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1999-0.txt
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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Crome Yellow, by Aldous Huxley
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: Crome Yellow
Author: Aldous Huxley
Posting Date: September 26, 2008 [EBook #1999]
Release Date: December, 1999
Last Updated: November 8, 2016
Language: English
Character set encoding: UTF-8
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CROME YELLOW ***
Produced by Sue Asscher
CROME YELLOW
By Aldous Huxley
CHAPTER I.
Along this particular stretch of line no express had ever passed. All
the trains--the few that there were--stopped at all the stations.
Denis knew the names of those stations by heart. Bole, Tritton,
Spavin Delawarr, Knipswich for Timpany, West Bowlby, and, finally,
Camlet-on-the-Water. Camlet was where he always got out, leaving the
train to creep indolently onward, goodness only knew whither, into the
green heart of England.
They were snorting out of West Bowlby now. It was the next station,
thank Heaven. Denis took his chattels off the rack and piled them neatly
in the corner opposite his own. A futile proceeding. But one must have
something to do. When he had finished, he sank back into his seat and
closed his eyes. It was extremely hot.
Oh, this journey! It was two hours cut clean out of his life; two hours
in which he might have done so much, so much--written the perfect poem,
for example, or read the one illuminating book. Instead of which--his
gorge rose at the smell of the dusty cushions against which he was
leaning.
Two hours. One hundred and twenty minutes. Anything might be done in
that time. Anything. Nothing. Oh, he had had hundreds of hours, and what
had he done with them? Wasted them, spilt the precious minutes as though
his reservoir were inexhaustible. Denis groaned in the spirit, condemned
himself utterly with all his works. What right had he to sit in the
sunshine, to occupy corner seats in third-class carriages, to be alive?
None, none, none.
Misery and a nameless nostalgic distress possessed him. He was
twenty-three, and oh! so agonizingly conscious of the fact.
The train came bumpingly to a halt. Here was Camlet at last. Denis
jumped up, crammed his hat over his eyes, deranged his pile of baggage,
leaned out of the window and shouted for a porter, seized a bag in
either hand, and had to put them down again in order to open the door.
When at last he had safely bundled himself and his baggage on to the
platform, he ran up the train towards the van.
“A bicycle, a bicycle!” he said breathlessly to the guard. He felt
himself a man of action. The guard paid no attention, but continued
methodically to hand out, one by one, the packages labelled to Camlet.
“A bicycle!” Denis repeated. “A green machine, cross-framed, name of
Stone. S-T-O-N-E.”
“All in good time, sir,” said the guard soothingly. He was a large,
stately man with a naval beard. One pictured him at home, drinking tea,
surrounded by a numerous family. It was in that tone that he must have
spoken to his children when they were tiresome. “All in good time, sir.”
Denis’s man of action collapsed, punctured.
He left his luggage to be called for later, and pushed off on his
bicycle. He always took his bicycle when he went into the country. It
was part of the theory of exercise. One day one would get up at six
o’clock and pedal away to Kenilworth, or Stratford-on-Avon--anywhere.
And within a radius of twenty miles there were always Norman churches
and Tudor mansions to be seen in the course of an afternoon’s excursion.
Somehow they never did get seen, but all the same it was nice to feel
that the bicycle was there, and that one fine morning one really might
get up at six.
Once at the top of the long hill which led up from Camlet station, he
felt his spirits mounting. The world, he found, was good. The far-away
blue hills, the harvests whitening on the slopes of the ridge along
which his road led him, the treeless sky-lines that changed as he
moved--yes, they were all good. He was overcome by the beauty of those
deeply embayed combes, scooped in the flanks of the ridge beneath him.
Curves, curves: he repeated the word slowly, trying as he did so to find
some term in which to give expression to his appreciation. Curves--no,
that was inadequate. He made a gesture with his hand, as though to scoop
the achieved expression out of the air, and almost fell off his bicycle.
What was the word to describe the curves of those little valleys? They
were as fine as the lines of a human body, they were informed with the
subtlety of art...
Galbe. That was a good word; but it was French. Le galbe evase de ses
hanches: had one ever read a French novel in which that phrase didn’t
occur? Some day he would compile a dictionary for the use of novelists.
Galbe, gonfle, goulu: parfum, peau, pervers, potele, pudeur: vertu,
volupte.
But he really must find that word. Curves curves...Those little valleys
had the lines of a cup moulded round a woman’s breast; they seemed the
dinted imprints of some huge divine body that had rested on these hills.
Cumbrous locutions, these; but through them he seemed to be getting
nearer to what he wanted. Dinted, dimpled, wimpled--his mind wandered
down echoing corridors of assonance and alliteration ever further and
further from the point. He was enamoured with the beauty of words.
Becoming once more aware of the outer world, he found himself on the
crest of a descent. The road plunged down, steep and straight, into a
considerable valley. There, on the opposite slope, a little higher up
the valley, stood Crome, his destination. He put on his brakes; this
view of Crome was pleasant to linger over. The facade with its three
projecting towers rose precipitously from among the dark trees of the
garden. The house basked in full sunlight; the old brick rosily glowed.
How ripe and rich it was, how superbly mellow! And at the same time, how
austere! The hill was becoming steeper and steeper; he was gaining
speed in spite of his brakes. He loosed his grip of the levers, and in
a moment was rushing headlong down. Five minutes later he was passing
through the gate of the great courtyard. The front door stood hospitably
open. He left his bicycle leaning against the wall and walked in. He
would take them by surprise.
CHAPTER II.
He took nobody by surprise; there was nobody to take. All was quiet;
Denis wandered from room to empty room, looking with pleasure at the
familiar pictures and furniture, at all the little untidy signs of life
that lay scattered here and there. He was rather glad that they were
all out; it was amusing to wander through the house as though one
were exploring a dead, deserted Pompeii. What sort of life would the
excavator reconstruct from these remains; how would he people these
empty chambers? There was the long gallery, with its rows of respectable
and (though, of course, one couldn’t publicly admit it) rather boring
Italian primitives, its Chinese sculptures, its unobtrusive, dateless
furniture. There was the panelled drawing-room, where the huge
chintz-covered arm-chairs stood, oases of comfort among the austere
flesh-mortifying antiques. There was the morning-room, with its pale
lemon walls, its painted Venetian chairs and rococo tables, its mirrors,
its modern pictures. There was the library, cool, spacious, and dark,
book-lined from floor to ceiling, rich in portentous folios. There was
the dining-room, solidly, portwinily English, with its great
mahogany table, its eighteenth-century chairs and sideboard, its
eighteenth-century pictures--family portraits, meticulous animal
paintings. What could one reconstruct from such data? There was much of
Henry Wimbush in the long gallery and the library, something of Anne,
perhaps, in the morning-room. That was all. Among the accumulations of
ten generations the living had left but few traces.
Lying on the table in the morning-room he saw his own book of poems.
What tact! He picked it up and opened it. It was what the reviewers call
“a slim volume.” He read at hazard:
”...But silence and the topless dark
Vault in the lights of Luna Park;
And Blackpool from the nightly gloom
Hollows a bright tumultuous tomb.”
He put it down again, shook his head, and sighed. “What genius I had
then!” he reflected, echoing the aged Swift. It was nearly six months
since the book had been published; he was glad to think he would never
write anything of the same sort again. Who could have been reading it,
he wondered? Anne, perhaps; he liked to think so. Perhaps, too, she had
at last recognised herself in the Hamadryad of the poplar sapling; the
slim Hamadryad whose movements were like the swaying of a young tree in
the wind. “The Woman who was a Tree” was what he had called the poem. He
had given her the book when it came out, hoping that the poem would tell
her what he hadn’t dared to say. She had never referred to it.
He shut his eyes and saw a vision of her in a red velvet cloak, swaying
into the little restaurant where they sometimes dined together in
London--three quarters of an hour late, and he at his table, haggard
with anxiety, irritation, hunger. Oh, she was damnable!
It occurred to him that perhaps his hostess might be in her boudoir. It
was a possibility; he would go and see. Mrs. Wimbush’s boudoir was in
the central tower on the garden front. A little staircase cork-screwed
up to it from the hall. Denis mounted, tapped at the door. “Come in.”
Ah, she was there; he had rather hoped she wouldn’t be. He opened the
door.
Priscilla Wimbush was lying on the sofa. A blotting-pad rested on her
knees and she was thoughtfully sucking the end of a silver pencil.
“Hullo,” she said, looking up. “I’d forgotten you were coming.”
“Well, here I am, I’m afraid,” said Denis deprecatingly. “I’m awfully
sorry.”
Mrs. Wimbush laughed. Her voice, her laughter, were deep and masculine.
Everything about her was manly. She had a large, square, middle-aged
face, with a massive projecting nose and little greenish eyes, the whole
surmounted by a lofty and elaborate coiffure of a curiously improbable
shade of orange. Looking at her, Denis always thought of Wilkie Bard as
the cantatrice.
“That’s why I’m going to
Sing in op’ra, sing in op’ra,
Sing in op-pop-pop-pop-pop-popera.”
Today she was wearing a purple silk dress with a high collar and a row
of pearls. The costume, so richly dowagerish, so suggestive of the Royal
Family, made her look more than ever like something on the Halls.
“What have you been doing all this time?” she asked.
“Well,” said Denis, and he hesitated, almost voluptuously. He had a
tremendously amusing account of London and its doings all ripe and ready
in his mind. It would be a pleasure to give it utterance. “To begin
with,” he said...
But he was too late. Mrs. Wimbush’s question had been what the
grammarians call rhetorical; it asked for no answer. It was a little
conversational flourish, a gambit in the polite game.
“You find me busy at my horoscopes,” she said, without even being aware
that she had interrupted him.
A little pained, Denis decided to reserve his story for more receptive
ears. He contented himself, by way of revenge, with saying “Oh?” rather
icily.
“Did I tell you how I won four hundred on the Grand National this year?”
“Yes,” he replied, still frigid and mono-syllabic. She must have told
him at least six times.
“Wonderful, isn’t it? Everything is in the Stars. In the Old Days,
before I had the Stars to help me, I used to lose thousands. Now”--she
paused an instant--“well, look at that four hundred on the Grand
National. That’s the Stars.”
Denis would have liked to hear more about the Old Days. But he was too
discreet and, still more, too shy to ask. There had been something of
a bust up; that was all he knew. Old Priscilla--not so old then, of
course, and sprightlier--had lost a great deal of money, dropped it
in handfuls and hatfuls on every race-course in the country. She had
gambled too. The number of thousands varied in the different legends,
but all put it high. Henry Wimbush was forced to sell some of his
Primitives--a Taddeo da Poggibonsi, an Amico di Taddeo, and four or five
nameless Sienese--to the Americans. There was a crisis. For the first
time in his life Henry asserted himself, and with good effect, it
seemed.
Priscilla’s gay and gadding existence had come to an abrupt end.
Nowadays she spent almost all her time at Crome, cultivating a rather
ill-defined malady. For consolation she dallied with New Thought and the
Occult. Her passion for racing still possessed her, and Henry, who was a
kind-hearted fellow at bottom, allowed her forty pounds a month betting
money. Most of Priscilla’s days were spent in casting the horoscopes
of horses, and she invested her money scientifically, as the stars
dictated. She betted on football too, and had a large notebook in which
she registered the horoscopes of all the players in all the teams of
the League. The process of balancing the horoscopes of two elevens one
against the other was a very delicate and difficult one. A match between
the Spurs and the Villa entailed a conflict in the heavens so vast and
so complicated that it was not to be wondered at if she sometimes made a
mistake about the outcome.
“Such a pity you don’t believe in these things, Denis, such a pity,”
said Mrs. Wimbush in her deep, distinct voice.
“I can’t say I feel it so.”
“Ah, that’s because you don’t know what it’s like to have faith. You’ve
no idea how amusing and exciting life becomes when you do believe. All
that happens means something; nothing you do is ever insignificant. It
makes life so jolly, you know. Here am I at Crome. Dull as ditchwater,
you’d think; but no, I don’t find it so. I don’t regret the Old Days
a bit. I have the Stars...” She picked up the sheet of paper that was
lying on the blotting-pad. “Inman’s horoscope,” she explained. “(I
thought I’d like to have a little fling on the billiards championship
this autumn.) I have the Infinite to keep in tune with,” she waved her
hand. “And then there’s the next world and all the spirits, and one’s
Aura, and Mrs. Eddy and saying you’re not ill, and the Christian
Mysteries and Mrs. Besant. It’s all splendid. One’s never dull for a
moment. I can’t think how I used to get on before--in the Old Days.
Pleasure--running about, that’s all it was; just running about. Lunch,
tea, dinner, theatre, supper every day. It was fun, of course, while it
lasted. But there wasn’t much left of it afterwards. There’s rather a
good thing about that in Barbecue-Smith’s new book. Where is it?”
She sat up and reached for a book that was lying on the little table by
the head of the sofa.
“Do you know him, by the way?” she asked.
“Who?”
“Mr. Barbecue-Smith.”
Denis knew of him vaguely. Barbecue-Smith was a name in the Sunday
papers. He wrote about the Conduct of Life. He might even be the author
of “What a Young Girl Ought to Know”.
“No, not personally,” he said.
“I’ve invited him for next week-end.” She turned over the pages of the
book. “Here’s the passage I was thinking of. I marked it. I always mark
the things I like.”
Holding the book almost at arm’s length, for she was somewhat
long-sighted, and making suitable gestures with her free hand, she began
to read, slowly, dramatically.
“‘What are thousand pound fur coats, what are quarter million incomes?’”
She looked up from the page with a histrionic movement of the head; her
orange coiffure nodded portentously. Denis looked at it, fascinated.
Was it the Real Thing and henna, he wondered, or was it one of those
Complete Transformations one sees in the advertisements?
“‘What are Thrones and Sceptres?’”
The orange Transformation--yes, it must be a Transformation--bobbed up
again.
“‘What are the gaieties of the Rich, the splendours of the Powerful,
what is the pride of the Great, what are the gaudy pleasures of High
Society?’”
The voice, which had risen in tone, questioningly, from sentence to
sentence, dropped suddenly and boomed reply.
“‘They are nothing. Vanity, fluff, dandelion seed in the wind, thin
vapours of fever. The things that matter happen in the heart.
Seen things are sweet, but those unseen are a thousand times more
significant. It is the unseen that counts in Life.’”
Mrs. Wimbush lowered the book. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” she said.
Denis preferred not to hazard an opinion, but uttered a non-committal
“H’m.”
“Ah, it’s a fine book this, a beautiful book,” said Priscilla, as she
let the pages flick back, one by one, from under her thumb. “And here’s
the passage about the Lotus Pool. He compares the Soul to a Lotus Pool,
you know.” She held up the book again and read. “‘A Friend of mine has
a Lotus Pool in his garden. It lies in a little dell embowered with wild
roses and eglantine, among which the nightingale pours forth its amorous
descant all the summer long. Within the pool the Lotuses blossom, and
the birds of the air come to drink and bathe themselves in its crystal
waters...’ Ah, and that reminds me,” Priscilla exclaimed, shutting the
book with a clap and uttering her big profound laugh--“that reminds me
of the things that have been going on in our bathing-pool since you were
here last. We gave the village people leave to come and bathe here in
the evenings. You’ve no idea of the things that happened.”
She leaned forward, speaking in a confidential whisper; every now and
then she uttered a deep gurgle of laughter. “...mixed bathing...saw them
out of my window...sent for a pair of field-glasses to make sure...no
doubt of it...” The laughter broke out again. Denis laughed too.
Barbecue-Smith was tossed on the floor.
“It’s time we went to see if tea’s ready,” said Priscilla. She hoisted
herself up from the sofa and went swishing off across the room, striding
beneath the trailing silk. Denis followed her, faintly humming to
himself:
“That’s why I’m going to
Sing in op’ra, sing in op’ra,
Sing in op-pop-pop-pop-pop-popera.”
And then the little twiddly bit of accompaniment at the end: “ra-ra.”
CHAPTER III.
The terrace in front of the house was a long narrow strip of turf,
bounded along its outer edge by a graceful stone balustrade. Two little
summer-houses of brick stood at either end. Below the house the ground
sloped very steeply away, and the terrace was a remarkably high one;
from the balusters to the sloping lawn beneath was a drop of thirty
feet. Seen from below, the high unbroken terrace wall, built like
the house itself of brick, had the almost menacing aspect of a
fortification--a castle bastion, from whose parapet one looked out
across airy depths to distances level with the eye. Below, in the
foreground, hedged in by solid masses of sculptured yew trees, lay the
stone-brimmed swimming-pool. Beyond it stretched the park, with its
massive elms, its green expanses of grass, and, at the bottom of the
valley, the gleam of the narrow river. On the farther side of the stream
the land rose again in a long slope, chequered with cultivation. Looking
up the valley, to the right, one saw a line of blue, far-off hills.
The tea-table had been planted in the shade of one of the little
summer-houses, and the rest of the party was already assembled about it
when Denis and Priscilla made their appearance. Henry Wimbush had begun
to pour out the tea. He was one of those ageless, unchanging men on the
farther side of fifty, who might be thirty, who might be anything. Denis
had known him almost as long as he could remember. In all those years
his pale, rather handsome face had never grown any older; it was
like the pale grey bowler hat which he always wore, winter and
summer--unageing, calm, serenely without expression.
Next him, but separated from him and from the rest of the world by the
almost impenetrable barriers of her deafness, sat Jenny Mullion. She was
perhaps thirty, had a tilted nose and a pink-and-white complexion, and
wore her brown hair plaited and coiled in two lateral buns over her
ears. In the secret tower of her deafness she sat apart, looking down at
the world through sharply piercing eyes. What did she think of men and
women and things? That was something that Denis had never been able to
discover. In her enigmatic remoteness Jenny was a little disquieting.
Even now some interior joke seemed to be amusing her, for she was
smiling to herself, and her brown eyes were like very bright round
marbles.
On his other side the serious, moonlike innocence of Mary Bracegirdle’s
face shone pink and childish. She was nearly twenty-three, but one
wouldn’t have guessed it. Her short hair, clipped like a page’s, hung in
a bell of elastic gold about her cheeks. She had large blue china eyes,
whose expression was one of ingenuous and often puzzled earnestness.
Next to Mary a small gaunt man was sitting, rigid and erect in
his chair. In appearance Mr. Scogan was like one of those extinct
bird-lizards of the Tertiary. His nose was beaked, his dark eye had the
shining quickness of a robin’s. But there was nothing soft or gracious
or feathery about him. The skin of his wrinkled brown face had a dry and
scaly look; his hands were the hands of a crocodile. His movements
were marked by the lizard’s disconcertingly abrupt clockwork speed; his
speech was thin, fluty, and dry. Henry Wimbush’s school-fellow and exact
contemporary, Mr. Scogan looked far older and, at the same time, far
more youthfully alive than did that gentle aristocrat with the face like
a grey bowler.
Mr. Scogan might look like an extinct saurian, but Gombauld was
altogether and essentially human. In the old-fashioned natural histories
of the ‘thirties he might have figured in a steel engraving as a type of
Homo Sapiens--an honour which at that time commonly fell to Lord
Byron. Indeed, with more hair and less collar, Gombauld would have
been completely Byronic--more than Byronic, even, for Gombauld was of
Provencal descent, a black-haired young corsair of thirty, with flashing
teeth and luminous large dark eyes. Denis looked at him enviously. He
was jealous of his talent: if only he wrote verse as well as Gombauld
painted pictures! Still more, at the moment, he envied Gombauld his
looks, his vitality, his easy confidence of manner. Was it surprising
that Anne should like him? Like him?--it might even be something worse,
Denis reflected bitterly, as he walked at Priscilla’s side down the long
grass terrace.
Between Gombauld and Mr. Scogan a very much lowered deck-chair presented
its back to the new arrivals as they advanced towards the tea-table.
Gombauld was leaning over it; his face moved vivaciously; he smiled, he
laughed, he made quick gestures with his hands. From the depths of the
chair came up a sound of soft, lazy laughter. Denis started as he heard
it. That laughter--how well he knew it! What emotions it evoked in him!
He quickened his pace.
In her low deck-chair Anne was nearer to lying than to sitting. Her
long, slender body reposed in an attitude of listless and indolent
grace. Within its setting of light brown hair her face had a pretty
regularity that was almost doll-like. And indeed there were moments
when she seemed nothing more than a doll; when the oval face, with its
long-lashed, pale blue eyes, expressed nothing; when it was no more than
a lazy mask of wax. She was Henry Wimbush’s own niece; that bowler-like
countenance was one of the Wimbush heirlooms; it ran in the family,
appearing in its female members as a blank doll-face. But across this
dollish mask, like a gay melody dancing over an unchanging fundamental
bass, passed Anne’s other inheritance--quick laughter, light ironic
amusement, and the changing expressions of many moods. She was smiling
now as Denis looked down at her: her cat’s smile, he called it, for no
very good reason. The mouth was compressed, and on either side of it
two tiny wrinkles had formed themselves in her cheeks. An infinity
of slightly malicious amusement lurked in those little folds, in the
puckers about the half-closed eyes, in the eyes themselves, bright and
laughing between the narrowed lids.
The preliminary greetings spoken, Denis found an empty chair between
Gombauld and Jenny and sat down.
“How are you, Jenny?” he shouted to her.
Jenny nodded and smiled in mysterious silence, as though the subject of
her health were a secret that could not be publicly divulged.
“How’s London been since I went away?” Anne inquired from the depth of
her chair.
The moment had come; the tremendously amusing narrative was waiting for
utterance. “Well,” said Denis, smiling happily, “to begin with...”
“Has Priscilla told you of our great antiquarian find?” Henry Wimbush
leaned forward; the most promising of buds was nipped.
“To begin with,” said Denis desperately, “there was the Ballet...”
“Last week,” Mr. Wimbush went on softly and implacably, “we dug up fifty
yards of oaken drain-pipes; just tree trunks with a hole bored through
the middle. Very interesting indeed. Whether they were laid down by the
monks in the fifteenth century, or whether...”
Denis listened gloomily. “Extraordinary!” he said, when Mr. Wimbush had
finished; “quite extraordinary!” He helped himself to another slice
of cake. He didn’t even want to tell his tale about London now; he was
damped.
For some time past Mary’s grave blue eyes had been fixed upon him. “What
have you been writing lately?” she asked. It would be nice to have a
little literary conversation.
“Oh, verse and prose,” said Denis--“just verse and prose.”
“Prose?” Mr. Scogan pounced alarmingly on the word. “You’ve been writing
prose?”
“Yes.”
“Not a novel?”
“Yes.”
“My poor Denis!” exclaimed Mr. Scogan. “What about?”
Denis felt rather uncomfortable. “Oh, about the usual things, you know.”
“Of course,” Mr. Scogan groaned. “I’ll describe the plot for you. Little
Percy, the hero, was never good at games, but he was always clever.
He passes through the usual public school and the usual university and
comes to London, where he lives among the artists. He is bowed down with
melancholy thought; he carries the whole weight of the universe upon
his shoulders. He writes a novel of dazzling brilliance; he dabbles
delicately in Amour and disappears, at the end of the book, into the
luminous Future.”
Denis blushed scarlet. Mr. Scogan had described the plan of his novel
with an accuracy that was appalling. He made an effort to laugh. “You’re
entirely wrong,” he said. “My novel is not in the least like that.” It
was a heroic lie. Luckily, he reflected, only two chapters were written.
He would tear them up that very evening when he unpacked.
Mr. Scogan paid no attention to his denial, but went on: “Why will
you young men continue to write about things that are so entirely
uninteresting as the mentality of adolescents and artists? Professional
anthropologists might find it interesting to turn sometimes from the
beliefs of the Blackfellow to the philosophical preoccupations of the
undergraduate. But you can’t expect an ordinary adult man, like myself,
to be much moved by the story of his spiritual troubles. And after all,
even in England, even in Germany and Russia, there are more adults than
adolescents. As for the artist, he is preoccupied with problems that
are so utterly unlike those of the ordinary adult man--problems of pure
aesthetics which don’t so much as present themselves to people like
myself--that a description of his mental processes is as boring to the
ordinary reader as a piece of pure mathematics. A serious book about
artists regarded as artists is unreadable; and a book about artists
regarded as lovers, husbands, dipsomaniacs, heroes, and the like is
really not worth writing again. Jean-Christophe is the stock artist of
literature, just as Professor Radium of ‘Comic Cuts’ is its stock man of
science.”
“I’m sorry to hear I’m as uninteresting as all that,” said Gombauld.
“Not at all, my dear Gombauld,” Mr. Scogan hastened to explain. “As a
lover or a dipsomaniac, I’ve no doubt of your being a most fascinating
specimen. But as a combiner of forms, you must honestly admit it, you’re
a bore.”
“I entirely disagree with you,” exclaimed Mary. She was somehow always
out of breath when she talked. And her speech was punctuated by little
gasps. “I’ve known a great many artists, and I’ve always found their
mentality very interesting. Especially in Paris. Tschuplitski, for
example--I saw a great deal of Tschuplitski in Paris this spring...”
“Ah, but then you’re an exception, Mary, you’re an exception,” said Mr.
Scogan. “You are a femme superieure.”
A flush of pleasure turned Mary’s face into a harvest moon.
CHAPTER IV.
Denis woke up next morning to find the sun shining, the sky serene. He
decided to wear white flannel trousers--white flannel trousers and a
black jacket, with a silk shirt and his new peach-coloured tie. And
what shoes? White was the obvious choice, but there was something rather
pleasing about the notion of black patent leather. He lay in bed for
several minutes considering the problem.
Before he went down--patent leather was his final choice--he looked at
himself critically in the glass. His hair might have been more golden,
he reflected. As it was, its yellowness had the hint of a greenish tinge
in it. But his forehead was good. His forehead made up in height what
his chin lacked in prominence. His nose might have been longer, but it
would pass. His eyes might have been blue and not green. But his coat
was very well cut and, discreetly padded, made him seem robuster than
he actually was. His legs, in their white casing, were long and elegant.
Satisfied, he descended the stairs. Most of the party had already
finished their breakfast. He found himself alone with Jenny.
“I hope you slept well,” he said.
“Yes, isn’t it lovely?” Jenny replied, giving two rapid little nods.
“But we had such awful thunderstorms last week.”
Parallel straight lines, Denis reflected, meet only at infinity. He
might talk for ever of care-charmer sleep and she of meteorology till
the end of time. Did one ever establish contact with anyone? We are
all parallel straight lines. Jenny was only a little more parallel than
most.
“They are very alarming, these thunderstorms,” he said, helping himself
to porridge. “Don’t you think so? Or are you above being frightened?”
“No. I always go to bed in a storm. One is so much safer lying down.”
“Why?”
“Because,” said Jenny, making a descriptive gesture, “because lightning
goes downwards and not flat ways. When you’re lying down you’re out of
the current.”
“That’s very ingenious.”
“It’s true.”
There was a silence. Denis finished his porridge and helped himself
to bacon. For lack of anything better to say, and because Mr. Scogan’s
absurd phrase was for some reason running in his head, he turned to
Jenny and asked:
“Do you consider yourself a femme superieure?” He had to repeat the
question several times before Jenny got the hang of it.
“No,” she said, rather indignantly, when at last she heard what Denis
was saying. “Certainly not. Has anyone been suggesting that I am?”
“No,” said Denis. “Mr. Scogan told Mary she was one.”
“Did he?” Jenny lowered her voice. “Shall I tell you what I think of
that man? I think he’s slightly sinister.”
Having made this pronouncement, she entered the ivory tower of her
deafness and closed the door. Denis could not induce her to say anything
more, could not induce her even to listen. She just smiled at him,
smiled and occasionally nodded.
Denis went out on to the terrace to smoke his after-breakfast pipe and
to read his morning paper. An hour later, when Anne came down, she found
him still reading. By this time he had got to the Court Circular and
the Forthcoming Weddings. He got up to meet her as she approached, a
Hamadryad in white muslin, across the grass.
“Why, Denis,” she exclaimed, “you look perfectly sweet in your white
trousers.”
Denis was dreadfully taken aback. There was no possible retort. “You
speak as though I were a child in a new frock,” he said, with a show of
irritation.
“But that’s how I feel about you, Denis dear.”
“Then you oughtn’t to.”
“But I can’t help it. I’m so much older than you.”
“I like that,” he said. “Four years older.”
“And if you do look perfectly sweet in your white trousers, why
shouldn’t I say so? And why did you put them on, if you didn’t think you
were going to look sweet in them?”
“Let’s go into the garden,” said Denis. He was put out; the conversation
had taken such a preposterous and unexpected turn. He had planned a very
different opening, in which he was to lead off with, “You look adorable
this morning,” or something of the kind, and she was to answer, “Do
I?” and then there was to be a pregnant silence. And now she had got in
first with the trousers. It was provoking; his pride was hurt.
That part of the garden that sloped down from the foot of the terrace
to the pool had a beauty which did not depend on colour so much as on
forms. It was as beautiful by moonlight as in the sun. The silver of
water, the dark shapes of yew and ilex trees remained, at all hours and
seasons, the dominant features of the scene. It was a landscape in black
and white. For colour there was the flower-garden; it lay to one side
of the pool, separated from it by a huge Babylonian wall of yews. You
passed through a tunnel in the hedge, you opened a wicket in a wall, and
you found yourself, startlingly and suddenly, in the world of colour.
The July borders blazed and flared under the sun. Within its high brick
walls the garden was like a great tank of warmth and perfume and colour.
Denis held open the little iron gate for his companion. “It’s like
passing from a cloister into an Oriental palace,” he said, and took a
deep breath of the warm, flower-scented air. “‘In fragrant volleys they
let fly...’ How does it go?”
“‘Well shot, ye firemen! Oh how sweet
And round your equal fires do meet;
Whose shrill report no ear can tell,
But echoes to the eye and smell...’”
“You have a bad habit of quoting,” said Anne. “As I never know the
context or author, I find it humiliating.”
Denis apologized. “It’s the fault of one’s education. Things somehow
seem more real and vivid when one can apply somebody else’s ready-made
phrase about them. And then there are lots of lovely names and
words--Monophysite, Iamblichus, Pomponazzi; you bring them out
triumphantly, and feel you’ve clinched the argument with the mere
magical sound of them. That’s what comes of the higher education.”
“You may regret your education,” said Anne; “I’m ashamed of my lack of
it. Look at those sunflowers! Aren’t they magnificent?”
“Dark faces and golden crowns--they’re kings of Ethiopia. And I like
the way the tits cling to the flowers and pick out the seeds, while the
other loutish birds, grubbing dirtily for their food, look up in envy
from the ground. Do they look up in envy? That’s the literary touch, I’m
afraid. Education again. It always comes back to that.” He was silent.
Anne had sat down on a bench that stood in the shade of an old apple
tree. “I’m listening,” she said.
He did not sit down, but walked backwards and forwards in front of the
bench, gesticulating a little as he talked. “Books,” he said--“books.
One reads so many, and one sees so few people and so little of the
world. Great thick books about the universe and the mind and ethics.
You’ve no idea how many there are. I must have read twenty or thirty
tons of them in the last five years. Twenty tons of ratiocination.
Weighted with that, one’s pushed out into the world.”
He went on walking up and down. His voice rose, fell, was silent a
moment, and then talked on. He moved his hands, sometimes he waved his
arms. Anne looked and listened quietly, as though she were at a lecture.
He was a nice boy, and to-day he looked charming--charming!
One entered the world, Denis pursued, having ready-made ideas about
everything. One had a philosophy and tried to make life fit into it.
One should have lived first and then made one’s philosophy to fit
life...Life, facts, things were horribly complicated; ideas, even
the most difficult of them, deceptively simple. In the world of ideas
everything was clear; in life all was obscure, embroiled. Was it
surprising that one was miserable, horribly unhappy? Denis came to
a halt in front of the bench, and as he asked this last question he
stretched out his arms and stood for an instant in an attitude of
crucifixion, then let them fall again to his sides.
“My poor Denis!” Anne was touched. He was really too pathetic as he
stood there in front of her in his white flannel trousers. “But does one
suffer about these things? It seems very extraordinary.”
“You’re like Scogan,” cried Denis bitterly. “You regard me as a specimen
for an anthropologist. Well, I suppose I am.”
“No, no,” she protested, and drew in her skirt with a gesture that
indicated that he was to sit down beside her. He sat down. “Why can’t
you just take things for granted and as they come?” she asked. “It’s so
much simpler.”
“Of course it is,” said Denis. “But it’s a lesson to be learnt
gradually. There are the twenty tons of ratiocination to be got rid of
first.”
“I’ve always taken things as they come,” said Anne. “It seems so
obvious. One enjoys the pleasant things, avoids the nasty ones. There’s
nothing more to be said.”
“Nothing--for you. But, then, you were born a pagan; I am trying
laboriously to make myself one. I can take nothing for granted, I can
enjoy nothing as it comes along. Beauty, pleasure, art, women--I have
to invent an excuse, a justification for everything that’s delightful.
Otherwise I can’t enjoy it with an easy conscience. I make up a little
story about beauty and pretend that it has something to do with truth
and goodness. I have to say that art is the process by which one
reconstructs the divine reality out of chaos. Pleasure is one of the
mystical roads to union with the infinite--the ecstasies of drinking,
dancing, love-making. As for women, I am perpetually assuring myself
that they’re the broad highway to divinity. And to think that I’m only
just beginning to see through the silliness of the whole thing! It’s
incredible to me that anyone should have escaped these horrors.”
“It’s still more incredible to me,” said Anne, “that anyone should have
been a victim to them. I should like to see myself believing that men
are the highway to divinity.” The amused malice of her smile planted two
little folds on either side of her mouth, and through their half-closed
lids her eyes shone with laughter. “What you need, Denis, is a nice
plump young wife, a fixed income, and a little congenial but regular
work.”
“What I need is you.” That was what he ought to have retorted, that
was what he wanted passionately to say. He could not say it. His desire
fought against his shyness. “What I need is you.” Mentally he shouted
the words, but not a sound issued from his lips. He looked at her
despairingly. Couldn’t she see what was going on inside him? Couldn’t
she understand? “What I need is you.” He would say it, he would--he
would.
“I think I shall go and bathe,” said Anne. “It’s so hot.” The
opportunity had passed.
CHAPTER V.
Mr. Wimbush had taken them to see the sights of the Home Farm, and now
they were standing, all six of them--Henry Wimbush, Mr. Scogan, Denis,
Gombauld, Anne, and Mary--by the low wall of the piggery, looking into
one of the styes.
“This is a good sow,” said Henry Wimbush. “She had a litter of fourteen.
“Fourteen?” Mary echoed incredulously. She turned astonished blue eyes
towards Mr. Wimbush, then let them fall onto the seething mass of elan
vital that fermented in the sty.
An immense sow reposed on her side in the middle of the pen. Her round,
black belly, fringed with a double line of dugs, presented itself to the
assault of an army of small, brownish-black swine. With a frantic greed
they tugged at their mother’s flank. The old sow stirred sometimes
uneasily or uttered a little grunt of pain. One small pig, the runt,
the weakling of the litter, had been unable to secure a place at the
banquet. Squealing shrilly, he ran backwards and forwards, trying to
push in among his stronger brothers or even to climb over their tight
little black backs towards the maternal reservoir.
“There ARE fourteen,” said Mary. “You’re quite right. I counted. It’s
extraordinary.”
“The sow next door,” Mr. Wimbush went on, “has done very badly. She only
had five in her litter. I shall give her another chance. If she does no
better next time, I shall fat her up and kill her. There’s the boar,”
he pointed towards a farther sty. “Fine old beast, isn’t he? But he’s
getting past his prime. He’ll have to go too.”
“How cruel!” Anne exclaimed.
“But how practical, how eminently realistic!” said Mr. Scogan. “In this
farm we have a model of sound paternal government. Make them breed,
make them work, and when they’re past working or breeding or begetting,
slaughter them.”
“Farming seems to be mostly indecency and cruelty,” said Anne.
With the ferrule of his walking-stick Denis began to scratch the boar’s
long bristly back. The animal moved a little so as to bring himself
within easier range of the instrument that evoked in him such delicious
sensations; then he stood stock still, softly grunting his contentment.
The mud of years flaked off his sides in a grey powdery scurf.
“What a pleasure it is,” said Denis, “to do somebody a kindness. I
believe I enjoy scratching this pig quite as much as he enjoys being
scratched. If only one could always be kind with so little expense or
trouble...”
A gate slammed; there was a sound of heavy footsteps.
“Morning, Rowley!” said Henry Wimbush.
“Morning, sir,” old Rowley answered. He was the most venerable of
the labourers on the farm--a tall, solid man, still unbent, with grey
side-whiskers and a steep, dignified profile. Grave, weighty in his
manner, splendidly respectable, Rowley had the air of a great English
statesman of the mid-nineteenth century. He halted on the outskirts of
the group, and for a moment they all looked at the pigs in a silence
that was only broken by the sound of grunting or the squelch of a sharp
hoof in the mire. Rowley turned at last, slowly and ponderously and
nobly, as he did everything, and addressed himself to Henry Wimbush.
“Look at them, sir,” he said, with a motion of his hand towards the
wallowing swine. “Rightly is they called pigs.”
“Rightly indeed,” Mr. Wimbush agreed.
“I am abashed by that man,” said Mr. Scogan, as old Rowley plodded off
slowly and with dignity. “What wisdom, what judgment, what a sense of
values! ‘Rightly are they called swine.’ Yes. And I wish I could, with
as much justice, say, ‘Rightly are we called men.’”
They walked on towards the cowsheds and the stables of the cart-horses.
Five white geese, taking the air this fine morning, even as they were
doing, met them in the way. They hesitated, cackled; then, converting
their lifted necks into rigid, horizontal snakes, they rushed off in
disorder, hissing horribly as they went. Red calves paddled in the dung
and mud of a spacious yard. In another enclosure stood the bull,
massive as a locomotive. He was a very calm bull, and his face wore an
expression of melancholy stupidity. He gazed with reddish-brown eyes at
his visitors, chewed thoughtfully at the tangible memories of an earlier
meal, swallowed and regurgitated, chewed again. His tail lashed savagely
from side to side; it seemed to have nothing to do with his impassive
bulk. Between his short horns was a triangle of red curls, short and
dense.
“Splendid animal,” said Henry Wimbush. “Pedigree stock. But he’s getting
a little old, like the boar.”
“Fat him up and slaughter him,” Mr. Scogan pronounced, with a delicate
old-maidish precision of utterance.
“Couldn’t you give the animals a little holiday from producing
children?” asked Anne. “I’m so sorry for the poor things.”
Mr. Wimbush shook his head. “Personally,” he said, “I rather like seeing
fourteen pigs grow where only one grew before. The spectacle of so much
crude life is refreshing.”
“I’m glad to hear you say so,” Gombauld broke in warmly. “Lots of life:
that’s what we want. I like pullulation; everything ought to increase
and multiply as hard as it can.”
Gombauld grew lyrical. Everybody ought to have children--Anne ought to
have them, Mary ought to have them--dozens and dozens. He emphasised his
point by thumping with his walking-stick on the bull’s leather flanks.
Mr. Scogan ought to pass on his intelligence to little Scogans, and
Denis to little Denises. The bull turned his head to see what was
happening, regarded the drumming stick for several seconds, then turned
back again satisfied, it seemed, that nothing was happening. Sterility
was odious, unnatural, a sin against life. Life, life, and still more
life. The ribs of the placid bull resounded.
Standing with his back against the farmyard pump, a little apart, Denis
examined the group. Gombauld, passionate and vivacious, was its centre.
The others stood round, listening--Henry Wimbush, calm and polite
beneath his grey bowler; Mary, with parted lips and eyes that shone with
the indignation of a convinced birth-controller. Anne looked on through
half-shut eyes, smiling; and beside her stood Mr. Scogan, bolt upright
in an attitude of metallic rigidity that contrasted strangely with that
fluid grace of hers which even in stillness suggested a soft movement.
Gombauld ceased talking, and Mary, flushed and outraged, opened her
mouth to refute him. But she was too slow. Before she could utter a
word Mr. Scogan’s fluty voice had pronounced the opening phrases of a
discourse. There was no hope of getting so much as a word in edgeways;
Mary had perforce to resign herself.
“Even your eloquence, my dear Gombauld,” he was saying--“even your
eloquence must prove inadequate to reconvert the world to a belief in
the delights of mere multiplication. With the gramophone, the cinema,
and the automatic pistol, the goddess of Applied Science has presented
the world with another gift, more precious even than these--the means of
dissociating love from propagation. Eros, for those who wish it, is now
an entirely free god; his deplorable associations with Lucina may be
broken at will. In the course of the next few centuries, who knows?
the world may see a more complete severance. I look forward to it
optimistically. Where the great Erasmus Darwin and Miss Anna Seward,
Swan of Lichfield, experimented--and, for all their scientific ardour,
failed--our descendants will experiment and succeed. An impersonal
generation will take the place of Nature’s hideous system. In vast state
incubators, rows upon rows of gravid bottles will supply the world with
the population it requires. The family system will disappear; society,
sapped at its very base, will have to find new foundations; and Eros,
beautifully and irresponsibly free, will flit like a gay butterfly from
flower to flower through a sunlit world.”
“It sounds lovely,” said Anne.
“The distant future always does.”
Mary’s china blue eyes, more serious and more astonished than ever,
were fixed on Mr. Scogan. “Bottles?” she said. “Do you really think so?
Bottles...”
CHAPTER VI.
Mr. Barbecue-Smith arrived in time for tea on Saturday afternoon. He was
a short and corpulent man, with a very large head and no neck. In his
earlier middle age he had been distressed by this absence of neck,
but was comforted by reading in Balzac’s “Louis Lambert” that all the
world’s great men have been marked by the same peculiarity, and for a
simple and obvious reason: Greatness is nothing more nor less than
the harmonious functioning of the faculties of the head and heart;
the shorter the neck, the more closely these two organs approach one
another; argal...It was convincing.
Mr. Barbecue-Smith belonged to the old school of journalists. He sported
a leonine head with a greyish-black mane of oddly unappetising hair