so amazingly -new and exciting, and Guy listened to the story of his adventures <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-170">[Pg 170]</a></span>with admiration and a touch of envy. He -regretted the dismal and cloistered chastityâbroken only once, and how sordidly! Wouldnât -he have learnt much more, he wonderedâhave been a more real and better human being if he -had had Georgeâs experiences? He would have profited by them more than George could ever -hope to do. There was the risk of Georgeâs getting involved in a mere foolish expense of -spirit in a waste of shame. He might not be sufficiently an individual to remain himself -in spite of his surroundings; his hand would be coloured by the dye he worked in. Guy felt -sure that he himself would have run no risk; he would have come, seen, conquered, and -returned intact and still himself, but enriched by the spoils of a new knowledge. Had he -been wrong after all? Had life in the cloister of his own philosophy been wholly -unprofitable?</p> - -<p>He looked at George. It was not surprising that the ladies favoured him, glorious -ephebus that he was.</p> - -<p>âWith a face and figure like mine,â he reflected, âI shouldnât have been able <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-171">[Pg 171]</a></span>to lead his life, even -if Iâd wanted to.â He laughed inwardly.</p> - -<p>âYou really must meet her,â George was saying enthusiastically.</p> - -<p>Guy smiled. âNo, I really mustnât. Let me give you a bit of perfectly good advice. -Never attempt to share your joys with anyone else. People will sympathize with pain, but -not with pleasure. Good night, George.â</p> - -<p>He bent over the pillow and kissed the smiling face that was as smooth as a childâs to -his lips.</p> - -<p>Guy lay awake for a long time, and his eyes were dry and aching before sleep finally -came upon him. He spent those dark interminable hours thinkingâthinking hard, intensely, -painfully. No sooner had he left Georgeâs room than a feeling of intense unhappiness took -hold of him. âDistorted with misery,â that was how he described himself; he loved to coin -such phrases, for he felt the artistâs need to express as well as to feel and think. -Distorted with misery, he went to bed; distorted with misery, he lay and thought and -thought. He had, positively, a sense of physical <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-172">[Pg 172]</a></span>distortion: his guts were twisted, he had a hunched back, -his legs were withered. . . .</p> - -<p>He had the right to be miserable. He was going back to France to-morrow, he had -trampled on his mistressâs love, and he was beginning to doubt himself, to wonder whether -his whole life hadnât been one ludicrous folly.</p> - -<p>He reviewed his life, like a man about to die. Born in another age, he would, he -supposed, have been religious. He had got over religion early, like the measlesâat nine a -Low Churchman, at twelve a Broad Churchman, and at fourteen an Agnosticâbut he still -retained the temperament of a religious man. Intellectually he was a Voltairian, -emotionally a Bunyanite. To have arrived at this formula was, he felt, a distinct advance -in self-knowledge. And what a fool he had been with Marjorie! The priggishness of his -attitudeâmaking her read Wordsworth when she didnât want to. Intellectual loveâhis phrases -werenât always a blessing; how hopelessly he had deceived himself with words! And now this -evening the <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-173">[Pg -173]</a></span>crowning outrage, when he had behaved to her like a hysterical anchorite -dealing with a temptation. His body tingled, at the recollection, with shame.</p> - -<p>An idea occurred to him; he would go and see her, tiptoe downstairs to her room, kneel -by her bed, ask for her forgiveness. He lay quite still imagining the whole scene. He even -went so far as to get out of bed, open the door, which made a noise in the process like a -peacockâs scream, quite unnerving him, and creep to the head of the stairs. He stood there -a long time, his feet growing colder and colder, and then decided that the adventure was -really too sordidly like the episode at the beginning of Tolstoyâs <i>Resurrection</i>. -The door screamed again as he returned; he lay in bed, trying to persuade himself that his -self-control had been admirable and at the same time cursing his absence of courage in not -carrying out what he had intended.</p> - -<p>He remembered a lecture he had given Marjorie once on the subject of Sacred and Profane -Love. Poor girl, how had she listened in patience? He <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-174">[Pg 174]</a></span>could see her attending with such a -serious expression on her face that she looked quite ugly. She looked so beautiful when -she was laughing or happy; at the Whitesâ, for instance, three nights ago, when George and -she had danced after dinner and he had sat, secretly envious, reading a book in the corner -of the room and looking superior. He wouldnât learn to dance, but always wished he could. -It was a barbarous, aphrodisiacal occupation, he said, and he preferred to spend his time -and energies in reading. Salvationist again! What a much wiser person George had proved -himself than he. He had no prejudices, no theoretical views about the conduct of life; he -just lived, admirably, naturally, as the spirit or the flesh moved him. If only he could -live his life again, if only he could abolish this eveningâs monstrous stupidity. -. . .</p> - -<p>Marjorie also lay awake. She too felt herself distorted with misery. How odiously cruel -he had been, and how much she longed to forgive him! Perhaps he would come in the dark, -when <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-175">[Pg 175]</a></span>all the -house was asleep, tiptoeing into the room very quietly to kneel by her bed and ask to be -forgiven. Would he come, she wondered? She stared into the blackness above her and about -her, willing him to come, commanding himâangry and wretched because he was so slow in -coming, because he didnât come at all. They were both of them asleep before two.</p> - -<p>Seven hours of sleep make a surprising difference to the state of mind. Guy, who -thought he was distorted for life, woke to find himself healthily normal. Marjorieâs -angers and despairs had subsided. The hour they had together between breakfast and Guyâs -departure was filled with almost trivial conversation. Guy was determined to say something -about lastâs night incident. But it was only at the very last moment, when the dog-cart -was actually at the door, that he managed to bring out some stammered repentance for what -had happened last night.</p> - -<p>âDonât think about it,â Marjorie had told him. So they had kissed and parted, and their -relations were precisely the <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-176">[Pg -176]</a></span>same as they had been before Guy came on leave.</p> - -<p class="transition"> </p> - -<p>George was sent out a week or two later, and a month after that they heard at Blaybury -that he had lost a legâfortunately below the knee.</p> - -<p>âPoor boy!â said Mr. Petherton. âI must really write a line to his mother at once.â</p> - -<p>Jacobsen made no comment, but it was a surprise to him to find how much he had been -moved by the news. George White had lost a leg; he couldnât get the thought out of his -head. But only below the knee; he might be called lucky. Luckyâthings are deplorably -relative, he reflected. One thanks God because He has thought fit to deprive one of His -creatures of a limb.</p> - -<p>âNeither delighteth He in any manâs legs,â eh? Nous avons changĂŠ tout cela.</p> - -<p>George had lost a leg. There would be no more of that Olympian speed and strength and -beauty. Jacobsen conjured up before his memory a vision of the boy running with his great -fawn-coloured <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-177">[Pg -177]</a></span>dog across green expanses of grass. How glorious he had looked, his fine -brown hair blowing like fire in the wind of his own speed, his cheeks flushed, his eyes -very bright. And how easily he ran, with long, bounding strides, looking down at the dog -that jumped and barked at his side!</p> - -<p>He had had a perfection, and now it was spoilt. Instead of a leg he had a stump. -<i>Moignon</i>, the French called it; there was the right repulsive sound about -<i>moignon</i> which was lacking in âstump.â Soignons le moignon en lâoignant -dâoignons.</p> - -<p>Often, at night before he went to sleep, he couldnât help thinking of George and the -war and all the millions of <i>moignons</i> there must be in the world. He had a dream one -night of slimy red knobbles, large polyp-like things, growing as he looked at them, -swelling between his handsâ<i>moignons</i>, in fact.</p> - -<p>George was well enough in the late autumn to come home. He had learnt to hop along on -his crutches very skilfully, and his preposterous donkey-drawn bath-chair soon became a -familiar object in the lanes of the neighbourhood. It <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-178">[Pg 178]</a></span>was a grand sight to behold when George -rattled past at the trot, leaning forward like a young PhĹbus in his chariot and urging -his unwilling beast with voice and crutch. He drove over to Blaybury almost every day; -Marjorie and he had endless talks about life and love and Guy and other absorbing topics. -With Jacobsen he played piquet and discussed a thousand subjects. He was always gay and -happyâthat was what especially lacerated Jacobsenâs heart with pity.</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h4 id="Happily_04">IV</h4> - -<p class="noindent">T<small>HE</small> Christmas holidays had begun, and the Reverend -Roger was back again at Blaybury. He was sitting at the writing-table in the drawing-room, -engaged, at the moment, in biting the end of his pen and scratching his head. His face -wore an expression of perplexity; one would have said that he was in the throes of -literary composition. Which indeed he was: âBeloved ward of Alfred Petherton -. . .â he said aloud. âBeloved ward . . .â He shook his head -doubtfully.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-179">[Pg 179]</a></span></p> - -<p>The door opened and Jacobsen came into the room. Roger turned round at once.</p> - -<p>âHave you heard the grievous news?â he said.</p> - -<p>âNo. What?â</p> - -<p>âPoor Guy is dead. We got the telegram half an hour ago.â</p> - -<p>âGood God!â said Jacobsen in an agonized voice which seemed to show that he had been -startled out of the calm belonging to one who leads the life of reason. He had been -conscious ever since Georgeâs mutilation that his defences were growing weaker; external -circumstance was steadily encroaching upon him. Now it had broken in and, for the moment, -he was at its mercy. Guy dead. . . . He pulled himself together sufficiently to -say, after a pause, âWell, I suppose it was only to be expected sooner or later. Poor -boy.â</p> - -<p>âYes, itâs terrible, isnât it?â said Roger, shaking his head. âI am just writing out an -announcement to send to the <i>Times</i>. One can hardly say âthe beloved ward of Alfred -Petherton,â can one? It doesnât sound quite right; <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-180">[Pg 180]</a></span>and yet one would like somehow to give -public expression to the deep affection Alfred felt for him. âBeloved wardââno, decidedly -it wonât do.â</p> - -<p>âYouâll have to get round it somehow,â said Jacobsen. Rogerâs presence somehow made a -return to the life of reason easier.</p> - -<p>âPoor Alfred,â the other went on. âYouâve no idea how hardly he takes it. He feels as -though he had given a son.â</p> - -<p>âWhat a waste it is!â Jacobsen exclaimed. He was altogether too deeply moved.</p> - -<p>âI have done my best to console Alfred. One must always bear in mind for what Cause he -died.â</p> - -<p>âAll those potentialities destroyed. He was an able fellow, was Guy.â Jacobsen was -speaking more to himself than to his companion, but Roger took up the suggestion.</p> - -<p>âYes, he certainly was that. Alfred thought he was very promising. It is for his sake I -am particularly sorry. I never got on very well with the boy myself. He was too eccentric -for my taste. Thereâs such a thing as being too clever, isnât there? Itâs rather inhuman. -He used to <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-181">[Pg 181]</a></span>do -most remarkable Greek iambics for me when he was a boy. I dare say he was a very good -fellow under all that cleverness and queerness. Itâs all very distressing, very -grievous.â</p> - -<p>âHow was he killed?â</p> - -<p>âDied of wounds yesterday morning. Do you think it would be a good thing to put in some -quotation at the end of the announcement in the paper? Something like, âDulce et Decorum,â -or âSed Miles, sed Pro Patria,â or âPer Ardua ad Astraâ?â</p> - -<p>âIt hardly seems essential,â said Jacobsen.</p> - -<p>âPerhaps not.â Rogerâs lips moved silently; he was counting. âForty-two words. I -suppose that counts as eight lines. Poor Marjorie! I hope she wonât feel it too bitterly. -Alfred told me they were unofficially engaged.â</p> - -<p>âSo I gathered.â</p> - -<p>âI am afraid I shall have to break the news to her. Alfred is too much upset to be able -to do anything himself. It will be a most painful task. Poor girl! I suppose as a matter -of fact they would not have been able to marry for some time, <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-182">[Pg 182]</a></span>as Guy had next to no money. These early -marriages are very rash. Let me see: eight times three shillings is one pound four, isnât -it? I suppose they take cheques all right?â</p> - -<p>âHow old was he?â asked Jacobsen.</p> - -<p>âTwenty-four and a few months.â</p> - -<p>Jacobsen was walking restlessly up and down the room. âJust reaching maturity! One is -thankful these days to have oneâs own work and thoughts to take the mind off these -horrors.â</p> - -<p>âItâs terrible, isnât it?âterrible. So many of my pupils have been killed now that I -can hardly keep count of the number.â</p> - -<p>There was a tapping at the French window; it was Marjorie asking to be let in. She had -been cutting holly and ivy for the Christmas decorations, and carried a basket full of -dark, shining leaves.</p> - -<p>Jacobsen unbolted the big window and Marjorie came in, flushed with the cold and -smiling. Jacobsen had never seen her looking so handsome: she was superb, radiant, like -Iphigenia coming in her wedding garments to the sacrifice.</p> - -<p>âThe holly is very poor this year,â she <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-183">[Pg 183]</a></span>remarked. âI am afraid we shanât make much of a show with -our Christmas decorations.â</p> - -<p>Jacobsen took the opportunity of slipping out through the French window. Although it -was unpleasantly cold, he walked up and down the flagged paths of the Dutch garden, -hatless and overcoatless, for quite a long time.</p> - -<p>Marjorie moved about the drawing-room fixing sprigs of holly round the picture frames. -Her uncle watched her, hesitating to speak; he was feeling enormously uncomfortable.</p> - -<p>âI am afraid,â he said at last, âthat your fatherâs very upset this morning.â His voice -was husky; he made an explosive noise to clear his throat.</p> - -<p>âIs it his palpitations?â Marjorie asked coolly; her fatherâs infirmities did not cause -her much anxiety.</p> - -<p>âNo, no.â Roger realized that his opening gambit had been a mistake. âNo. It isâerâa -more mental affliction, and one which, I fear, will touch you closely too. Marjorie, you -must be strong and courageous; we have just heard that Guy is dead.â</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-184">[Pg 184]</a></span></p> - -<p>âGuy dead?â She couldnât believe it; she had hardly envisaged the possibility; besides, -he was on the Staff. âOh, Uncle Roger, it isnât true.â</p> - -<p>âI am afraid there is no doubt. The War Office telegram came just after you had gone -out for the holly.â</p> - -<p>Marjorie sat down on the sofa and hid her face in her hands. Guy dead; she would never -see him again, never see him again, never; she began to cry.</p> - -<p>Roger approached and stood, with his hand on her shoulder, in the attitude of a -thought-reader. To those overwhelmed by sorrow the touch of a friendly hand is often -comforting. They have fallen into an abyss, and the touching hand serves to remind them -that life and God and human sympathy still exist, however bottomless the gulf of grief may -seem. On Marjorieâs shoulder her uncleâs hand rested with a damp, heavy warmth that was -peculiarly unpleasant.</p> - -<p>âDear child, it is very grievous, I know; but you must try and be strong and bear it -bravely. We all have our cross to bear. We shall be celebrating the Birth of Christ in two -daysâ time; remember <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-185">[Pg -185]</a></span>with what patience He received the cup of agony. And then remember for what -Cause Guy has given his life. He has died a heroâs death, a martyrâs death, witnessing to -Heaven against the powers of evil.â Roger was unconsciously slipping into the words of his -last sermon in the school chapel. âYou should feel pride in his death as well as sorrow. -There, there, poor child.â He patted her shoulder two or three times. âPerhaps it would be -kinder to leave you now.â</p> - -<p>For some time after her uncleâs departure Marjorie sat motionless in the same position, -her body bent forward, her face in her hands. She kept on repeating the words, âNever -again,â and the sound of them filled her with despair and made her cry. They seemed to -open up such a dreary grey infinite vistaâânever again.â They were as a spell evoking -tears.</p> - -<p>She got up at last and began walking aimlessly about the room. She paused in front of a -little old black-framed mirror that hung near the window and looked at her reflection in -the glass. She had expected somehow to look different, to have <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-186">[Pg 186]</a></span>changed. She was surprised to find her -face entirely unaltered: grave, melancholy perhaps, but still the same face she had looked -at when she was doing her hair this morning. A curious idea entered her head; she wondered -whether she would be able to smile now, at this dreadful moment. She moved the muscles of -her face and was overwhelmed with shame at the sight of the mirthless grin that mocked her -from the glass. What a beast she was! She burst into tears and threw herself again on the -sofa, burying her face in a cushion. The door opened, and by the noise of shuffling and -tapping Marjorie recognized the approach of George White on his crutches. She did not look -up. At the sight of the abject figure on the sofa, George halted, uncertain what he should -do. Should he quietly go away again, or should he stay and try to say something -comforting? The sight of her lying there gave him almost physical pain. He decided to -stay.</p> - -<p>He approached the sofa and stood over her, suspended on his crutches. Still she did not -lift her head, but pressed her <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-187">[Pg -187]</a></span>face deeper into the smothering blindness of the cushion, as though to shut -out from her consciousness all the external world. George looked down at her in silence. -The little delicate tendrils of hair on the nape of her neck were exquisitely -beautiful.</p> - -<p>âI was told about it,â he said at last, âjust now, as I came in. Itâs too awful. I -think I cared for Guy more than for almost anyone in the world. We both did, didnât -we?â</p> - -<p>She began sobbing again. George was overcome with remorse, feeling that he had somehow -hurt her, somehow added to her pain by what he had said. âPoor child, poor child,â he -said, almost aloud. She was a year older than he, but she seemed so helplessly and -pathetically young now that she was crying.</p> - -<p>Standing up for long tired him, and he lowered himself, slowly and painfully, into the -sofa beside her. She looked up at last and began drying her eyes.</p> - -<p>âIâm so wretched, George, so specially wretched because I feel I didnât act rightly -towards darling Guy. There were times, you know, when I wondered <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-188">[Pg 188]</a></span>whether it wasnât all a great mistake, -our being engaged. Sometimes I felt I almost hated him. Iâd been feeling so odious about -him these last weeks. And now comes this, and it makes me realize how awful Iâve been -towards him.â She found it a relief to confide and confess; George was so sympathetic, he -would understand. âIâve been a beast.â</p> - -<p>Her voice broke, and it was as though something had broken in Georgeâs head. He was -overwhelmed with pity; he couldnât bear it that she should suffer.</p> - -<p>âYou mustnât distress yourself unnecessarily, Marjorie dear,â he begged her, stroking -the back of her hand with his large hard palm. âDonât.â</p> - -<p>Marjorie went on remorselessly. âWhen Uncle Roger told me just now, do you know what I -did? I said to myself, Do I really care? I couldnât make out. I looked in the glass to see -if I could tell from my face. Then I suddenly thought Iâd see whether I could laugh, and I -did. And that made me feel how detestable I was, and I started crying again. Oh, I have -been a beast, George, havenât I?â</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-189">[Pg 189]</a></span></p> - -<p>She burst into a passion of tears and hid her face once more in the friendly cushion. -George couldnât bear it at all. He laid his hand on her shoulder and bent forward, close -to her, till his face almost touched her hair. âDonât,â he cried. âDonât, Marjorie. You -mustnât torment yourself like this. I know you loved Guy; we both loved him. He would have -wanted us to be happy and brave and to go on with lifeânot make his death a source of -hopeless despair.â There was a silence, broken only by the agonizing sound of sobbing. -âMarjorie, darling, you mustnât cry.â</p> - -<p>âThere, Iâm not,â said Marjorie through her tears. âIâll try to stop. Guy wouldnât have -wanted us to cry for him. Youâre right; he would have wanted us to live for himâworthily, -in his splendid way.â</p> - -<p>âWe who knew him and loved him must make our lives a memorial of him.â In ordinary -circumstances George would have died rather than make a remark like that. But in speaking -of the dead, people forget themselves and conform to the peculiar obituary convention of -thought <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-190">[Pg 190]</a></span>and -language. Spontaneously, unconsciously, George had conformed.</p> - -<p>Marjorie wiped her eyes. âThank you, George. You know so well what darling Guy would -have liked. Youâve made me feel stronger to bear it. But, all the same, I do feel odious -for what I thought about him sometimes. I didnât love him enough. And now itâs too late. I -shall never see him again.â The spell of that âneverâ worked again: Marjorie sobbed -despairingly.</p> - -<p>Georgeâs distress knew no bounds. He put his arm round Marjorieâs shoulders and kissed -her hair. âDonât cry, Marjorie. Everybody feels like that sometimes, even towards the -people they love most. You really mustnât make yourself miserable.â</p> - -<p>Once more she lifted her face and looked at him with a heart-breaking, tearful smile. -âYou have been too sweet to me, George. I donât know what I should have done without -you.â</p> - -<p>âPoor darling!â said George. âI canât bear to see you unhappy.â Their faces were close -to one another, and it seemed natural that at this point <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-191">[Pg 191]</a></span>their lips should meet in a long kiss. -âWeâll remember only the splendid, glorious things about Guy,â he went onââwhat a -wonderful person he was, and how much we loved him.â He kissed her again.</p> - -<p>âPerhaps our darling Guy is with us here even now,â said Marjorie, with a look of -ecstasy on her face.</p> - -<p>âPerhaps he is,â George echoed.</p> - -<p>It was at this point that a heavy footstep was heard and a hand rattled at the door. -Marjorie and George moved a little farther apart. The intruder was Roger, who bustled in, -rubbing his hands with an air of conscious heartiness, studiously pretending that nothing -untoward had occurred. It is our English tradition that we should conceal our emotions. -âWell, well,â he said. âI think we had better be going in to luncheon. The bell has -gone.â</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-192">[Pg 192]</a></span></p> - -<h3 class="no_sections" id="Eupompus"><a href="#Eupompus_toc">EUPOMPUS GAVE SPLENDOUR TO -ART BY NUMBERS</a></h3> - -<p class="noindent">âI <small>HAVE</small> made a discovery,â said Emberlin as I entered -his room.</p> - -<p>âWhat about?â I asked.</p> - -<p>âA discovery,â he replied, âabout <i>Discoveries</i>.â He radiated an unconcealed -satisfaction; the conversation had evidently gone exactly as he had intended it to go. He -had made his phrase, and, repeating it lovinglyââA discovery about <i>Discoveries</i>ââhe -smiled benignly at me, enjoying my look of mystificationâan expression which, I confess, I -had purposely exaggerated in order to give him pleasure. For Emberlin, in many ways so -childish, took an especial delight in puzzling and nonplussing his acquaintances; and -these small triumphs, these little âscoresâ off people afforded him some of his keenest -pleasures. I always indulged his weakness when I <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-193">[Pg 193]</a></span>could, for it was worth while being on Emberlinâs good -books. To be allowed to listen to his post-prandial conversation was a privilege indeed. -Not only was he himself a consummately good talker, but he had also the power of -stimulating others to talk well. He was like some subtle wine, intoxicating just to the -Meredithian level of tipsiness. In his company you would find yourself lifted to the -sphere of nimble and mercurial conceptions; you would suddenly realize that some miracle -had occurred, that you were living no longer in a dull world of jumbled things but -somewhere above the hotch-potch in a glassily perfect universe of ideas, where all was -informed, consistent, symmetrical. And it was Emberlin who, godlike, had the power of -creating this new and real world. He built it out of words, this crystal Eden, where no -belly-going snake, devourer of quotidian dirt, might ever enter and disturb its harmonies. -Since I first knew Emberlin I have come to have a greatly enhanced respect for magic and -all the formules of its liturgy. If by words Emberlin can create a new world <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-194">[Pg 194]</a></span>for me, can make my -spirit slough off completely the domination of the old, why should not he or I or anyone, -having found the suitable phrases, exert by means of them an influence more vulgarly -miraculous upon the world of mere things? Indeed, when I compare Emberlin and the common -or garden black magician of commerce, it seems to me that Emberlin is the greater -thaumaturge. But let that pass; I am straying from my purpose, which was to give some -description of the man who so confidentially whispered to me that he had made a discovery -about <i>Discoveries</i>.</p> - -<p>In the best sense of the word, then, Emberlin was academic. For us who knew him his -rooms were an oasis of aloofness planted secretly in the heart of the desert of London. He -exhaled an atmosphere that combined the fantastic speculativeness of the undergraduate -with the more mellowed oddity of incredibly wise and antique dons. He was immensely -erudite, but in a wholly unencyclopĂŚdic wayâa mine of irrelevant information, as his -enemies said <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-195">[Pg 195]</a></span>of -him. He wrote a certain amount, but, like MallarmĂŠ, avoided publication, deeming it akin -to âthe offence of exhibitionism.â Once, however, in the folly of youth, some dozen years -ago, he had published a volume of verses. He spent a good deal of time now in assiduously -collecting copies of his book and burning them. There can be but very few left in the -world now. My friend Cope had the fortune to pick one up the other dayâa little blue book, -which he showed me very secretly. I am at a loss to understand why Emberlin wishes to -stamp out all trace of it. There is nothing to be ashamed of in the book; some of the -verses, indeed, are, in their young ecstatic fashion, good. But they are certainly -conceived in a style that is unlike that of his present poems. Perhaps it is that which -makes him so implacable against them. What he writes now for very private manuscript -circulation is curious stuff. I confess I prefer the earlier work; I do not like the -stony, hard-edged quality of this sort of thingâthe only one I can remember of his later -productions. It is a sonnet on a porcelain <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-196">[Pg 196]</a></span>figure of a woman, dug up at Cnossus:</p> - -<blockquote class="verse"> -<p class="i2">âHer eyes of bright unwinking glaze</p> - -<p class="i2a">All imperturbable do not</p> - -<p class="i2a">Even make pretences to regard</p> - -<p class="i2a">The jutting absence of her stays</p> - -<p class="i2a">Where many a Syrian gallipot</p> - -<p class="i2a">Excites desire with spilth of nard.</p> - -<p class="i2a">The bistred rims above the fard</p> - -<p class="i2a">Of cheeks as red as bergamot</p> - -<p class="i2a">Attest that no shamefaced delays</p> - -<p class="i2a">Will clog fulfilment nor retard</p> - -<p class="i2a">Full payment of the Cyprianâs praise</p> - -<p class="i2a">Down to the last remorseful jot.</p> - -<p class="i2a">Hail priestess of we know not what</p> - -<p class="i2a">Strange cult of Mycenean days!â</p> -</blockquote> - -<p class="noindent">Regrettably, I cannot remember any of Emberlinâs French poems. His -peculiar muse expresses herself better, I think, in that language than in her native -tongue.</p> - -<p>Such is Emberlin; such, I should rather say, <i>was</i> he, for, as I propose to show, -he is not now the man that he was when he whispered so confidentially to me, as I entered -the room, that he had made a discovery about <i>Discoveries</i>.</p> - -<p>I waited patiently till he had finished his little game of mystification and, when the -moment seemed ripe, I asked him to <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-197">[Pg 197]</a></span>explain himself. Emberlin was ready to open out.</p> - -<p>âWell,â he began, âthese are the factsâa tedious introduction, I fear, but necessary. -Years ago, when I was first reading Ben Jonsonâs <i>Discoveries</i>, that queer jotting of -his, âEupompus gave splendour to Art by Numbers,â tickled my curiosity. You yourself must -have been struck by the phrase, everybody must have noticed it; and everybody must have -noticed too that no commentator has a word to say on the subject. That is the way of -commentatorsâthe obvious points fulsomely explained and discussed, the hard passages, -about which one might want to know something passed over in the silence of sheer -ignorance. âEupompus gave splendour to Art by Numbersââthe absurd phrase stuck in my head. -At one time it positively haunted me. I used to chant it in my bath, set to music as an -anthem. It went like this, so far as I rememberââand he burst into song: ââEupompus, -Eu-u-pompus gave sple-e-e-endour . . .ââ and so on, through all the repetitions, -the dragged-out rises and falls of a parodied anthem.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-198">[Pg 198]</a></span></p> - -<p>âI sing you this,â he said when he had finished, âjust to show you what a hold that -dreadful sentence took upon my mind. For eight years, off and on, its senselessness has -besieged me. I have looked up Eupompus in all the obvious books of reference, of course. -He is there all rightâAlexandrian artist, eternized by some wretched little author in some -even wretcheder little anecdote, which at the moment I entirely forget; it had nothing, at -any rate, to do with the embellishment of art by numbers. Long ago I gave up the search as -hopeless; Eupompus remained for me a shadowy figure of mystery, author of some nameless -outrage, bestower of some forgotten benefit upon the art that he practised. His history -seemed wrapt in an impenetrable darkness. And then yesterday I discovered all about him -and his art and his numbers. A chance discovery, than which few things have given me a -greater pleasure.</p> - -<p>âI happened upon it, as I say, yesterday when I was glancing through a volume of -Zuylerius. Not, of course, the Zuylerius one knows,â he added quickly, âotherwise <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-199">[Pg 199]</a></span>one would have had the -heart out of Eupompusâ secret years ago.â</p> - -<p>âOf course,â I repeated, ânot the familiar Zuylerius.â</p> - -<p>âExactly,â said Emberlin, taking seriously my flippancy, ânot the familiar John -Zuylerius, Junior, but the elder Henricus Zuylerius, a much lessâthough perhaps -undeservedly soârenowned figure than his son. But this is not the time to discuss their -respective merits. At any rate, I discovered in a volume of critical dialogues by the -elder Zuylerius, the reference, to which, without doubt, Jonson was referring in his note. -(It was of course a mere jotting, never meant to be printed, but which Jonsonâs literary -executors pitched into the book with all the rest of the available posthumous materials.) -âEupompus gave splendour to Art by NumbersââZuylerius gives a very circumstantial account -of the process. He must, I suppose, have found the sources for it in some writer now lost -to us.â</p> - -<p>Emberlin paused a moment to muse. The loss of the work of any ancient writer gave him -the keenest sorrow. I rather <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-200">[Pg -200]</a></span>believe he had written a version of the unrecovered books of Petronius. -Some day I hope I shall be permitted to see what conception Emberlin has of the -<i>Satyricon</i> as a whole. He would, I am sure, do Petronius justiceâalmost too much, -perhaps.</p> - -<p>âWhat was the story of Eupompus?â I asked. âI am all curiosity to know.â</p> - -<p>Emberlin heaved a sigh and went on.</p> - -<p>âZuyleriusâ narrative,â he said, âis very bald, but on the whole lucid; and I think it -gives one the main points of the story. I will give it you in my own words; that is -preferable to reading his Dutch Latin. Eupompus, then, was one of the most fashionable -portrait-painters of Alexandria. His clientele was large, his business immensely -profitable. For a half-length in oils the great courtesans would pay him a monthâs -earnings. He would paint likenesses of the merchant princes in exchange for the costliest -of their outlandish treasures. Coal-black potentates would come a thousand miles out of -Ethiopia to have a miniature limned on some specially choice panel of ivory; and for -payment there would be camel-loads <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-201">[Pg 201]</a></span>of gold and spices. Fame, riches, and honour came to him -while he was yet young; an unparalleled career seemed to lie before him. And then, quite -suddenly, he gave it all upârefused to paint another portrait. The doors of his studio -were closed. It was in vain that clients, however rich, however distinguished, demanded -admission; the slaves had their order; Eupompus would see no one but his own -intimates.â</p> - -<p>Emberlin made a pause in his narrative.</p> - -<p>âWhat was Eupompus doing?â I asked.</p> - -<p>âHe was, of course,â said Emberlin, âoccupied in giving splendour to Art by Numbers. -And this, as far as I can gather from Zuylerius, is how it all happened. He just suddenly -fell in love with numbersâhead over ears, amorous of pure counting. Number seemed to him -to be the sole reality, the only thing about which the mind of man could be certain. To -count was the one thing worth doing, because it was the one thing you could be sure of -doing right. Thus, art, that it may have any value at all, must ally itself with -realityâmust, <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-202">[Pg -202]</a></span>that is, possess a numerical foundation. He carried the idea into practice -by painting the first picture in his new style. It was a gigantic canvas, covering several -hundred square feetâI have no doubt that Eupompus could have told you the exact area to an -inchâand upon it was represented an illimitable ocean covered, as far as the eye could -reach in every direction, with a multitude of black swans. There were thirty-three -thousand of these black swans, each, even though it might be but a speck on the horizon, -distinctly limned. In the middle of the ocean was an island, upon which stood a more or -less human figure having three eyes, three arms and legs, three breasts and three navels. -In the leaden sky three suns were dimly expiring. There was nothing more in the picture; -Zuylerius describes it exactly. Eupompus spent nine months of hard work in painting it. -The privileged few who were allowed to see it pronounced it, finished, a masterpiece. They -gathered round Eupompus in a little school, calling themselves the Philarithmics. They -would sit for hours in <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-203">[Pg -203]</a></span>front of his great work, contemplating the swans and counting them; -according to the Philarithmics, to count and to contemplate were the same thing.</p> - -<p>âEupompusâ next picture, representing an orchard of identical trees set in quincunxes, -was regarded with less favour by the connoisseurs. His studies of crowds were, however, -more highly esteemed; in these were portrayed masses of people arranged in groups that -exactly imitated the number and position of the stars making up various of the more famous -constellations. And then there was his famous picture of the amphitheatre, which created a -furore among the Philarithmics. Zuylerius again gives us a detailed description. Tier upon -tier of seats are seen, all occupied by strange Cyclopean figures. Each tier accommodates -more people than the tier below, and the number rises in a complicated but regular -progression. All the figures seated in the amphitheatre possess but a single eye, enormous -and luminous, planted in the middle of the forehead: and all these thousands of single -eyes are fixed, in a <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-204">[Pg -204]</a></span>terrible and menacing scrutiny, upon a dwarf-like creature cowering -pitiably in the arena. . . . He alone of the multitude possesses two eyes.</p> - -<p>âI would give anything to see that picture,â Emberlin added, after a pause. âThe -colouring, you know; Zuylerius gives no hint, but I feel somehow certain that the dominant -tone must have been a fierce brick-redâa red granite amphitheatre filled with a red-robed -assembly, sharply defined against an implacable blue sky.â</p> - -<p>âTheir eyes would be green,â I suggested.</p> - -<p>Emberlin closed his eyes to visualize the scene and then nodded a slow and rather -dubious assent.</p> - -<p>âUp to this point,â Emberlin resumed at length, âZuyleriusâ account is very clear. But -his descriptions of the later philarithmic art become extremely obscure; I doubt whether -he understood in the least what it was all about. I will give you such meaning as I manage -to extract from his chaos. Eupompus seems to have grown tired of painting merely numbers -of objects. He wanted <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-205">[Pg -205]</a></span>now to represent Number itself. And then he conceived the plan of rendering -visible the fundamental ideas of life through the medium of those purely numerical terms -into which, according to him, they must ultimately resolve themselves. Zuylerius speaks -vaguely of a picture of Eros, which seems to have consisted of a series of interlacing -planes. Eupompusâ fancy seems next to have been taken by various of the Socratic dialogues -upon the nature of general ideas, and he made a series of illustrations for them in the -same arithmo-geometric style. Finally there is Zuyleriusâ wild description of the last -picture that Eupompus ever painted. I can make very little of it. The subject of the work, -at least, is clearly stated; it was a representation of Pure Number, or God and the -Universe, or whatever you like to call that pleasingly inane conception of totality. It -was a picture of the cosmos seen, I take it, through a rather Neoplatonic <i>camera -obscuraâ</i>very clear and in small. Zuylerius suggests a design of planes radiating out -from a single point of light. I dare <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-206">[Pg 206]</a></span>say something of the kind came in. Actually, I have no -doubt, the work was a very adequate rendering in visible form of the conception of the one -and the many, with all the intermediate stages of enlightenment between matter and the -<i>Fons Deitatis</i>. However, itâs no use speculating what the picture may have been -going to look like. Poor old Eupompus went mad before he had completely finished it and, -after he had dispatched two of the admiring Philarithmics with a hammer, he flung himself -out of the window and broke his neck. That was the end of him, and that was how he gave -splendour, regrettably transient, to Art by Numbers.â</p> - -<p>Emberlin stopped. We brooded over our pipes in silence; poor old Eupompus!</p> - -<p class="transition"> </p> - -<p>That was four months ago, and to-day Emberlin is a confirmed and apparently -irreclaimable Philarithmic, a quite whole-hearted Eupompian.</p> - -<p>It was always Emberlinâs way to take up the ideas that he finds in books and to put -them into practice. He was once, <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-207">[Pg 207]</a></span>for example, a working alchemist, and attained to -considerable proficiency in the Great Art. He studied mnemonics under Bruno and Raymond -Lully, and constructed for himself a model of the latterâs syllogizing machine, in hopes -of gaining that universal knowledge which the Enlightened Doctor guaranteed to its user. -This time it is Eupompianism, and the thing has taken hold of him. I have held up to him -all the hideous warnings that I can find in history. But it is no use.</p> - -<p>There is the pitiable spectacle of Dr. Johnson under the tyranny of an Eupompian -ritual, counting the posts and the paving-stones of Fleet Street. He himself knew best how -nearly a madman he was.</p> - -<p>And then I count as Eupompians all gamblers, all calculating boys, all interpreters of -the prophecies of Daniel and the Apocalypse; then too the Elberfeld horses, most complete -of all Eupompians.</p> - -<p>And here was Emberlin joining himself to this sect, degrading himself to the level of -counting beasts and irrational children and men, more or less insane. <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-208">[Pg 208]</a></span>Dr. Johnson was at -least born with a strain of the Eupompian aberration in him; Emberlin is busily and -consciously acquiring it. My expostulations, the expostulations of all his friends, are as -yet unavailing. It is in vain that I tell Emberlin that counting is the easiest thing in -the world to do, that when I am utterly exhausted, my brain, for lack of ability to -perform any other work, just counts and reckons, like a machine, like an Elberfeld horse. -It all falls on deaf ears; Emberlin merely smiles and shows me some new numerical joke -that he has discovered. Emberlin can never enter a tiled bathroom now without counting how -many courses of tiles there are from floor to ceiling. He regards it as an interesting -fact that there are twenty-six rows of tiles in his bathroom and thirty-two in mine, while -all the public lavatories in Holborn have the same number. He knows now how many paces it -is from any one point in London to any other. I have given up going for walks with him. I -am always made so distressingly conscious by his preoccupied look, that he is counting his -steps.</p> - -<p>His evenings, too, have become profoundly <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-209">[Pg 209]</a></span>melancholy; the conversation, however well it may begin, -always comes round to the same nauseating subject. We can never escape numbers; Eupompus -haunts us. It is not as if we were mathematicians and could discuss problems of any -interest or value. No, none of us are mathematicians, least of all Emberlin. Emberlin -likes talking about such points as the numerical significance of the Trinity, the immense -importance of its being three in one, not forgetting the even greater importance of its -being one in three. He likes giving us statistics about the speed of light or the rate of -growth in fingernails. He loves to speculate on the nature of odd and even numbers. And he -seems to be unconscious how much he has changed for the worse. He is happy in an -exclusively absorbing interest. It is as though some mental leprosy had fallen upon his -intelligence.</p> - -<p>In another year or so, I tell Emberlin, he may almost be able to compete with the -calculating horses on their own ground. He will have lost all traces of his reason, but he -will be able to extract cube roots in his head. It occurs to me that the <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-210">[Pg 210]</a></span>reason why Eupompus -killed himself was not that he was mad; on the contrary, it was because he was, -temporarily, sane. He had been mad for years, and then suddenly the idiotâs -self-complacency was lit up by a flash of sanity. By its momentary light he saw into what -gulfs of imbecility he had plunged. He saw and understood, and the full horror, the -lamentable absurdity of the situation made him desperate. He vindicated Eupompus against -Eupompianism, humanity against the Philarithmics. It gives me the greatest pleasure to -think that he disposed of two of that hideous crew before he died himself.</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-211">[Pg 211]</a></span></p> - -<h3 class="no_sections" id="Happy_Families"><a href="#Happy_Families_toc">HAPPY -FAMILIES</a></h3> - -<p class="noindent">T<small>HE</small> scene is a conservatory. Luxuriant tropical plants -are seen looming through a greenish aquarium twilight, punctuated here and there by the -surprising pink of several Chinese lanterns hanging from the roof or on the branches of -trees, while a warm yellow radiance streams out from the ball-room by a door on the left -of the scene. Through the glass of the conservatory, at the back of the stage, one -perceives a black-and-white landscape under the moonâexpanses of snow, lined and dotted -with coal-black hedges and trees. Outside is frost and death: but within the conservatory -all is palpitating and steaming with tropical life and heat. Enormous fantastic plants -encumber it; trees, creepers that writhe with serpentine life, orchids of every kind. -Everywhere dense vegetation; horrible flowers that look like bottled spiders, like -suppurating wounds; <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-212"> [Pg 212]</a></span>flowers with eyes -and tongues, with moving, sensitive tentacles, with breasts and teeth and spotted -skins.</p> - -<p>The strains of a waltz float in through the ball-room door, and to that slow, soft -music there enter, in parallel processions, the two families which are respectively Mr. -Aston J. Tyrrell and Miss Topsy Garrick.</p> - -<p>The doyen of the Tyrrell family is a young and perhaps too cultured literary man with -rather long, dark brown hair, a face well cut and sensitive, if a trifle weak about the -lower jaw, and a voice whose exquisite modulations could only be the product of education -at one of the two Great Universities. We will call him plain Aston. Miss Topsy, the head -of the Garrick family, is a young woman of not quite twenty, with sleek, yellow hair -hanging, like a pageâs, short and thick about her ears; boyish, too, in her slenderness -and length of legâboyish, but feminine and attractive to the last degree. Miss Topsy -paints charmingly, sings in a small, pure voice that twists the heart and makes the bowels -yearn in the hearing of it, is well educated, and has read, or at <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-213">[Pg 213]</a></span>least heard of, most of the best books in -three languages, knows something, too, of economics and the doctrines of Freud.</p> - -<p>They enter arm in arm, fresh from the dance, trailing behind them with their disengaged -hands two absurd ventriloquistâs dummies of themselves. They sit down on a bench placed in -the middle of the stage under a kind of arbour festooned with fabulous flowers. The other -members of the two families lurk in the tropical twilight of the background.</p> - -<p>Aston advances his dummy and makes it speak, moving its mouth and limbs appropriately -by means of the secret levers which his hand controls.</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>â<small>S</small> D<small>UMMY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">What a perfect floor it is to-night!</p> - -<p class="char_title">T<small>OPSY</small>â<small>S</small> D<small>UMMY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Yes, itâs like ice, isnât it? And such a good band.</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>â<small>S</small> D<small>UMMY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Oh yes, a very good band.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-214">[Pg 214]</a></span></p> - -<p class="char_title">T<small>OPSY</small>â<small>S</small> D<small>UMMY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">They play at dinner-time at the Necropole, you know.</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>â<small>S</small> D<small>UMMY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue no_bottom">Really! (<i>A long, uncomfortable silence.</i>)</p> - -<p class="direction">(<i>From under a lofty twangum tree emerges the figure of</i> -C<small>AIN</small> W<small>ASHINGTON</small> T<small>YRRELL</small>, -A<small>STON</small>â<small>S</small> <i>negro brotherâfor the</i> -T<small>YRRELLS</small>, <i>I regret to say, have a lick of the tar-brush in them and</i> -C<small>AIN</small> <i>is a Mendelian throwback to the pure Jamaican type.</i> -C<small>AIN</small> <i>is stout and his black face shines with grease. The whites of his -eyes are like enamel, his smile is chryselephantine. He is dressed in faultless evening -dress and a ribbon of seals tinkles on his stomach. He walks with legs wide apart, the -upper part of his body thrown back and his belly projecting, as though he were supporting -the weight of an Aristophanic actorâs costume. He struts up and down in front of the -couple on the seat, grinning and slapping himself on the waistcoat.</i>)</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-215">[Pg 215]</a></span></p> - -<p class="char_title">C<small>AIN</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">What hair, nyum nyum! and the nape of her neck; and her bodyâhow -slender! and what lovely movements, nyum nyum! (<i>Approaching</i> A<small>STON</small> -<i>and speaking into his ear.</i>) Eh? eh? eh?</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Go away, you pig. Go away. (<i>He holds up his dummy as a shield:</i> -C<small>AIN</small> <i>retires discomfited.</i>)</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>â<small>S</small> D<small>UMMY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Have you read any amusing novels lately?</p> - -<p class="char_title">T<small>OPSY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>Speaking over the head of her dummy.</i>) No; I never read novels. -They are mostly so frightful, arenât they?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-216">[Pg 216]</a></span></p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>Enthusiastically.</i>) How splendid! Neither do I. I only write -them sometimes, thatâs all. (<i>They abandon their dummies, which fall limply into one -anotherâs arms and collapse on to the floor with an expiring sigh.</i>)</p> - -<p class="char_title">T<small>OPSY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">You write them? I didnât know. . . .</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Oh, Iâd very much rather you didnât know. I shouldnât like you ever to -read one of them. Theyâre all awful: still, they keep the pot boiling, you know. But tell -me, what do you read?</p> - -<p class="char_title">T<small>OPSY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Mostly history, and philosophy, and a little criticism and psychology, -and lots of poetry.</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">My dear young lady! how wonderful, how altogether unexpectedly -splendid. <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-217">[Pg -217]</a></span>(C<small>AIN</small> <i>emerges with the third brother</i>, -S<small>IR</small> J<small>ASPER</small>, <i>who is a paler, thinner, more sinister and -aristocratic</i> A<small>STON</small>.)</p> - -<p class="char_title">C<small>AIN</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Nyum nyum nyum. . . .</p> - -<p class="char_title">S<small>IR</small> J<small>ASPER</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">What a perfect sentence that was of yours, Aston: quite Henry -Jamesian! âMy dear young ladyââas though you were forty years her senior; and the rare -old-worldliness of that âaltogether unexpectedly splendidâ! Admirable. I donât remember -your ever employing quite exactly this opening gambit before: but of course there were -things very like it. (<i>To</i> C<small>AIN</small>.) What a nasty spectacle you are, -Cain, gnashing your teeth like that!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-218">[Pg 218]</a></span></p> - -<p class="char_title">C<small>AIN</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue no_bottom">Nyum nyum nyum.</p> - -<p class="direction">(A<small>STON</small> <i>and</i> T<small>OPSY</small> <i>are -enthusiastically talking about books: the two brothers, finding themselves quite -unnoticed, retire into the shade of their twangum tree.</i> B<small>ELLE</small> -G<small>ARRICK</small> <i>has been hovering behind</i> T<small>OPSY</small> <i>for some -time past. She is more obviously pretty than her sister, full-bosomed and with a loose, -red, laughing mouth. Unable to attract</i> T<small>OPSY</small>â<small>S</small> -<i>attention, she turns round and calls</i>, âH<small>ENRIKA</small>.â <i>A pale face with -wide, surprised eyes peeps round the trunk, hairy like a mammothâs leg, of a kadapoo tree -with magenta leaves and flame-coloured blossoms. This is</i> H<small>ENRIKA</small>, -T<small>OPSY</small>â<small>S</small> <i>youngest sister. She is dressed in a little white -muslin frock set off with blue ribbons.</i>)</p> - -<p class="char_title">H<small>ENRIKA</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>Tiptoes forward.</i>) Here I am; what is it? I was rather -frightened of that man. But he really seems quite nice and tame, doesnât he?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-219">[Pg 219]</a></span></p> - -<p class="char_title">B<small>ELLE</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Of course he is! What a goose you are to hide like that!</p> - -<p class="char_title">H<small>ENRIKA</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">He seems a nice, quiet, gentle man; and <i>so</i> clever.</p> - -<p class="char_title">B<small>ELLE</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">What good hands he has, hasnât he? (<i>Approaching</i> -T<small>OPSY</small> <i>and whispering in her ear.</i>) Your hairâs going into your eyes, -my dear. Toss it back in that pretty way you have. (T<small>OPSY</small> <i>tosses her -head; the soft, golden bell of hair quivers elastically about her ears.</i>) Thatâs -right!</p> - -<p class="char_title">C<small>AIN</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>Bounding into the air and landing with feet apart, knees bent, and -a hand on either knee.</i>) Oh, nyum nyum!</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Oh, the beauty of that movement! It simply makes one catch oneâs -breath <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-220">[Pg 220]</a></span>with -surprised pleasure, as the gesture of a perfect dancer might.</p> - -<p class="char_title">S<small>IR</small> J<small>ASPER</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Beautiful, wasnât it?âa pleasure purely ĂŚsthetic and ĂŚsthetically -pure. Listen to Cain.</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>To</i> T<small>OPSY</small>.) And do you ever try writing -yourself? Iâm sure you ought to.</p> - -<p class="char_title">S<small>IR</small> J<small>ASPER</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Yes, yes, weâre sure you ought to. Eh, Cain?</p> - -<p class="char_title">T<small>OPSY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Well, I have written a little poetryâor rather a few bad versesâat one -time or another.</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Really now! What about, may I ask?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-221">[Pg 221]</a></span></p> - -<p class="char_title">T<small>OPSY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Well . . . (<i>hesitating</i>) about different things, you -know. (<i>She fans herself rather nervously.</i>)</p> - -<p class="char_title">B<small>ELLE</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>Leaning over</i> T<small>OPSY</small>â<small>S</small> <i>shoulder -and addressing</i> A<small>STON</small> <i>directly.</i>) Mostly about Love. (<i>She -dwells long and voluptuously on the last word, pronouncing it âlovvâ rather than -âluvv.â</i>)</p> - -<p class="char_title">C<small>AIN</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Oh, datâs good, datâs good; datâs dam good. (<i>In moments of -emotion</i> C<small>AIN</small>â<small>S</small> <i>manners and language savour more -obviously than usual of the Old Plantation.</i>) Did yoh see her face den?</p> - -<p class="char_title">B<small>ELLE</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>Repeats, slowly and solemnly.</i>) Mostly about Love.</p> - -<p class="char_title">H<small>ENRIKA</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Oh, oh. (<i>She covers her face with her hands.</i>) How could you? It -makes me tingle all over. (<i>She runs behind the kadapoo tree again.</i>)</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-222">[Pg 222]</a></span></p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>Very seriously and intelligently.</i>) Really. Thatâs very -interesting. I wish youâd let me see what youâve done some time.</p> - -<p class="char_title">S<small>IR</small> J<small>ASPER</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">We always like to see these things, donât we, Aston? Do you remember -Mrs. Towler? How pretty she was! And the way we criticized her literary productions. -. . .</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Mrs. Towler. . . . (<i>He shudders as though he had touched -something soft and filthy.</i>) Oh, donât, Jasper, donât!</p> - -<p class="char_title">S<small>IR</small> J<small>ASPER</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Dear Mrs. Towler! We were very nice about her poems, werenât we? Do -you remember the one that began:</p> - -<blockquote class="verse"> -<p class="i2">âMy Love is like a silvern flower-de-luce</p> - -<p class="i2a">Within some wondrous dream-garden pent:</p> - -<p class="i2a">God made my lovely lily not for use,</p> - -<p class="i2a">But for an ornament.â</p> -</blockquote> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-223">[Pg 223]</a></span></p> - -<p class="noindent">Even Cain, I believe, saw the joke of that.</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Mrs. Towlerâoh, my God! But this is quite different: this girl really -interests me.</p> - -<p class="char_title">S<small>IR</small> J<small>ASPER</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Oh yes, I know, I know. She interests you too, Cain, doesnât she?</p> - -<p class="char_title">C<small>AIN</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>Prances two or three steps of a cake-walk and sings.</i>) Oh, ma -honey, oh, ma honey.</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">But, I tell you, this is quite different.</p> - -<p class="char_title">S<small>IR</small> J<small>ASPER</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Of course it is. Any fool could see that it was. Iâve admitted it -already.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-224">[Pg 224]</a></span></p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>To</i> T<small>OPSY</small>.) You will show them me, wonât you? I -should so much like to see them.</p> - -<p class="char_title">T<small>OPSY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>Covered with confusion.</i>) No, I really couldnât. Youâre a -professional, you see.</p> - -<p class="char_title">H<small>ENRIKA</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>From behind the kadapoo tree.</i>) No, you mustnât show them to -him. Theyâre really mine, you know, a great many of them.</p> - -<p class="char_title">B<small>ELLE</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Nonsense! (<i>She stoops down and moves</i> -T<small>OPSY</small>â<small>S</small> <i>foot in such a way that a very well-shaped, -white-stockinged leg is visible some way up the calf. Then, to</i> T<small>OPSY</small>.) -Pull your skirt down, my dear. Youâre quite indecent.</p> - -<p class="char_title">C<small>AIN</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>Putting up his monocle.</i>) Oh, nyum nyum, ma honey! Come wid me -to Dixie Land. . . .</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-225">[Pg 225]</a></span></p> - -<p class="char_title">S<small>IR</small> J<small>ASPER</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Hâm, a little conscious, donât you think?</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">But even professionals are human, my dear young lady. And perhaps I -might be able to give you some help with your writings.</p> - -<p class="char_title">T<small>OPSY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Thatâs awfully kind of you, Mr. Tyrrell.</p> - -<p class="char_title">H<small>ENRIKA</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Oh, donât let him see them. I donât want him to. Donât let him.</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>With heavy charm.</i>) It always interests me so much when I hear -of the youngâand I trust you wonât be offended if I include you in their numberâwhen I -hear of the young taking to writing. It is one of the most important duties that we of the -older generation can performâto help and encourage the young with their <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-226">[Pg 226]</a></span>work. Itâs a great -service to the cause of Art.</p> - -<p class="char_title">S<small>IR</small> J<small>ASPER</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">That was what I was always saying to Mrs. Towler, if I remember -rightly.</p> - -<p class="char_title">T<small>OPSY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">I canât tell you, Mr. Tyrrell, how delightful it is to have oneâs work -taken seriously. I am so grateful to you. May I send you my little efforts, then?</p> - -<p class="char_title">C<small>AIN</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>Executes a step dance to the furious clicking of a pair of -bones.</i>)</p> - -<p class="char_title">S<small>IR</small> J<small>ASPER</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">I congratulate you, Aston. A most masterful bit of strategy.</p> - -<p class="char_title">B<small>ELLE</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">I wonder what heâll do next. Isnât it exciting? Topsy, toss your head -again. Thatâs right. Oh, I wish something would happen!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-227">[Pg 227]</a></span></p> - -<p class="char_title">H<small>ENRIKA</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">What have you done? Oh, Topsy, you really mustnât send him my -poems.</p> - -<p class="char_title">B<small>ELLE</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">You said he was such a nice man just now.</p> - -<p class="char_title">H<small>ENRIKA</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Oh yes, heâs nice, I know. But then heâs a man, you must admit that. I -donât want him to see them.</p> - -<p class="char_title">T<small>OPSY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>Firmly.</i>) Youâre being merely foolish, Henrika. Mr. Tyrrell, a -very distinguished literary man, has been kind enough to take an interest in my work. His -criticism will be the greatest help to me.</p> - -<p class="char_title">B<small>ELLE</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Of course it will, and he has such charming eyes. (<i>A pause. The -music</i>, <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-228">[Pg -228]</a></span><i>which has, all this while, been faintly heard through the ball-room -door, becomes more audible. They are playing a rich, creamy waltz.</i>) What delicious -music! Henrika, come and have a dance. (<i>She seizes</i> H<small>ENRIKA</small> <i>round -the waist and begins to waltz.</i> H<small>ENRIKA</small> <i>is reluctant at first, but -little by little the rhythm of the dance takes possession of her till, with her -half-closed eyes and languorous, trance-like movements, she might figure as the visible -living symbol of the waltz.</i> A<small>STON</small> <i>and</i> T<small>OPSY</small> -<i>lean back in their seats, marking the time with a languid beating of the hand.</i> -C<small>AIN</small> <i>sways and swoons and revolves in his own peculiar and inimitable -version of the dance.</i>)</p> - -<p class="char_title">S<small>IR</small> J<small>ASPER</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>Who has been watching the whole scene with amusement.</i>) What a -pretty spectacle! âMusic hath charms. . . .â</p> - -<p class="char_title">H<small>ENRIKA</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>In an almost extinct voice.</i>) Oh, Belle, Belle, I could go on -dancing like this for ever. I feel quite intoxicated with it.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-229">[Pg 229]</a></span></p> - -<p class="char_title">T<small>OPSY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>To</i> A<small>STON</small>.) What a jolly tune this is!</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Isnât it? Itâs called âDreams of Desire,â I believe.</p> - -<p class="char_title">B<small>ELLE</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">What a pretty name!</p> - -<p class="char_title">T<small>OPSY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">These are wonderful flowers here.</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue no_bottom">Letâs go and have a look at them.</p> - -<p class="direction">(<i>They get up and walk round the conservatory. The flowers light up -as they pass; in the midst of each is a small electric globe.</i>)</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">This purple one with eyes is the assafĹtida flower. Donât put your -nose too near; it has a smell like burning flesh. <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-230">[Pg 230]</a></span>This is a Cypripedium from Sumatra. It is the only -man-eating flower in the world. Notice its double set of teeth. (<i>He puts a stick into -the mouth of the flower, which instantly snaps to, like a steel trap.</i>) Nasty, vicious -brute! These blossoms like purple sponges belong to the twangum tree; when you squeeze -them they ooze blood. This is the Jonesia, the octopus of the floral world: each of its -eight tentacles is armed with a sting capable of killing a horse. Now this is a most -interesting and instructive flowerâthe patchouli bloom. It is perhaps the most striking -example in nature of structural specialization brought about by Evolution. If only Darwin -had lived to see the patchouli plant! You have heard of flowers specially adapting -themselves to be fertilized by bees or butterflies or spiders and such-like? Well, this -plant which grows in the forests of Guatemala can only be fertilized by English explorers. -Observe the structure of the flower; at the base is a flat, projecting pan, containing the -pistil; above it an overarching tube ending in a spout. On either side a small crevice -about three-quarters <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-231">[Pg -231]</a></span>of an inch in length may be discerned in the fleshy lobes of the calix. The -English traveller seeing this plant is immediately struck by its resemblance to those -penny-in-the-slot machines which provide scent for the public in the railway stations at -home. Through sheer force of habit he takes a penny from his pocket and inserts it in one -of the crevices or slots. Immediate resultâa jet of highly scented liquid pollen is -discharged from the spout upon the pistil lying below, and the plant is fertilized. Could -anything be more miraculous? And yet there are those who deny the existence of God. Poor -fools!</p> - -<p class="char_title">T<small>OPSY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Wonderful! (<i>Sniffing.</i>) What a good scent.</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">The purest patchouli.</p> - -<p class="char_title">B<small>ELLE</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">How delicious! Oh, my dear . . . (<i>She shuts her eyes in -ecstasy.</i>)</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-232">[Pg 232]</a></span></p> - -<p class="char_title">H<small>ENRIKA</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>Drowsily.</i>) Delicious, âlicious. . . .</p> - -<p class="char_title">S<small>IR</small> J<small>ASPER</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">I always like these rather <i>canaille</i> perfumes. Their effect is -admirable.</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">This is the leopard-flower. Observe its spotted skin and its thorns -like agate claws. This is the singing AlocusiaâAlocusia Cantatrixâdiscovered by Humboldt -during his second voyage to the Amazons. If you stroke its throat in the right place, it -will begin to sing like a nightingale. Allow me. (<i>He takes her by the wrist and guides -her fingers towards the palpitating throat of a gigantic flower shaped like a gramophone -trumpet. The Alocusia bursts into song; it has a voice like Carusoâs.</i>)</p> - -<p class="char_title">C<small>AIN</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Oh, nyum nyum! What a hand! Oh, ma honey. (<i>He runs a thick black -finger along</i> T<small>OPSY</small>â<small>S</small> <i>arm.</i>)</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-233">[Pg 233]</a></span></p> - -<p class="char_title">T<small>OPSY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">What a remarkable flower!</p> - -<p class="char_title">B<small>ELLE</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">I wonder whether he stroked my arm like that by accident or on -purpose.</p> - -<p class="char_title">H<small>ENRIKA</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>Gives a little shiver.</i>) Heâs touching me, heâs touching me! -But somehow I feel so sleepy I canât move.</p> - -<p class="char_title">T<small>OPSY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>She moves on towards the next flower:</i> B<small>ELLE</small> -<i>does not allow her to disengage her hand at once.</i>) What a curious smell this one -has!</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Be careful, be careful! Thatâs the chloroform plant.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-234">[Pg 234]</a></span></p> - -<p class="char_title">T<small>OPSY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Oh, I feel quite dizzy and faint. That smell and the heat -. . . (<i>She almost falls:</i> A<small>STON</small> <i>puts out his arm and -holds her up.</i>)</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Poor child!</p> - -<p class="char_title">C<small>AIN</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Poh chile, poh chile! (<i>He hovers round her, his hands almost -touching her, trembling with excitement: his white eyeballs roll horribly.</i>)</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Iâll open the door. The air will make you feel better. (<i>He opens -the conservatory door, still supporting</i> T<small>OPSY</small> <i>with his right arm. -The wind is heard, fearfully whistling: a flurry of snow blows into the conservatory. The -flowers utter piercing screams of rage and fear; their lights flicker wildly; several turn -perfectly black and drop on to the floor writhing in agony. The floral octopus agitates -its tentacles; the twangum blooms drip blood; all the leaves</i> <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-235">[Pg 235]</a></span><i>of all the trees clap together with a -dry, scaly sound.</i>)</p> - -<p class="char_title">T<small>OPSY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>Faintly.</i>) Thank you; thatâs better.</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>Closing the door.</i>) Poor child! Come and sit down again; the -chloroform flower is a real danger. (<i>Much moved, he leads her back towards the -seat.</i>)</p> - -<p class="char_title">C<small>AIN</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>Executes a war dance round the seated couple.</i>) Poh chile, poh -chile! Nyum nyum nyum.</p> - -<p class="char_title">S<small>IR</small> J<small>ASPER</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">One perceives the well-known dangers of playing the Good Samaritan -towards an afflicted member of the opposite sex. Pity has touched even our good Cain to -tears.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-236">[Pg 236]</a></span></p> - -<p class="char_title">B<small>ELLE</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Oh, I wonder whatâs going to happen! Itâs so exciting. Iâm so glad -Henrikaâs gone to sleep.</p> - -<p class="char_title">T<small>OPSY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">It was silly of me to go all faint like that.</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">I ought to have warned you in time of the chloroform flower.</p> - -<p class="char_title">B<small>ELLE</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">But itâs such a lovely feeling nowâlike being in a very hot bath with -lots of verbena bath-salts, and hardly able to move with limpness, but just ever so -comfortable and happy.</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">How do you feel now? Iâm afraid youâre looking very pale. Poor -child!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-237">[Pg 237]</a></span></p> - -<p class="char_title">C<small>AIN</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Poh chile, poh chile! . . .</p> - -<p class="char_title">S<small>IR</small> J<small>ASPER</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">I donât know much about these things, but it seems to me, my dear -Aston, that the moment has decidedly arrived.</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Iâm so sorry. You poor little thing . . . (<i>He kisses her -very gently on the forehead.</i>)</p> - -<p class="char_title">B<small>ELLE</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Aâaâh.</p> - -<p class="char_title">H<small>ENRIKA</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Oh! He kissed me: but heâs so kind and good, so kind and good. (<i>She -stirs and falls back again into her drowsy trance.</i>)</p> - -<p class="char_title">C<small>AIN</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Poh chile, poh chile! (<i>He leans over</i> -A<small>STON</small>â<small>S</small> <i>shoulder and begins rudely kissing</i> <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-238">[Pg -238]</a></span>T<small>OPSY</small>â<small>S</small> <i>trance-calm, parted lips.</i> -T<small>OPSY</small> <i>opens her eyes and sees the black, greasy face, the -chryselephantine smile, the pink, thick lips, the goggling eyeballs of white enamel. She -screams.</i> H<small>ENRIKA</small> <i>springs up and screams too.</i> -T<small>OPSY</small> <i>slips on to the floor, and</i> C<small>AIN</small> <i>and</i> -A<small>STON</small> <i>are left face to face with</i> H<small>ENRIKA</small>, <i>pale as -death and with wide-open, terrified eyes. She is trembling in every limb.</i>)</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>Gives</i> C<small>AIN</small> <i>a push that sends him sprawling -backwards, and falls on his knees before the pathetic figure of</i> -H<small>ENRIKA</small>.) Oh, Iâm so sorry, Iâm so sorry. What a beast I am! I donât know -what I can have been thinking of to do such a thing.</p> - -<p class="char_title">S<small>IR</small> J<small>ASPER</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">My dear boy, Iâm afraid you and Cain knew only too well what you were -thinking of. Only too well . . .</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Will you forgive me? I canât forgive myself.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-239">[Pg 239]</a></span></p> - -<p class="char_title">H<small>ENRIKA</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Oh, you hurt me, you frightened me so much. I canât bear it. (<i>She -cries.</i>)</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">O God! O God! (<i>The tears start into his eyes also. He takes</i> -H<small>ENRIKA</small>â<small>S</small> <i>hand and begins to kiss it.</i>) Iâm so sorry, -Iâm so sorry.</p> - -<p class="char_title">S<small>IR</small> J<small>ASPER</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">If youâre not very careful, Aston, youâll have Cain to deal with -again. (C<small>AIN</small> <i>has picked himself up and is creeping stealthily towards -the couple in the centre of the conservatory.</i>)</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>Turning round.</i>) Cain, you brute, go to hell! -(C<small>AIN</small> <i>slinks back.</i>) Oh, will you forgive me for having been such a -swine? What can I do?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-240">[Pg 240]</a></span></p> - -<p class="char_title">T<small>OPSY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>Who has recovered her self-possession, rises to her feet and -pushes</i> H<small>ENRIKA</small> <i>into the background.</i>) Thank you, it is really -quite all right. I think it would be best to say no more about it, to forget what has -happened.</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Will you forgive me, then?</p> - -<p class="char_title">T<small>OPSY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Of course, of course. Please get up, Mr. Tyrrell.</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>Climbing to his feet.</i>) I canât think how I ever came to be -such a brute.</p> - -<p class="char_title">T<small>OPSY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>Coldly.</i>) I thought we had agreed not to talk about this -incident any further. (<i>There is a silence.</i>)</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-241">[Pg 241]</a></span></p> - -<p class="char_title">S<small>IR</small> J<small>ASPER</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Well, Aston? This has been rather fun.</p> - -<p class="char_title">B<small>ELLE</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">I wish you hadnât been quite so cold with him, Topsy. Poor man! He -really is very sorry. One can see that.</p> - -<p class="char_title">H<small>ENRIKA</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">But did you see that awful face? (<i>She shudders and covers her -eyes.</i>)</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>Picking up his dummy and manipulating it.</i>) It is very hot in -here, is it not? Shall we go back to the dancing-room?</p> - -<p class="char_title">T<small>OPSY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">(<i>Also takes up her dummy.</i>) Yes, let us go back.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-242">[Pg 242]</a></span></p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>â<small>S</small> D<small>UMMY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Isnât that âRoses in Picardyâ that the band is playing?</p> - -<p class="char_title">T<small>OPSY</small>â<small>S</small> D<small>UMMY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">I believe it is. What a very good band, donât you think?</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>â<small>S</small> D<small>UMMY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Yes; it plays during dinner, you know, at the Necropole. (<i>To</i> -JASPER.) Lord, what a fool I am! Iâd quite forgotten; it was she who told me so as we came -in.</p> - -<p class="char_title">T<small>OPSY</small>â<small>S</small> D<small>UMMY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">At the Necropole? Really.</p> - -<p class="char_title">A<small>STON</small>â<small>S</small> D<small>UMMY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">A very good band and a very good floor.</p> - -<p class="char_title">T<small>OPSY</small>â<small>S</small> D<small>UMMY</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Yes, itâs a perfect floor, isnât it? Like glass. . . . -(<i>They go out, followed by</i> <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-243">[Pg 243]</a></span><i>their respective families.</i> B<small>ELLE</small> -<i>supports</i> H<small>ENRIKA</small>, <i>who is still very weak after her -shock.</i>)</p> - -<p class="char_title">B<small>ELLE</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">How exciting it was, wasnât it, Henrika?</p> - -<p class="char_title">H<small>ENRIKA</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Wasnât it awfulâtoo awful! Oh, that face. . . . -(C<small>AIN</small> <i>follows</i> A<small>STON</small> <i>out in silence and -dejection.</i> S<small>IR</small> J<small>ASPER</small> <i>brings up the rear of the -procession. His face wears its usual expression of slightly bored amusement. He lights a -cigarette.</i>)</p> - -<p class="char_title">S<small>IR</small> J<small>ASPER</small>.</p> - -<p class="dialogue">Charming evening, charming evening. . . . Now itâs over, I -wonder whether it ever existed. (<i>He goes out. The conservatory is left empty. The -flowers flash their luminous pistils; the eyes of the assafĹtida blossoms solemnly wink; -leaves shake and sway and rustle; several of the flowers</i> <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-244">[Pg 244]</a></span><i>are heard to utter a low chuckle, -while the Alocusia, after whistling a few derisive notes, finally utters a loud, gross -Oriental hiccough.</i>)</p> - -<p class="end_of_play">T<small>HE</small> C<small>URTAIN</small> <small>SLOWLY</small> -<small>DESCENDS</small>.</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-245">[Pg 245]</a></span></p> - -<h3 class="no_sections" id="Cynthia"><a href="#Cynthia_toc">CYNTHIA</a></h3> - -<p class="noindent">W<small>HEN</small>, some fifty years hence, my grandchildren ask me -what I did when I was at Oxford in the remote days towards the beginning of our monstrous -century, I shall look back across the widening gulf of time and tell them with perfect -good faith that I never worked less than eight hours a day, that I took a keen interest in -Social Service, and that coffee was the strongest stimulant in which I indulged. And they -will very justly sayâbut I hope I shall be out of hearing. That is why I propose to write -my memoirs as soon as possible, before I have had time to forget, so that having the truth -before me I shall never in time to come be able, consciously or unconsciously, to tell -lies about myself.</p> - -<p>At present I have no time to write a complete account of that decisive period in my -history. I must content myself <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-246">[Pg -246]</a></span>therefore with describing a single incident of my undergraduate days. I -have selected this one because it is curious and at the same time wholly characteristic of -Oxford life before the war.</p> - -<p>My friend Lykeham was an Exhibitioner at Swellfoot College. He combined blood (he was -immensely proud of his Anglo-Saxon descent and the derivation of his name from Old English -<i>lycam</i>, a corpse) with brains. His tastes were eccentric, his habits deplorable, the -range of his information immense. As he is now dead, I will say no more about his -character.</p> - -<p>To proceed with my anecdote: I had gone one evening, as was my custom, to visit him in -his rooms at Swellfoot. It was just after nine when I mounted the stairs, and great Tom -was still tolling.</p> - -<blockquote class="verse"> -<p class="i3">âIn Thomae laude</p> - -<p class="i3a">Resono bim bam sine fraude,â</p> -</blockquote> - -<p class="noindent">as the charmingly imbecile motto used to run, and to-night he was -living up to it by bim-bamming away in a persistent <i>basso profondo</i> that made an -astonishing background of discord to the sound of <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-247">[Pg 247]</a></span>frantic guitar playing which emanated from Lykehamâs -room. From the fury of his twanging I could tell that something more than usually -cataclysmic had happened, for mercifully it was only in moments of the greatest stress -that Lykeham touched his guitar.</p> - -<p>I entered the room with my hands over my ears. âFor Godâs sakeâââ I implored. Through -the open window Tom was shouting a deep E flat, with a spread chord of under- and -over-tones, while the guitar gibbered shrilly and hysterically in D natural. Lykeham -laughed, banged down his guitar on to the sofa with such violence that it gave forth a -trembling groan from all its strings, and ran forward to meet me. He slapped me on the -shoulder with painful heartiness; his whole face radiated joy and excitement.</p> - -<p>I can sympathize with peopleâs pains, but not with their pleasures. There is something -curiously boring about somebody elseâs happiness.</p> - -<p>âYou are perspiring,â I said coldly.</p> - -<p>Lykeham mopped himself, but went grinning.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-248">[Pg 248]</a></span></p> - -<p>âWell, what is it this time?â I asked. âAre you engaged to be married again?â</p> - -<p>Lykeham burst forth with the triumphant pleasure of one who has at last found an -opportunity of disburdening himself of an oppressive secret. âFar better than that,â he -cried.</p> - -<p>I groaned. âSome more than usually unpleasant amour, I suppose.â I knew that he had -been in London the day before, a pressing engagement with the dentist having furnished an -excuse to stay the night.</p> - -<p>âDonât be gross,â said Lykeham, with a nervous laugh which showed that my suspicions -had been only too well founded.</p> - -<p>âWell, letâs hear about the delectable Flossie or Effie or whatever her name was,â I -said, with resignation.</p> - -<p>âI tell you she was a goddess.â</p> - -<p>âThe goddess of reason, I suppose.â</p> - -<p>âA goddess,â Lykeham continued; âthe most wonderful creature Iâve ever seen. And the -extraordinary thing is,â he added confidentially, and with ill-suppressed pride, âthat it -seems I myself am a god of sorts.â</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-249">[Pg 249]</a></span></p> - -<p>âOf gardens; but do come down to facts.â</p> - -<p>âIâll tell you the whole story. It was like this: Last night I was in town, you know, -and went to see that capital play thatâs running at the Prince Consortâs. Itâs one of -those ingenious combinations of melodrama and problem play, which thrill you to the marrow -and at the same time give you a virtuous feeling that youâve been to see something -serious. Well, I rolled in rather late, having secured an admirable place in the front row -of the dress circle. I trampled in over the populace, and casually observed that there was -a girl sitting next me, whom I apologized to for treading on her toes. I thought no more -about her during the first act. In the interval, when the lights were on again, I turned -round to look at things in general and discovered that there was a goddess sitting next -me. One only had to look at her to see she was a goddess. She was quite incredibly -beautifulârather pale and virginal and slim, and at the same time very stately. I canât -describe her; she was simply perfectâthereâs nothing more to be said.â</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-250">[Pg 250]</a></span></p> - -<p>âPerfect,â I repeated, âbut so were all the rest.â</p> - -<p>âFool!â Lykeham answered impatiently. âAll the rest were just damned women. This was a -goddess, I tell you. Donât interrupt me any more. As I was looking with astonishment at -her profile, she turned her head and looked squarely at me. Iâve never seen anything so -lovely; I almost swooned away. Our eyes metâââ</p> - -<p>âWhat an awful novelistâs expression!â I expostulated.</p> - -<p>âI canât help it; thereâs no other word. Our eyes did meet, and we both fell -simultaneously in love.â</p> - -<p>âSpeak for yourself.â</p> - -<p>âI could see it in her eyes. Well, to go on. We looked at one another several times -during that first interval, and then the second act began. In the course of the act, -entirely accidentally, I knocked my programme on to the floor, and reaching down to get it -I touched her hand. Well, there was obviously nothing else to do but to take hold of -it.â</p> - -<p>âAnd what did she do?â</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-251">[Pg 251]</a></span></p> - -<p>âNothing. We sat like that the whole of the rest of the act, rapturously happy -andâââ</p> - -<p>âAnd quietly perspiring palm to palm. I know exactly, so we can pass over that. -Proceed.â</p> - -<p>âOf course you donât know in the least; youâve never held a goddessâs hand. When the -lights went up again I reluctantly dropped her hand, not liking the thought of the profane -crowd seeing us, and for want of anything better to say, I asked her if she actually was a -goddess. She said it was a curious question, as sheâd been wondering what god I was. So we -said, how incredible: and I said I was sure she was a goddess, and she said she was -certain I was a god, and I bought some chocolates, and the third act began. Now, it being -a melodrama, there was of course in the third act a murder and burglary scene, in which -all the lights were turned out. In this thrilling moment of total blackness I suddenly -felt her kiss me on the cheek.â</p> - -<p>âI thought you said she was virginal.â</p> - -<p>âSo she wasâabsolutely, frozenly <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-252">[Pg 252]</a></span>virginal; but she was made of a sort of burning ice, if -you understand me. She was virginally passionateâjust the combination youâd expect to find -in a goddess. I admit I was startled when she kissed me, but with infinite presence of -mind I kissed her back, on the mouth. Then the murder was finished and the lights went on -again. Nothing much more happened till the end of the show, when I helped her on with her -coat and we went out together, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, and got -into a taxi. I told the man to drive somewhere where we could get supper, and he drove -there.â</p> - -<p>âNot without embracements by the way?â</p> - -<p>âNo, not without certain embracements.â</p> - -<p>âAlways passionately virginal?â</p> - -<p>âAlways virginally passionate.â</p> - -<p>âProceed.â</p> - -<p>âWell, we had supperâa positively Olympian affair, nectar and ambrosia and stolen -hand-pressures. She became more and more wonderful every moment. My God, you should have -seen her eyes! <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-253">[Pg -253]</a></span>The whole soul seemed to burn in their depths, like fire under the -seaâââ</p> - -<p>âFor narrative,â I interrupted him, âthe epic or heroic style is altogether more -suitable than the lyrical.â</p> - -<p>âWell, as I say, we had supper, and after that my memory becomes a sort of burning -mist.â</p> - -<p>âLet us make haste to draw the inevitable veil. What was her name?â</p> - -<p>Lykeham confessed that he didnât know; as she was a goddess, it didnât really seem to -matter what her earthly name was. How did he expect to find her again? He hadnât thought -of that, but knew sheâd turn up somehow. I told him he was a fool, and asked which -particular goddess he thought she was and which particular god he himself.</p> - -<p>âWe discussed that,â he said. âWe first thought Ares and Aphrodite; but she wasnât my -idea of Aphrodite, and I donât know that Iâm very much like Ares.â</p> - -<p>He looked pensively in the old Venetian mirror which hung over the fireplace. It was a -complacent look, for Lykeham was rather vain about his personal appearance, <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-254">[Pg 254]</a></span>which was, indeed, -repulsive at first sight, but had, when you looked again, a certain strange and -fascinating ugly beauty. Bearded, he would have made a passable Socrates. But Aresâno, -certainly he wasnât Ares.</p> - -<p>âPerhaps youâre HephĂŚstus,â I suggested; but the idea was received coldly.</p> - -<p>Was he sure that she was a goddess? Mightnât she just have been a nymph of sorts? -Europa, for instance. Lykeham repudiated the implied suggestion that he was a bull, nor -would he hear of himself as a swan or a shower of gold. It was possible, however, he -thought, that he was Apollo and she Daphne, reincarnated from her vegetable state. And -though I laughed heartily at the idea of his being PhĹbus Apollo, Lykeham stuck to the -theory with increasing obstinacy. The more he thought of it the more it seemed to him -probable that his nymph, with her burning cold virginal passion, was Daphne, while to -doubt that he himself was Apollo seemed hardly to occur to him.</p> - -<p class="transition"> </p> - -<p>It was about a fortnight later, in June, <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-255">[Pg 255]</a></span>towards the end of term, that we discovered Lykehamâs -Olympian identity. We had gone, Lykeham and I, for an after-dinner walk. We set out -through the pale tranquillity of twilight, and following the towpath up the river as far -as Godstow, halted at the inn for a glass of port and a talk with the glorious old female -Falstaff in black silk who kept it. We were royally entertained with gossip and old wine, -and after Lykeham had sung a comic song which had reduced the old lady to a quivering -jelly of hysterical laughter, we set out once more, intending to go yet a little farther -up the river before we turned back. Darkness had fallen by this time; the stars were -lighted in the sky; it was the sort of summer night to which Marlowe compared Helen of -Troy. Over the meadows invisible peewits wheeled and uttered their melancholy cry; the -far-off thunder of the weir bore a continuous, even burden to all the other small noises -of the night. Lykeham and I walked on in silence. We had covered perhaps a quarter of a -mile when all at once my companion stopped and began <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-256">[Pg 256]</a></span>looking fixedly westward towards Witham -Hill. I paused too, and saw that he was staring at the thin crescent of the moon, which -was preparing to set in the dark woods that crowned the eminence.</p> - -<p>âWhat are you looking at?â I asked.</p> - -<p>But Lykeham paid no attention, only muttered something to himself. Then suddenly he -cried out, âItâs she!â and started off at full gallop across the fields in the direction -of the hill. Conceiving that he had gone suddenly mad, I followed. We crashed through the -first hedge twenty yards apart. Then came the backwater; Lykeham leapt, flopped in -three-quarters of the way across, and scrambled oozily ashore. I made a better jump and -landed among the mud and rushes of the farther bank. Two more hedges and a ploughed field, -a hedge, a road, a gate, another field, and then we were in Witham Wood itself. It was -pitch black under the trees, and Lykeham had perforce to slacken his pace a little. I -followed him by the noise he made crashing through the undergrowth and cursing when he -hurt himself. That <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-257">[Pg -257]</a></span>wood was a nightmare, but we got through it somehow and into the open glade -at the top of the hill. Through the trees on the farther side of the clearing shone the -moon, seeming incredibly close at hand. Then, suddenly, along the very path of the -moonlight, the figure of a woman came walking through the trees into the open. Lykeham -rushed towards her and flung himself at her feet and embraced her knees; she stooped down -and smoothed his ruffled hair. I turned and walked away; it is not for a mere mortal to -look on at the embracements of the gods.</p> - -<p>As I walked back, I wondered who on earthâor rather who in heavenâLykeham could be. For -here was chaste Cynthia giving herself to him in the most unequivocal fashion. Could he be -Endymion? No, the idea was too preposterous to be entertained for a moment. But I could -think of no other loved by the virgin moon. Yet surely I seemed dimly to recollect that -there had been some favoured god; for the life of me I could not remember who. All the way -back along the river path I searched <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-258">[Pg 258]</a></span>my mind for his name, and always it eluded me.</p> - -<p>But on my return I looked up the matter in Lemprière, and almost died of laughing when -I discovered the truth. I thought of Lykehamâs Venetian mirror and his complacent side -glances at his own image, and his belief that he was Apollo, and I laughed and laughed. -And when, considerably after midnight, Lykeham got back to college, I met him in the porch -and took him quietly by the sleeve, and in his ear I whispered, -âG<small>OAT</small>-F<small>OOT</small>,â and then I roared with laughter once again.</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-259">[Pg 259]</a></span></p> - -<h3 class="no_sections" id="Bookshop"><a href="#Bookshop_toc">THE BOOKSHOP</a></h3> - -<p class="noindent">I<small>T</small> seemed indeed an unlikely place to find a bookshop. -All the other commercial enterprises of the street aimed at purveying the barest -necessities to the busy squalor of the quarter. In this, the main arterial street, there -was a specious glitter and life produced by the swift passage of the traffic. It was -almost airy, almost gay. But all around great tracts of slum pullulated dankly. The -inhabitants did their shopping in the grand street; they passed, holding gobbets of meat -that showed glutinous even through the wrappings of paper; they cheapened linoleum at -upholstery doors; women, black-bonneted and black-shawled, went shuffling to their -marketing with dilapidated bags of straw plait. How should these, I wondered, buy books? -And yet there it was, a tiny shop; and the windows were fitted with shelves, and there -were the brown backs of books. <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-260"> [Pg 260]</a></span>To the right a -large emporium overflowed into the street with its fabulously cheap furniture; to the left -the curtained, discreet windows of an eating-house announced in chipped white letters the -merits of sixpenny dinners. Between, so narrow as scarcely to prevent the junction of food -and furniture, was the little shop. A door and four feet of dark window, that was the full -extent of frontage. One saw here that literature was a luxury; it took its proportionable -room here in this place of necessity. Still, the comfort was that it survived, definitely -survived.</p> - -<p>The owner of the shop was standing in the doorway, a little man, grizzle-bearded and -with eyes very active round the corners of the spectacles that bridged his long, sharp -nose.</p> - -<p>âTrade is good?â I inquired.</p> - -<p>âBetter in my grandfatherâs day,â he told me, shaking his head sadly.</p> - -<p>âWe grow progressively more Philistine,â I suggested.</p> - -<p>âIt is our cheap press. The ephemeral overwhelms the permanent, the classical.â</p> - -<p>âThis journalism,â I agreed, âor call <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-261">[Pg 261]</a></span>it rather this piddling quotidianism, is the curse of our -age.â</p> - -<p>âFit only forâââ He gesticulated clutchingly with his hands as though seeking the -word.</p> - -<p>âFor the fire.â</p> - -<p>The old man was triumphantly emphatic with his, âNo: for the sewer.â</p> - -<p>I laughed sympathetically at his passion. âWe are delightfully at one in our views,â I -told him. âMay I look about me a little among your treasures?â</p> - -<p>Within the shop was a brown twilight, redolent with old leather and the smell of that -fine subtle dust that clings to the pages of forgotten books, as though preservative of -their secretsâlike the dry sand of Asian deserts beneath which, still incredibly intact, -lie the treasures and the rubbish of a thousand years ago. I opened the first volume that -came to my hand. It was a book of fashion-plates, tinted elaborately by hand in magenta -and purple, maroon and solferino and puce and those melting shades of green that a yet -earlier generation had called âthe sorrows of Werther.â Beauties in crinolines swam with -the amplitude <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-262">[Pg 262]</a></span>of -pavilioned ships across the pages. Their feet were represented as thin and flat and black, -like tea-leaves shyly protruding from under their petticoats. Their faces were egg-shaped, -sleeked round with hair of glossy black, and expressive of an immaculate purity. I thought -of our modern fashion figures, with their heels and their arch of instep, their flattened -faces and smile of pouting invitation. It was difficult not to be a deteriorationist. I am -easily moved by symbols; there is something of a Quarles in my nature. Lacking the -philosophic mind, I prefer to see my abstractions concretely imaged. And it occurred to me -then that if I wanted an emblem to picture the sacredness of marriage and the influence of -the home I could not do better than choose two little black feet like tea-leaves peeping -out decorously from under the hem of wide, disguising petticoats. While heels and -thoroughbred insteps should figureâoh well, the reverse.</p> - -<p>The current of my thoughts was turned aside by the old manâs voice. âI expect you are -musical,â he said.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-263">[Pg 263]</a></span></p> - -<p>Oh yes, I was a little; and he held out to me a bulky folio.</p> - -<p>âDid you ever hear this?â he asked.</p> - -<p><i>Robert the Devil</i>: no, I never had. I did not doubt that it was a gap in my -musical education.</p> - -<p>The old man took the book and drew up a chair from the dim <i>penetralia</i> of the -shop. It was then that I noticed a surprising fact: what I had, at a careless glance, -taken to be a common counter I perceived now to be a piano of a square, unfamiliar shape. -The old man sat down before it. âYou must forgive any defects in its tone,â he said, -turning to me. âAn early Broadwood, Georgian, you know, and has seen a deal of service in -a hundred years.â</p> - -<p>He opened the lid, and the yellow keys grinned at me in the darkness like the teeth of -an ancient horse.</p> - -<p>The old man rustled pages till he found a desired place. âThe ballet music,â he said: -âitâs fine. Listen to this.â</p> - -<p>His bony, rather tremulous hands began suddenly to move with an astonishing nimbleness, -and there rose up, faint <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-264">[Pg -264]</a></span>and tinkling against the roar of the traffic, a gay pirouetting music. The -instrument rattled considerably and the volume of sound was thin as the trickle of a -drought-shrunken stream: but, still, it kept tune and the melody was there, filmy, -aerial.</p> - -<p>âAnd now for the drinking-song,â cried the old man, warming excitedly to his work. He -played a series of chords that mounted modulating upwards towards a breaking-point; so -supremely operatic as positively to be a parody of that moment of tautening suspense, when -the singers are bracing themselves for a burst of passion. And then it came, the drinking -chorus. One pictured to oneself cloaked men, wildly jovial over the emptiness of cardboard -flagons.</p> - -<blockquote class="verse"> -<p class="i3">âVersiamâ a tazza piena</p> - -<p class="i3a">Il generoso umor . . .â</p> -</blockquote> - -<p class="noindent">The old manâs voice was cracked and shrill, but his enthusiasm made up -for any defects in execution. I had never seen anyone so wholeheartedly a reveller.</p> - -<p>He turned over a few more pages. âAh, the âValse Infernale,ââ he said. <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-265">[Pg 265]</a></span>âThatâs good.â There -was a little melancholy prelude and then the tune, not so infernal perhaps as one might -have been led to expect, but still pleasant enough. I looked over his shoulder at the -words and sang to his accompaniment.</p> - -<blockquote class="verse"> -<p class="i3">âDemoni fatali</p> - -<p class="i3a">Fantasmi dâorror,</p> - -<p class="i3a">Dei regni infernali</p> - -<p class="i3a">Plaudite al signor.â</p> -</blockquote> - -<p class="noindent">A great steam-driven brewerâs lorry roared past with its annihilating -thunder and utterly blotted out the last line. The old manâs hands still moved over the -yellow keys, my mouth opened and shut; but there was no sound of words or music. It was as -though the fatal demons, the phantasms of horror, had made a sudden irruption into this -peaceful, abstracted place.</p> - -<p>I looked out through the narrow door. The traffic ceaselessly passed; men and women -hurried along with set faces. Phantasms of horror, all of them: infernal realms wherein -they dwelt. Outside, men lived under the tyranny of things. Their every action was -determined <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-266">[Pg 266]</a></span>by -the orders of mere matter, by money, and the tools of their trade and the unthinking laws -of habit and convention. But here I seemed to be safe from things, living at a remove from -actuality; here where a bearded old man, improbable survival from some other time, -indomitably played the music of romance, despite the fact that the phantasms of horror -might occasionally drown the sound of it with their clamour.</p> - -<p>âSo: will you take it?â The voice of the old man broke across my thoughts. âI will let -you have it for five shillings.â He was holding out the thick, dilapidated volume towards -me. His face wore a look of strained anxiety. I could see how eager he was to get my five -shillings, how necessary, poor man! for him. He has been, I thought with an unreasonable -bitternessâhe has been simply performing for my benefit, like a trained dog. His -aloofness, his cultureâall a business trick. I felt aggrieved. He was just one of the -common phantasms of horror masquerading as the angel of this somewhat comic paradise of -contemplation. I gave him a couple of <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-267">[Pg 267]</a></span>half-crowns and he began wrapping the book in paper.</p> - -<p>âI tell you,â he said, âIâm sorry to part with it. I get attached to my books, you -know; but they always have to go.â</p> - -<p>He sighed with such an obvious genuineness of feeling that I repented of the judgment I -had passed upon him. He was a reluctant inhabitant of the infernal realms, even as was I -myself.</p> - -<p>Outside they were beginning to cry the evening papers: a ship sunk, trenches captured, -somebodyâs new stirring speech. We looked at one anotherâthe old bookseller and Iâin -silence. We understood one another without speech. Here were we in particular, and here -was the whole of humanity in general, all faced by the hideous triumph of things. In this -continued massacre of men, in this old manâs enforced sacrifice, matter equally triumphed. -And walking homeward through Regentâs Park, I too found matter triumphing over me. My book -was unconscionably heavy, and I wondered what in the world I should do with a piano score -of <i>Robert the Devil</i> <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-268">[Pg -268]</a></span>when I had got it home. It would only be another thing to weigh me down and -hinder me; and at the moment it was very, oh, abominably, heavy. I leaned over the -railings that ring round the ornamental water, and as unostentatiously as I could, I let -the book fall into the bushes.</p> - -<p>I often think it would be best not to attempt the solution of the problem of life. -Living is hard enough without complicating the process by thinking about it. The wisest -thing, perhaps, is to take for granted the âwearisome condition of humanity, born under -one law, to another bound,â and to leave the matter at that, without an attempt to -reconcile the incompatibles. Oh, the absurd difficulty of it all! And I have, moreover, -wasted five shillings, which is serious, you know, in these thin times.</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-269">[Pg 269]</a></span></p> - -<h3 class="no_sections" id="Death"><a href="#Death_toc">THE DEATH OF LULLY</a></h3> - -<p class="noindent">T<small>HE</small> sea lay in a breathing calm, and the galley, -bosomed in its transparent water, stirred rhythmically to the slow pulse of its sleeping -life. Down below there, fathoms away through the crystal-clear Mediterranean, the shadow -of the ship lazily swung, moving, a long dark patch, very slowly back and forth across the -white sand of the sea-bottomâvery slowly, a scarcely perceptible advance and recession of -the green darkness. Fishes sometimes passed, now hanging poised with idly tremulous fins, -now darting onwards, effortless and incredibly swift; and always, as it seemed, utterly -aimless, whether they rested or whether they moved; as the life of angels their life -seemed mysterious and unknowable.</p> - -<p>All was silence on board the ship. In their fetid cage below decks the rowers slept -where they sat, chained, on their <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-270">[Pg 270]</a></span>narrow benches. On deck the sailors lay sleeping or sat -in little groups playing at dice. The fore-part of the deck was reserved, it seemed, for -passengers of distinction. Two figures, a man and a woman, were reclining there on -couches, their faces and half-bared limbs flushed in the coloured shadow that was thrown -by the great red awning stretched above them.</p> - -<p>It was a nobleman, the sailors had heard, and his mistress that they had on board. They -had taken their passage at Scanderoon, and were homeward bound for Spain. Proud as sin -these Spaniards were; the man treated them like slaves or dogs. As for the woman, she was -well enough, but they could find as good a face and pair of breasts in their native Genoa. -If anyone so much as looked at her from half the shipâs length away it sent her possessor -into a rage. He had struck one man for smiling at her. Damned Catalonian, as jealous as a -stag; they wished him the stagâs horns as well as its temper.</p> - -<p>It was intensely hot even under the awning. The man woke from his uneasy <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-271">[Pg 271]</a></span>sleep and reached out -to where on a little table beside him stood a deep silver cup of mixed wine and water. He -drank a gulp of it; it was as warm as blood and hardly cooled his throat. He turned over -and, leaning on his elbow, looked at his companion. She on her back, quietly breathing -through parted lips, still asleep. He leaned across and pinched her on the breast, so that -she woke up with a sudden start and cry of pain.</p> - -<p>âWhy did you wake me?â she asked.</p> - -<p>He laughed and shrugged his shoulders. He had, indeed, had no reason for doing so, -except that he did not like it that she should be comfortably asleep, while he was awake -and unpleasantly conscious of the heat.</p> - -<p>âIt is hotter than ever,â he said, with a kind of gloomy satisfaction at the thought -that she would now have to suffer the same discomforts as himself. âThe wine scorches -instead of cooling; the sun seems no lower down the sky.â</p> - -<p>The woman pouted. âYou pinched me cruelly,â she said. âAnd I still do not know why you -wanted to wake me.â</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-272">[Pg 272]</a></span></p> - -<p>He smiled again, this time with a good-humoured lasciviousness. âI wanted to kiss you,â -he said. He passed his hand over her body possessively, as a man might caress a dog.</p> - -<p>Suddenly the quiet of the afternoon was shattered. A great clamour rose up, ragged and -uneven, on the air. Shrill yells pierced the dull rumbling growl of bass voices, pierced -the sound of beaten drums and hammered metal.</p> - -<p>âWhat are they doing in the town?â asked the woman anxiously of her lover.</p> - -<p>âGod knows,â he answered. âPerhaps the heathen hounds are making some trouble with our -men.â</p> - -<p>He got up and walked to the rail of the ship. A quarter of a mile away, across the -smooth water of the bay, stood the little African town at which they had stopped to call. -The sunlight showed everything with a hard and merciless definition. Sky, palms, white -houses, domes, and towers seemed as though made from some hard enamelled metal. A ridge of -low red hills rolled away to right and left. The sunshine gave to everything in the scene -the same <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-273">[Pg 273]</a></span>clarity -of detail, so that to the eye of the onlooker there was no impression of distance. The -whole thing seemed to be painted in flat upon a single plane.</p> - -<p>The young man returned to his couch under the awning and lay down. It was hotter than -ever, or seemed so, at least, since he had made the exertion of getting up. He thought of -high cool pastures in the hills, with the pleasant sound of streams, far down and out of -sight in their deep channels. He thought of winds that were fresh and scentedâwinds that -were not mere breaths of dust and fire. He thought of the shade of cypresses, a narrow -opaque strip of darkness; and he thought too of the green coolness, more diffused and -fluid and transparent, of chestnut groves. And he thought of the people he remembered -sitting under the treesâyoung people, gay and brightly dressed, whose life was all gaiety -and deliciousness. There were the songs that they sangâhe recalled the voices and the -dancing of the strings. And there were perfumes and, when one drew closer, the faint -intoxicating fragrance of a womanâs body. He thought of <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-274">[Pg 274]</a></span>the stories they told; one in particular -came to his mind, a capital tale of a sorcerer who offered to change a peasantâs wife into -a mare, and how he gulled the husband and enjoyed the woman before his eyes, and the -delightful excuses he made when she failed to change her shape. He smiled to himself at -the thought of it, and stretching out a hand touched his mistress. Her bosom was soft to -his fingers and damp with sweat; he had an unpleasant notion that she was melting in the -heat.</p> - -<p>âWhy do you touch me?â she asked.</p> - -<p>He made no reply, but turned away from her. He wondered how it would come to pass that -people would rise again in the body. It seemed curious, considering the manifest -activities of worms. And suppose one rose in the body that one possessed in age. He -shuddered, picturing to himself what this woman would be like when she was sixty, seventy. -She would be beyond words repulsive. Old men too were horrible. They stank, and their eyes -were rheumy and rosiny, like the eyes of deer. He decided that he would kill himself -before he grew old. He was eight-and-twenty now. He would <span class="pagenum"><a -class="newpage" id="page-275">[Pg 275]</a></span>give himself twelve years more. Then he -would end it. His thoughts dimmed and faded away into sleep.</p> - -<p>The woman looked at him as he slept. He was a good man, she thought, though sometimes -cruel. He was different from all the other men she had known. Once, when she was sixteen -and a beginner in the business of love, she had thought that all men were always drunk -when they made love. They were all dirty and like beasts; she had felt herself superior to -them. But this man was a nobleman. She could not understand him; his thoughts were always -obscure. She felt herself infinitely inferior to him. She was afraid of him and his -occasional cruelty; but still he was a good man, and he might do what he liked with -her.</p> - -<p>From far off came the sound of oars, a rhythmical splash and creak. Somebody shouted, -and from startlingly close at hand one of the sailors hallooed back.</p> - -<p>The young man woke up with a start.</p> - -<p>âWhat is it?â he asked, turning with an angry look to the girl, as though he held her -to be responsible for this breaking in upon his slumbers.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-276">[Pg 276]</a></span></p> - -<p>âThe boat, I think,â she said. âIt must be coming back from the shore.â</p> - -<p>The boatâs crew came up over the side, and all the stagnant life of the ship flowed -excitedly round them. They were the centre of a vortex towards which all were drawn. Even -the young Catalonian, for all his hatred of these stinking Genoese shipmen, was sucked -into the eddy. Everybody was talking at once, and in the general hubbub of question and -answer there was nothing coherent to be made out. Piercingly distinct above all the noise -came the voice of the little cabin-boy, who had been to shore with the boatâs crew. He was -running round to everyone in turn repeating: âI hit one of them. You know. I hit one. With -a stone on the forehead. Didnât he bleed, ooh! didnât he just!â And he would dance with -uncontrollable excitement.</p> - -<p>The captain held up his hand and shouted for silence. âOne at a time, there,â he -ordered, and when order had a little been restored, added grumblingly, âLike a pack of -dogs on a bone. You talk, boatswain.â</p> - -<p>âI hit one of them,â said the boy. <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-277">[Pg 277]</a></span>Somebody cuffed him over the head, and he relapsed into -silence.</p> - -<p>When the boatswainâs story had rambled through labyrinths of digression, over countless -obstacles of interruptions and emendations, to its conclusion, the Spaniard went back to -join his companion under the awning. He had assumed again his habitual indifference.</p> - -<p>âNearly butchered,â he said languidly, in response to her eager questions. âTheyââhe -jerked a hand in the direction of the townââthey were pelting an old fellow who had come -there preaching the Faith. Left him dead on the beach. Our men had to run for it.â</p> - -<p>She could get no more out of him; he turned over and pretended to go to sleep.</p> - -<p class="transition"> </p> - -<p>Towards evening they received a visit from the captain. He was a large, handsome man, -with gold ear-rings glinting from among a bush of black hair.</p> - -<p>âDivine Providence,â he remarked sententiously, after the usual courtesies had passed, -âhas called upon us to perform a very notable work.â</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-278">[Pg 278]</a></span></p> - -<p>âIndeed?â said the young man.</p> - -<p>âNo less a work,â continued the captain, âthan to save from the clutches of the -infidels and heathen the precious remains of a holy martyr.â</p> - -<p>The captain let fall his pompous manner. It was evident that he had carefully prepared -these pious sentences, they rolled so roundly off his tongue. But he was eager now to get -on with his story, and it was in a homelier style that he went on: âIf you knew these seas -as well as Iâand itâs near twenty years now that Iâve been sailing themâyouâd have some -knowledge of this same holy man thatâGod rot their souls for it!âthese cursed Arabs have -done to death here. Iâve heard of him more than once in my time, and not always well -spoken of; for, to tell the honest truth, he does more harm with his preachments to good -Christian traders than ever he did good to black-hearted heathen dogs. Leave the bees -alone, I say, and if you can get a little honey out of them quietly, so much the better; -but he goes about among the beehives with a pole, stirring up trouble for himself <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-279">[Pg 279]</a></span>and others too. Leave -them alone to their damnation, is what I say, and get what you can from them this side of -hell. But, still, he has died a holy martyrâs death. God rest his soul! A martyr is a -wonderful thing, you know, and itâs not for the likes of us to understand what they mean -by it all.</p> - -<p>âThey do say, too, that he could make gold. And, to my mind, it would have been a thing -more pleasing to God and man if he had stopped at home minting money for poor folks and -dealing it round, so that thereâd be no need to work any more and break oneself for a -morsel of bread. Yes, he was great at gold-making and at the books too. They tell me he -was called the Illuminated Doctor. But I know him still as plain Lully. I used to hear of -him from my father, plain Lully, and no better once than he should have been.</p> - -<p>âMy father was a shipwright in Minorca in those daysâhow long since? Fifty, sixty years -perhaps. He knew him then; he has often told me the tale. And a raffish young dog he was. -Drinking, drabbing, and dicing he outdid them <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-280">[Pg 280]</a></span>all, and between the bouts wrote poems, they say, which -was more than the rest could do. But he gave it all up on the sudden. Gave away his lands, -quitted his former companions, and turned hermit up in the hills, living alone like a fox -in his burrow, high up above the vines. And all because of a woman and his own qualmish -stomach.â</p> - -<p>The shipmaster paused and helped himself to a little wine. âAnd what did this woman -do?â the girl asked curiously.</p> - -<p>âAh, itâs not what she did but what she didnât do,â the captain answered, with a leer -and wink. âShe kept him at his distanceâall but once, all but once; and that was what put -him on the road to being a martyr. But there, Iâm outrunning myself. I must go more -soberly.</p> - -<p>âThere was a lady of some consequence in the islandâone of the Castellos, I think she -was; her first name has quite slipped my memoryâAnastasia, or something of the kind. Lully -conceives a passion for her, and sighs and importunes her through I know not how many -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-281">[Pg 281]</a></span>months and -years. But her virtue stands steady as the judgment seat. Well, in the end, what happens -was this. The story leaked out after it was all over, and he was turned hermit in the -mountains. What happened, I say, was this. She tells him at last that he may come and see -her, fixing some solitary twilight place and time, her own room at nightfall. You can -guess how he washes and curls and scents himself, shaves his chin, chews anises, musks -over whatever of the goat may cling about the body. Off he goes, dreaming swoons and -ecstasies, foretasting inconceivable sweets. Arrived, he finds the lady a little -melancholyâher settled humour, but a man might expect a smile at such a time. Still, -nothing abashed, he falls at her feet and pours out his piteous case, telling her he has -sighed through seven years, not closed an eye for above a hundred nights, is forepined to -a shadow, and, in a word, will perish unless she show some mercy. She, still melancholy -herâsettled humour, mark youâmakes answer that she is ready to yield, and that her body is -entirely his. With that, she lets herself <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-282">[Pg 282]</a></span>be done with as he pleases, but always sorrowfully. âYou -are all mine,â says heââall mineââand unlaces her gorgeret to prove the same. But he was -wrong. Another lover was already in her bosom, and his kisses had been passionateâoh, -burning passionate, for he had kissed away half her left breast. From the nipple down it -had all been gnawed away by a cancer.</p> - -<p>âBah, a man may see as bad as that any day in the street or at church-doors where -beggars most congregate. I grant you that it is a nasty sight, worm-eaten flesh, but -stillânot enough, you will agree, to make yourself a hermit over. But there, I told you he -had a queasiness of the stomach. But doubtless it was all in Godâs plan to make a holy -martyr of him. But for that same queasiness of his, he would still be living there, a -superannuated rake; or else have died in very foul odour, instead of passing, all embalmed -with sanctity, to Paradise Gate.</p> - -<p>âI know not what happened to him between his hermit-hood and his quest for martyrdom. I -saw him first a dozen <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-283">[Pg -283]</a></span>years ago, down Tunis way. They were always clapping him into prison or -pulling out his beard for preaching. This time, it seems, they have made a holy martyr of -him, done the business thoroughly with no bungling. Well, may he pray for our souls at the -throne of God. I go in secretly to-night to steal his body. It lies on the shore there -beyond the jetty. It will be a notable work, I tell you, to bring back so precious a -corpse to Christendom. A most notable work. . . .â</p> - -<p>The captain rubbed his hands.</p> - -<p class="transition"> </p> - -<p>It was after midnight, but there was still a bustle of activity on board the galley. At -any moment they were expecting the arrival of the boat with the corpse of the martyr. A -couch, neatly draped in black, with at its head and foot candles burning two by two, had -been set out on the poop for the reception of the body. The captain called the young -Spaniard and his mistress to come and see the bier.</p> - -<p>âThatâs a good bit of work for you,â he said, with justifiable pride. âI defy <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-284">[Pg 284]</a></span>anyone to make a more -decent resting-place for a martyr than that is. It could hardly have been done better on -shore, with every appliance at hand. But we sailors, you know, can make anything out of -nothing. A truckle-bed, a strip of tarred canvas, and four tallow dips from the cabin -lanternsâthere you are, a bier for a king.â</p> - -<p>He hurried away, and a little later the young man and the girl could hear him giving -orders and cursing somewhere down below. The candles burned almost without a tremor in the -windless air, and the reflections of the stars were long, thin tracks of fire along the -utterly calm water.</p> - -<p>âWere there but perfumed flowers and the sound of a lute,â said the young Spaniard, -âthe night would tremble into passion of its own accord. Love should come unsought on such -a night as this, among these black waters and the stars that sleep so peacefully on their -bosom.â</p> - -<p>He put his arm round the girl and bent his head to kiss her. But she averted her face. -He could feel a shudder run her through the body.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-285">[Pg 285]</a></span></p> - -<p>âNot to-night,â she whispered. âI think of the poor dead man. I would rather pray.â</p> - -<p>âNo, no,â he cried. âForget him. Remember only that we are alive, and that we have but -little time and none to waste.â</p> - -<p>He drew her into the shadow under the bulwark, and, sitting down on a coil of rope, -crushed her body to his own and began kissing her with fury. She lay, at first, limp in -his arms, but gradually she kindled to his passion.</p> - -<p>A plash of oars announced the approach of the boat. The captain hallooed into the -darkness: âDid you find him?â</p> - -<p>âYes, we have him here,â came back the answer.</p> - -<p>âGood. Bring him alongside and weâll hoist him up. We have the bier in readiness. He -shall lie in state to-night.â</p> - -<p>âBut heâs not dead,â shouted back the voice from the night.</p> - -<p>âNot dead?â repeated the captain, thunderstruck. âBut what about the bier, then?â</p> - -<p>A thin, feeble voice came back. âYour work will not be wasted, my friend. <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-286">[Pg 286]</a></span>It will be but a short -time before I need your bier.â</p> - -<p>The captain, a little abashed, answered in a gentler tone, âWe thought, holy father, -that the heathens had done their worst and that Almighty God had already given you the -martyrâs crown.â</p> - -<p>By this time the boat had emerged from the darkness. In the stern sheets an old man was -lying, his white hair and beard stained with blood, his Dominicanâs robe torn and fouled -with dust. At the sight of him, the captain pulled off his cap and dropped upon his -knees.</p> - -<p>âGive us your blessing, holy father,â he begged.</p> - -<p>The old man raised his hand and wished him peace.</p> - -<p>They lifted him on board and, at his own desire, laid him upon the bier which had been -prepared for his dead body. âIt would be a waste of trouble,â he said, âto put me anywhere -else, seeing I shall in any case be lying there so soon.â</p> - -<p>So there he lay, very still under the four candles. One might have taken him for dead -already, but that his eyes, when he opened them, shone so brightly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-287">[Pg 287]</a></span></p> - -<p>He dismissed from the poop everyone except the young Spaniard. âWe are countrymen,â he -said, âand of noble blood, both of us. I would rather have you near me than anyone -else.â</p> - -<p>The sailors knelt for a blessing and disappeared; soon they could be heard weighing the -anchor; it was safest to be off before day. Like mourners at either side of the lighted -bier crouched the Spaniard and his mistress. The body of the old man, who was not yet -dead, lay quiet under the candles. The martyr was silent for some time, but at last he -opened his eyes and looked at the young man and the woman.</p> - -<p>âI too,â he said, âwas in love, once. In this year falls the jubilee of my last earthly -passion; fifty years have run since last I longed after the fleshâfifty years since God -opened my eyes to the hideousness of the corruption that man has brought upon himself.</p> - -<p>âYou are young, and your bodies are clean and straight, with no blotch or ulcer or -leprous taint to mar their much-desired beauty; but because of your outward <span -class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-288">[Pg 288]</a></span>pride, your souls, it -may be, fester inwardly the more.</p> - -<p>âAnd yet God made all perfect; it is but accident and the evil of will that causes -defaults. All metals should be gold, were it not that their elements willed evilly in -their desire to combine. And so with men: the burning sulphur of passion, the salt of -wisdom, the nimble mercurial soul should come together to make a golden being, -incorruptible and rustless. But the elements mingle jarringly, not in a pure harmony of -love, and gold is rare, while lead and iron and poisonous brass that leaves a taste as of -remorse behind it are everywhere common.</p> - -<p>âGod opened my eyes to it before my youth had too utterly wasted itself to rottenness. -It was half a hundred years ago, but I see her still, my Ambrosia, with her white, sad -face and her naked body and that monstrous ill eating away at her breast.</p> - -<p>âI have lived since then trying to amend the evil, trying to restore, as far as my poor -powers would go, some measure of original perfection to the corrupted world. I have -striven to give to all metals their true <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-289">[Pg 289]</a></span>nature, to make true gold from the false, the unreal, the -accidental metals, lead and copper and tin and iron. And I have essayed that more -difficult alchemy, the transformation of men. I die now in my effort to purge away that -most foul dross of misbelief from the souls of these heathen men. Have I achieved -anything? I know not.â</p> - -<p>The galley was moving now, its head turned seaward. The candles shivered in the wind of -its speed, casting uncertain, changing shadows upon his face. There was a long silence on -the poop. The oars creaked and splashed. Sometimes a shout would come up from below, -orders given by the overseer of the slaves, a curse, the sound of a blow. The old man -spoke again, more weakly now, as though to himself.</p> - -<p>âI have had eighty years of it,â he saidââeighty years in the midst of this corroding -sea of hatred and strife. A man has need to keep pure and unalloyed his core of gold, that -little centre of perfection with which all, even in this declination of time, are born. -All other metal, though it be as tough as steel, <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" -id="page-290">[Pg 290]</a></span>as shining-hard as brass, will melt before the devouring -bitterness of life. Hatred, lust, angerâthe vile passions will corrode your will of iron, -the warlike pomp of your front of brass. It needs the golden perfection of pure love and -pure knowledge to withstand them.</p> - -<p>âGod has willed that I should be the stoneâweak, indeed, in virtueâthat has touched and -transformed at least a little of baser metal into the gold that is above corruption. But -it is hard workâthankless work. Man has made a hell of his world, and has set up gods of -pain to rule it. Goatish gods, that revel and feast on the agony of it all, poring over -the tortured world, like those hateful lovers, whose lust burns darkly into cruelty.</p> - -<p>âFever goads us through life in a delirium of madness. Thirsting for the swamps of evil -whence the fever came, thirsting for the mirages of his own delirium, man rushes headlong -he knows not whither. And all the time a devouring cancer gnaws at his entrails. It will -kill him in the end, when even the ghastly inspiration of fever will not be enough to whip -him on. He will lie there, <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-291">[Pg -291]</a></span>cumbering the earth, a heap of rottenness and pain, until at last the -cleansing fire comes to sweep the horror away.</p> - -<p>âFever and cancer; acids that burn and corrode. . . . I have had eighty years -of it. Thank God, it is the end.â</p> - -<p>It was already dawn; the candles were hardly visible now in the light, faded to -nothing, like souls in prosperity. In a little while the old man was asleep.</p> - -<p>The captain tiptoed up on to the poop and drew the young Spaniard aside for a -confidential talk.</p> - -<p>âDo you think he will die to-day?â he asked.</p> - -<p>The young man nodded.</p> - -<p>âGod rest his soul,â said the captain piously. âBut do you think it would be best to -take his body to Minorca or to Genoa? At Minorca they would give much to have their own -patron martyr. At the same time it would add to the glory of Genoa to possess so holy a -relic, though he is in no way connected with the place. Itâs there is my difficulty. -Suppose, you see, that my people of Genoa did not want the body, he being from Minorca and -not one of them. I should <span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-292">[Pg -292]</a></span>look a fool then, bringing it in in state. Oh, itâs hard, itâs hard. -Thereâs so much to think about. I am not sure but what I hadnât better put in at Minorca -first. What do you think?â</p> - -<p>The Spaniard shrugged his shoulder. âI have no advice to offer.â</p> - -<p>âLord,â said the captain as he bustled away, âlife is a tangled knot to unravel.â</p> - -<p class="printer">PRINTED BY MORRISON AND GIBB LTD., EDINBURGH</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter tnote"> -<h3 class="tnote" id="tnote">Transcriberâs Note</h3> - -<p>This transcription is based on images scanned from a copy made available by the -University of Toronto and posted by the Internet Archive at:</p> - -<p class="center"><a -href="https://archive.org/details/limbohux00huxluoft">archive.org/details/ -limbohux00huxluoft</a></p> - -<p>The following changes were noted:</p> - -<ul> -<li>p. 70: âLet it start smouldering at once I mustâInserted period after âonceâ.</li> - -<li>p. 196: Even make pretences to re ardâChanged âre ardâ to âregardâ.</li> - -<li>p. 203: Eupompusâ next picture, representing an orchard of identical treesâAs this -paragraph is a continuation of Emberlinâs speech, an opening double quotation mark was -inserted at the beginning of the paragraph.</li> - -<li>p. 243: How exciting it was, wasnât it, H<small>ENRIKA</small>?âChanged -âH<small>ENRIKA</small>â from small caps to âHenrikaâ.</li> -</ul> -</div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Limbo, by Aldous Huxley - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIMBO *** - -***** This file should be named 54895-h.htm or 54895-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/8/9/54895/ - -Produced by Paul Haxo from page images generously made -available by the University of Toronto and the Internet -Archive. - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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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