SHIPS IN SAIL
In due accord with the old butler's comment on his looks, Hilary had
felt so young that, instead of going home, he mounted an omnibus, and
went down to his club--the “Pen and Ink,” so called because the man
who founded it could not think at the moment of any other words. This
literary person had left the club soon after its initiation, having
conceived for it a sudden dislike. It had indeed a certain reputation
for bad cooking, and all its members complained bitterly at times that
you never could go in without meeting someone you knew. It stood in
Dover Street. Unlike other clubs, it was mainly used to talk in, and had
special arrangements for the safety of umbrellas and such books as
had not yet vanished from the library; not, of course, owing to any
peculative tendency among its members, but because, after interchanging
their ideas, those members would depart, in a long row, each grasping
some material object in his hand. Its maroon-coloured curtains, too,
were never drawn, because, in the heat of their discussions, the members
were always drawing them. On the whole, those members did not like each
other much; wondering a little, one by one, why the others wrote;
and when the printed reasons were detailed to them, reading them with
irritation. If really compelled to hazard an opinion about each other's
merits, they used to say that, no doubt “So-and-so” was “very good,”
but they had never read him! For it had early been established as the
principle underlying membership not to read the writings of another man,
unless you could be certain he was dead, lest you might have to tell him
to his face that you disliked his work. For they were very jealous of
the purity of their literary consciences. Exception was made, however,
in the case of those who lived by written criticism, the opinions of
such persons being read by all, with a varying smile, and a certain
cerebral excitement. Now and then, however, some member, violating
every sense of decency, would take a violent liking for another member's
books. This he would express in words, to the discomfort of his fellows,
who, with a sudden chilly feeling in the stomach, would wonder why it
was not their books that he was praising.
Almost every year, and generally in March, certain aspirations would
pass into the club; members would ask each other why there was no
Academy of British Letters; why there was no concerted movement to limit
the production of other authors' books; why there was no prize given
for the best work of the year. For a little time it almost seemed as if
their individualism were in danger; but, the windows having been opened
wider than usual some morning, the aspirations would pass out, and all
would feel secretly as a man feels when he has swallowed the mosquito
that has been worrying him all night--relieved, but just a little
bit embarrassed. Socially sympathetic in their dealings with each
other--they were mostly quite nice fellows--each kept a little
fame-machine, on which he might be seen sitting every morning about the
time the papers and his correspondence came, wondering if his fame were
going up.
Hilary stayed in the club till half-past nine; then, avoiding a
discussion which was just setting in, he took his own umbrella, and bent
his steps towards home.
It was the moment of suspense in Piccadilly; the tide had flowed up to
the theatres, and had not yet begun to ebb. The tranquil trees, still
feathery, draped their branches along the farther bank of that broad
river, resting from their watch over the tragi-comedies played on its
surface by men, their small companions. The gentle sighs which distilled
from their plume-like boughs seemed utterances of the softest wisdom.
Not far beyond their trunks it was all dark velvet, into which separate
shapes, adventuring, were lost, as wild birds vanishing in space, or the
souls of men received into their Mother's heart.
Hilary walked, hearing no sighs of wisdom, noting no smooth darkness,
wrapped in thought. The mere fact of having given pleasure was enough
to produce a warm sensation in a man so naturally kind. But, as with
all self-conscious, self-distrustful, natures, that sensation had not
lasted. He was left with a feeling of emptiness and disillusionment, as
of having given himself a good mark without reason.
While walking, he was a target for the eyes of many women, who passed
him rapidly, like ships in sail. The special fastidious shyness of his
face attracted those accustomed to another kind of face. And though
he did not precisely look at them, they in turn inspired in him the
compassionate, morbid curiosity which persons who live desperate lives
necessarily inspire in the leisured, speculative mind. One of them
deliberately approached him from a side-street. Though taller and
fuller, with heightened colour, frizzy hair, and a hat with feathers;
she was the image of the little model--the same shape of face, broad
cheek-bones, mouth a little open; the same flower-coloured eyes and
short black lashes, all coarsened and accentuated as Art coarsens and
accentuates the lines of life. Looking boldly into Hilary's startled
face, she laughed. Hilary winced and walked on quickly.
He reached home at half-past ten. The lamp was burning in Mr. Stone's
room, and his window was, as usual, open; that which was not usual,
however, was a light in Hilary's own bedroom. He went gently up. Through
the door-ajar-he saw, to his surprise, the figure of his wife. She was
reclining in a chair, her elbows on its arms, the tips of her fingers
pressed together. Her face, with its dark hair, vivid colouring, and
sharp lines, was touched with shadows, her head turned as though towards
somebody beside her; her neck gleamed white. So--motionless, dimly
seen--she was like a woman sitting alongside her own life, scrutinising,
criticising, watching it live, taking no part in it. Hilary wondered
whether to go in or slip away from his strange visitor.
“Ah! it's you,” she said.
Hilary approached her. For all her mocking of her own charms, this wife
of his was strangely graceful. After nineteen years in which to learn
every line of her face and body, every secret of her nature, she still
eluded him; that elusiveness, which had begun by being such a charm, had
got on his nerves, and extinguished the flame it had once lighted. He
had so often tried to see, and never seen, the essence of her soul. Why
was she made like this? Why was she for ever mocking herself, himself,
and every other thing? Why was she so hard to her own life, so bitter a
foe to her own happiness? Leonardo da Vinci might have painted her, less
sensual and cruel than his women, more restless and disharmonic, but
physically, spiritually enticing, and, by her refusals to surrender
either to her spirit or her senses, baffling her own enticements.
“I don't know why I came,” she said.
Hilary found no better answer than: “I am sorry I was out to dinner.”
“Has the wind gone round? My room is cold.”
“Yes, north-east. Stay here.”
Her hand touched his; that warm and restless clasp was agitating.
“It's good of you to ask me; but we'd better not begin what we can't
keep up.”
“Stay here,” said Hilary again, kneeling down beside her chair.
And suddenly he began to kiss her face and neck. He felt her answering
kisses; for a moment they were clasped together in a fierce embrace.
Then, as though by mutual consent, their arms relaxed; their eyes grew
furtive, like the eyes of children who have egged each other on to
steal; and on their lips appeared the faintest of faint smiles. It was
as though those lips were saying: “Yes, but we are not quite animals!”
Hilary got up and sat down on his bed. Blanca stayed in the chair,
looking straight before her, utterly inert, her head thrown back, her
white throat gleaming, on her lips and in her eyes that flickering
smile. Not a word more, nor a look, passed between them.
Then rising, without noise, she passed behind him and went out.
Hilary had a feeling in his mouth as though he had been chewing ashes.
And a phrase--as phrases sometimes fill the spirit of a man without
rhyme or reason--kept forming on his lips: “The house of harmony!”
Presently he went to her door, and stood there listening. He could hear
no sound whatever. If she had been crying if she had been laughing--it
would have been better than this silence. He put his hands up to his
ears and ran down-stairs.