“It would be interesting to speculate,” said page 38 of George’s
treatise, “how such a cheery little town obtained the name Dark
Harbour. Perhaps it was due to the scenic background of rugged hills
that overlooks the picturesque old fishing port and reflects its
invigorating pine woods in the water. At any rate, the future of the
place is bright indeed. The Eastern Railroad’s express service now
stops there, and large metropolitan interests have pledged themselves
to the erection of a modern caravansary which will supplement the long
famous ‘folksy’ hospitality of the Bayview Hotel. Separated only by a
lengthy trestle from the mainland, the Island spreads its varied allure
of rolling sand dunes, pine groves, and broad shallow beaches. Shaped
like a crescent, its outward curve is buffeted by the mighty ocean;
on the inner side, sheltered from easterly gales by the unique sand
hills, is the comfortable cottage colony where a number of wise people
have been vacationing for many years. Many artists have discovered
the pictorial charm of the region, and find in the forests or in the
maritime life of the Bay subjects for their water colours and oils.
Canvases that have later become famous in academies and exhibitions
have first felt the brush in those shingled studios clustered about the
old inn, renowned for its savoury chowder. There is a brilliance in the
air, an almost Italian richness of colour, in the Island’s landscape.
It will be many years before so vast a terrain can become crowded,
but many new bungalows have been built lately, and the newcomers pay
tribute to the good taste of those who, a generation agone, divined
Dark Harbour’s magic as a haven of summer tranquillity.”
He felt a rational pride in this composition. It was in the genially
fulsome vein esteemed by railroad companies. Even if people weren’t
tranquil, in a place so competently described, they ought to be. He
thought there was a neatness in that touch about Dark Harbour and its
bright future. Phyllis was probably right when she often said it was
a shame Mr. Granville should spend his talents in mere publicity work
when he might so easily write something famous--fiction, for instance.
These are my fictions, he always replied, pointing to his private shelf
of advertising pamphlets, neatly bound and gilded as his Works.
He had spread out his papers on the dining table, where he could write
without seeing Joyce’s door. But he couldn’t seem to resume the flow of
that slick treacly style, which the experienced brochurist can smoothly
decant, like a tilted molasses barrel. The discomforting irony of the
last word penetrated him. He changed “Italian richness” to “Italian
passion,” but that was as far as inspiration carried him. It was vain
to remind himself that Walter Scott had written novels all night long,
that Napoleon had planned campaigns in the agony of stomach-ache, that
Elbert Hubbard was never at a loss for a Little Journey. In a nervous
fidget he pared his nails, sharpened pencils, rearranged the glasses
on the sideboard, emptied Ben’s cigar débris from the living-room ash
tray. He trod stealthily, in stocking feet, for fear of disturbing
Joyce. Without his usual couch to sleep on, his usual table to work
at, he felt homeless. There was a dull pain at the bottom of his ribs.
He tried to remember whether he had unduly bolted his food at dinner.
Perhaps he was going to have appendicitis.
He had a sort of insane desire to justify his existence, to atone for
a day of such incredible futility by getting some work done. If every
possible extraneous trifle could be attended to perhaps his mind might
be calmed. He crept upstairs to clean his teeth and found that Phyllis
had put his dressing gown and pyjamas and slippers on the window seat.
Was that a softening overture, or a hint that she did not want him
in the bedroom? He tiptoed warily to the balcony to glance at the
children. Even in sleep Sylvia was still the coquette: she lay with
one hand curled against her cheek, the most ravishing pose, her face a
lovely fragile gravity. Janet was restless, muttering something about
bathing.
He undressed, sitting on the window seat. With a vague notion of
postponing the struggle with the pamphlet he went through his routine
with unusual care, watching the details. He noticed for the first time
his ingenious attempt to retain the tip of each sock, by curling his
toes into it as he removed it. The purpose was evidently to turn the
sock completely inside out in the one motion of stripping it off. For
the first time in weeks he decided to fold his trousers neatly instead
of just throwing them on a chair. He gave them a preliminary shake and
found that the sand lodged in the cuffs flew unerringly into his eyes.
He discovered that if he tried to put the left leg into his pyjamas
first, instead of the right, it didn’t feel as though he had them on
at all. The laundress had managed to let the end of the waist-string
vanish inside its little tunnel of hem. It required some very sharp
work to creep it out again. What a good booklet could be written, for
some pyjama and underwear manufacturer, on The Technique of Getting
Undressed. How pleasant that if you lay out your clothes just in the
order of their discarding they are exactly serialized in the correct
sequence for dressing to-morrow.
All this, he felt with subtle horror, was just a postponement of
something inevitable, something he knew was coming but could not
identify. Some great beauty of retribution had him in its onward march.
He was unworthy of the glory of living, he had niggled and haggled and
somewhere in his bunglings he had touched some fatal spring. He had
broken some seal, let the genie out of the bottle. The little whiff of
fragrant vapour had flowed and spread until it darkened the whole sky.
It hung terrible above him and the four tiny Georges cowered beneath
it. And behind and within every other thought was Joyce. He could see
her, perfect, inaccessible, afraid. This dear device of Nature, this
gay, simple ingenuity of dividing life into halves and making them
hanker for one another! Oh, Joyce, Joyce, it _does_ matter. Joyce, I
need you so.
A craven impulse tempted him to turn in at once, on the window seat;
but its curved shape was not comfortable; moreover, how could he
possibly sleep? Downstairs the big couch had a lamp by it; he could
read, and while reading, think. The principal pleasure of reading,
he had always found, is to fix the attention of the coarse outer
mind, allowing the inner faculty to slip free. As he went down the
clock startled him by counting midnight. He timed his step on the
creaky treads so that the chime would cover them. But that settled
it, he thought. One can _continue_ working after twelve, but one
can’t possibly begin work at that hour. Besides, it’s impossible to
be conscientious in dressing gown and slippers. Morals, conscience,
ambition, all the cunning artifice of custom, are laid aside with the
garments of the day. The sophistries of virtue avail you nothing now.
The thing in your heart that you are angriest at and most ashamed of,
that is God. And that’s what gods are invented for: to be despised and
rejected. A god who was honoured and welcomed, how unhappy he would be.
He lay down on the couch with a book, but his mind ran wild behind the
printed lines. The weight and breathing of the silent house pressed
about him. How well he knew that feeling of a house at night. All
the others, broken at last by the day’s long war of attrition, lost
in their silence; himself the sole survivor, gleaning stupidly over
the battlefield. Matching his lonely wit against destiny, aware of a
shuddering compassion for these unruly lives under his charge. What was
it that kept them all going? Only his dreams, his poor busy ideas. For
the moment he could feel the whole fabric transfigured with truth and
tenderness; with love that was furious and clean, with work that was
sane and absorbing. What did he really care whether thousands of people
did or did not spend their summer on the Great Scenic Route of the
Eastern Railroad? Or whether they bedded on the Morrison Mattress, that
Makes Sleep a Career?
He slipped to his knees beside the sofa, but he could not even pray. He
was aware of the door behind him, and of Phyllis in the room overhead.
How terrible if any one should find him on his knees. Praying is only
respectable if done in congregations. He remembered those cold evenings
long ago, when he and Phyllis couldn’t sleep unless she were pressed
close behind him, her arm across his chest. And now he was living among
strangers. I’ll do whatever you tell me, I’ll do whatever you tell me.
But by heaven he had glimpsed it: he had seen beauty within breath
and grasp: too close to mar it by selfishness. No, said his demon, you
shan’t even have the consolation of fine words. You shall have all the
mockery and none of the bliss.