They were entrenched in a little fortress of light. The tall
silk-shaded lamp made the living hall an orange glow, an argument
against silver chaos veined with brute nothing. The clock, the clock,
the clock, measured itself against the infidel crickets. Phyllis, in a
corner of the big sofa, was in the centre of that protecting glitter.
She was panoplied in light: it poured upon the curve of her nape,
sparkled in the bronze crisp of her hair, brimmed over the soft bend of
her neck and ran deep down into the valley of her bosom. It rippled in
scarps and crumples of her shining dress, struck in through the gauzy
chiffon, lay in flakes on the underskirt, gilded the long slope of her
stockings like the colour of dawn on snow. She could feel it, warm and
defiant, wrapping her close, holding her together. Even her bright
body, in such fragile garb, was hardly dark.
But the reality was still that pale emptiness outside. Where she sat
she could see, beyond the dining room and the high rectangle of French
windows, a pure shimmer of white night. Down the broad open well
of the stair the same tender void came drifting, floating, sinking.
Summer night cannot be shut out: it is heavier than thin lamp-shine,
it spreads along the floor, gathers beneath chairs, crowds up behind
pictures, makes treacherous friendship with the gallant little
red-headed bulbs.
She felt soft and ill. She felt her pliant body settling deeper into
the thick cushion, her hands weighing inert upon her lap. She wished
Ben and Ruth could be restful for a moment. Ruth was flitting about,
looking at the furniture; Ben, though sitting quietly, kept blowing
cigar smoke in a kind of rhythmical indignation. She could see his
mind toiling, so plainly that she would not have been surprised to
read words written in his spouts of smoke, as in the balloon issuing
from the mouth of a comic drawing. If Mr. Martin would only say
something. He had just come in from the garden, without a word, and sat
expectantly at the foot of the stairs. He was outside the circle of
light, she could not see him clearly, but he seemed to be looking at
her with inquiry or reproach. For being such a dull hostess, probably.
But speech was impossible. Now, with eyes widened by terror and
yearning, she was almost aware of the sleepy world that lies beneath
the mind’s restless flit: the slow cruel world, without conscience,
that the artist never quite forgets. In the glare of the lamp the room
burned with subordinate life: the grainy wood of the furniture, the nap
of the rug, the weave of the sofa, were fibred with obstinate essence.
Being was in them as in her, went on and on. It seemed as though one
sudden push, if it could be made, might break through the fog of daily
bickerings and foresights and adjustments, into that radiant untroubled
calm. But conscious life tends to take the level of the lowest present:
with Ruth and Ben and even the house itself steadfast against her,
how could she speak out? The darkness that, outdoors, had been sweet
privacy, was here obverted into secrecy: secrecy lay under the chairs,
behind the doors, between the ticks of the clock. She had settled this
room, only a few hours before, with so much care--dusting, arranging;
everything in its accustomed pose. Now it was too strong for her,
and every pattern in it ran with shouts of taunting laughter.... It
was just like George to linger in the garden, leaving her alone to
“entertain” these guests.
Then she was aware that someone had spoken. She had not caught the
words, but the sound poised in her mind. It was a pleasant sound, it
must have been Mr. Martin. Perhaps she would go through all the rest
of her life without knowing what he had said. Yet it might have been a
cry for help. You never know, she thought, when people may leave off
pretending and lay their heads on your breast. What a silly way to put
it: lay their head--his head--on your breasts; because you have only
one head and two breasts. Perhaps that’s why the insects make such an
uproar, shrilling sour grapes. They’re jealous because they’re not
mammals....
“He went back to the stable to get my scarf.”
“I hope they won’t catch cold,” said Phyllis. “It’s so much cooler
to-night.”
“You oughtn’t to kiss people when you have a cold,” said Martin.
This, Phyllis supposed, was a little reckless aside for her alone.
She felt a bright seed of anger in her; it was sprouting, climbing up
the trellis of her nerves. She had a fine fertility for anger; her
mind was shallow soil as its bottom had never been spaded: such seeds
could not root deeply and slowly, so they shot upward in brilliant
quick-withering flower. The rising warmth medicined her empty sickness.
He was cruel, but she loved him for it and could have prostrated
herself at his feet. What right had he to be so untouched, so happy
and certain and sure? His mind was one, not broken up into competing
yearnings.
“Competition is the life of trade,” she said.
Looking up, she wondered if she had said something accidentally witty.
From the other side of the room Ruth was regarding her strangely.
Beyond Ruth, black against the blanched evening, were George and Joyce
on the veranda steps.... Oh, so that was what Martin had meant?
Ben’s face was so perplexed and bored, she took pity on him.
“What would you people like to do? Play cards? We can’t dance, there
isn’t any music.”
Ruth was quite content not to dance; she suspected she would have had
to take Ben as a partner. “Ben’s favourite game is Twenty Questions,”
she said.
“Gracious, I haven’t played that in ages. It’ll be rather fun. Here
come the others, let’s do it.”
George seemed almost like a stranger, Phyllis thought. She had an
impish desire to ask to be introduced. It amused her to think that any
one should want to kiss him.
“What a gorgeous night.” He spoke loudly, rather as if someone might
contradict. “Here’s your scarf,” he added, almost roughly, holding it
out to Joyce. Then he remembered, and gave it to Ruth.
“How funny you are,” said Martin. “You made the same mistake again.”
“Thank you so much,” Ruth said. “I’m sorry you had such a long hunt for
it.”
Joyce crossed the room in silence. Ruth’s eyes followed her, and it was
in Ruth’s face that Phyllis first saw Joyce was beautiful. She brought
some of the moonlight with her. No man can ever admire a woman’s
loveliness as justly as another woman, for he rarely understands how
her fluctuating charm depends on the hazard of the instant. Something
had happened to make Joyce beautiful, and Phyllis was surprised by an
immense compassion. This creature too was lonely, had her bewildered
tumult in the blood, was defenceless and doomed. Ruth’s watchful eyes,
unseen by Joyce, were asking her whether she had anything to say for
herself, anything that could be used against her. And Ruth (Phyllis
could see) was as outraged by Joyce mute as she would have been at
anything she said.
Joyce was helpless: helpless, because she was happy; helpless, for
she had brought no words with her. She had brought only moonlight and
it was declared contraband. In the instant that the girl hesitated
in the choice of a seat, Phyllis knew that she could have loved her,
they could have come together in a miracle of understanding, but Ruth
had made it impossible. Ruth, the comely fidget, who would never know
the stroke of any grievance greater than her own jealous mischiefs.
What could Ruth know of the great purifying passions, who had always
forestalled them by yielding to the pettiest? The seedling anger in
Phyllis’s heart, sensitively questing an object, swayed outward as a
young vine leans toward sun. She would not think of the Brooks again
as Ben and Ruth. They were Ruth and Ben. She knew now why Ben peeped
so warily from behind a rampart of sedentary filing cabinets. His soul
lurked behind the greatest of hiding places, a huge office building.
With a swift impulse she reached out, beckoning to a place beside
her on the sofa. Joyce’s hand was cold and seemed surprised. The
two hands, like casual acquaintances meeting by accident, lingered
together wondering how to escape politely. Phyllis realized it was not
a success. She leaned forward to speak brightly to George, so that her
fingers might seem to slip free unawares.
“We’re going to play Twenty Questions.”
“Fine!” said George. This, he thought, would prevent general
conversation, the one thing most to be feared.
“Ben, you go out,” Phyllis suggested. Ben deserved some amusement, he
had been rather patient in the middle of this silent turmoil.
“Let Ruth,” said Ben. “She’s clever at guessing things.”
“No, Ben, you,” Ruth said definitely. She was having too good a time
guessing as she was.
From the sofa Joyce could see into the little dark sitting room--_her_
room: her only retreat. It drew her strongly. The frame of the window
opened into moonlight and a queer twist of shadows. If only she could
go in there, get away. Here, under the lamp, everything was too full
of dangerous artifice. The light held everything together tightly, in
a bursting tension. No one could say anything for fear it would have a
double meaning. One meaning at a time was burden enough.
Was there anything queer about that little room? Mr. Martin, sitting at
the bottom of the stairs, was close to the door: he was looking there
too. In the back of her mind she remembered that she had started to
say something to him in the garden; or he to her, she was not certain
which; but something had been left unfinished. George was watching
her, watching her; she could feel it, and needed to escape into
herself. How could she escape? He knew all about her now, she found
him round the remotest corners of her mind. No, no, there were lovely
things about her that he did not guess. If she could be alone for a few
minutes she could find out what they were.... So this was love, this
dreadful weakness. It ought to be so easy; free and easy, that gay old
phrase; and the taut web of human nerves frustrated it. Beside her, in
a glitter of light, Phyllis shone mysteriously. The touch of that warm
hand had shocked Joyce. She knew now that they could never be at peace
together.
“I’ll go,” she said suddenly.
Phyllis, still leaning forward, was listening.
“Was that one of the children?”
As Joyce rose, getting up with difficulty from the deep settee, Martin
closed the sitting-room door with a quick push. Why did he do that? Now
it would seem rude to go in there. George, whose ear was cocked toward
upstairs, looked angrily at him.
“I didn’t hear anything. You’ve got the children on the brain, Phyl.”
“I’ll go on the veranda while you think of something,” Joyce said.
It was amusing to see how eagerly they all turned to the old
almost forgotten pastime. She heard them mumbling together while
they concerted their choice. They were like savages at a campfire,
rehearsing some cheerful ceremonial to dispel sorcery. The bare
mahogany of the dining table was glossed with panels of dim colour.
This led her eyes upward to the red and blue window. It reminded her
distantly of some poem, some perfect enchantment that mocked the poor
futility of her own obsession. That most magic outcry of unreflecting
love, from the most wretched of lovers: the eternal collision between
life as dreamed and life as encountered.
There was a burst of laughter.
“She’ll never guess that,” she heard Ruth saying.
“All ready,” George called.
“There are five of us, you can go round four times. You must ask
questions that can be answered by Yes or No.”
She began in the traditional way.
“Is it animal?”
“No,” said Ruth.
“Is it vegetable?”
“Yes,” said Phyllis.
“Is it in this room?”
“Yes,” said Ben.
The part of her that was asking questions seemed separate from her
racing undertow of feeling. She was the frightened child who was shy
about games because she was always playing and watching simultaneously.
What should she ask? It was vegetable and in the room. She had a
preposterous eagerness to say something wildly absurd, she was weary
of telling lies. If it had been Animal, she might have said “Is it
George’s love for me?” Their faces would have been comic. But it was
Vegetable.... My vegetable love shall grow Vaster than empires and more
slow ... but if I quote that it will have to be explained. Why do poems
insist on coming into the mind at instants of trouble?
“Is it Mr. Brook’s cigar?”
“No,” said George.
“Is it associated with some person in this room?”
“Yes,” said Martin. A little self-consciously, she thought.
“Look here,” George interrupted. “That answer of Phyl’s wasn’t quite
right. Is it fair to say it’s vegetable?”
“It _was_ vegetable, vegetable in origin,” Phyllis protested.
“Yes, but in a way it’s animal too. It’s _becoming_ animal.”
“Is it--any one’s affection for any one else?” Joyce demanded promptly.
“No,” said Ruth, amid general laughter.
“The difficulty with this game,” said Phyllis, “is that there are so
many questions you can’t answer just Yes or No.”
“That’s why it’s a good game,” said George. “It’s like life.”
Joyce tried to recapitulate. It was in this room, associated with a
person, it was vegetable in origin but becoming animal ... but how
absurd.
Perhaps they mean becoming _to_ an animal, she thought.
“Is it Mrs. Granville’s silver dress?”
“No.”
“Is it anything to wear?”
“No.”
“Is it associated with a man or a woman?”
“I can’t answer that Yes or No,” said George.
“Well, with a man?”
“Yes.”
“Is it something I can see now?” she asked, looking directly at him.
“You’re asking him twice,” Martin said. “It’s my turn.”
Why did her mind keep straying away? Standing in the middle of the
circle, she could feel them surrounding her, desiring her to divine
this thing. Perhaps it was something she didn’t want to guess,
something that would mean----
She repeated the question, looking at Martin this time.
“No,” he said, smiling.
Her mind was a blank. She went round the group again, asking almost at
random. The succession of No’s had a curiously numbing effect. But she
knew, without having put the question directly, that it was something
connected with Martin.
She came to Ben, on the last time round. She stared at his white canvas
shoes, trying to think.
“Is it ... is it----”
She turned away from the strong scent of his cigar. The glimmer of
coloured light on the dining-room table caught and held her. It
suggested:
“Something to do with a cake?”
“Yes,” said Ben, amazed.
They were all startled, for her last attempts had been far off the
track.
“Two more tries,” said George, encouraging her.
She had a queer sensation that the back of her dress was open and
reached unconsciously to button it. How silly, of course it’s not
open, it fastens on the shoulder.... A cake, a cake ... there was a
warm whiff of burning candles in the room. She knew now what it must
be; what he had begun to tell her in the garden.... They were all
crowding round her, tall people, voices coming down from above, wanting
her to explain. Two more questions ... _one_ would do! Martin was
standing behind George, he looked eager and yet anxious. She remembered
now: the mouse, the mouse she had brought him; it was such a little
thing; chosen and cherished for her difficult own; and the joy of
giving away what was dearest ... joy embittered by hostile scrutiny....
Everything was all tangled up together. What had she given, a mouse
to Martin or her truth to George? Oh, the pride, the fierce pride of
now telling her pitiable secret. She could see the stripy pattern of
George’s coat, she knew exactly how it smelled. George looked eager and
yet anxious----
No, George, no! her mind was crying miserably. It wasn’t you, it wasn’t
you; I gave it to _him_----
She must not tell them that she had guessed it. George must be spared
this last inconceivable edge of irony; and Martin must go away before
either of them found out.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t get it.”
George caught her arm as she swayed.
“I don’t feel very well. Please forgive me. I think I’ll go to bed.”
* * * * *
“I knew she wouldn’t guess it,” said Ruth.
“Of course it wasn’t really fair,” said George. “She couldn’t possibly
know about the slice of cake Mr. Martin had. But it was queer how close
she came.”