"The Height of the season," said Bonamy.
The sun had already blistered the paint on the backs of the green chairs
in Hyde Park; peeled the bark off the plane trees; and turned the earth
to powder and to smooth yellow pebbles. Hyde Park was circled,
incessantly, by turning wheels.
"The height of the season," said Bonamy sarcastically.
He was sarcastic because of Clara Durrant; because Jacob had come back
from Greece very brown and lean, with his pockets full of Greek notes,
which he pulled out when the chair man came for pence; because Jacob was
silent.
"He has not said a word to show that he is glad to see me," thought
Bonamy bitterly.
The motor cars passed incessantly over the bridge of the Serpentine; the
upper classes walked upright, or bent themselves gracefully over the
palings; the lower classes lay with their knees cocked up, flat on their
backs; the sheep grazed on pointed wooden legs; small children ran down
the sloping grass, stretched their arms, and fell.
"Very urbane," Jacob brought out.
"Urbane" on the lips of Jacob had mysteriously all the shapeliness of a
character which Bonamy thought daily more sublime, devastating, terrific
than ever, though he was still, and perhaps would be for ever, barbaric,
obscure.
What superlatives! What adjectives! How acquit Bonamy of sentimentality
of the grossest sort; of being tossed like a cork on the waves; of
having no steady insight into character; of being unsupported by reason,
and of drawing no comfort whatever from the works of the classics?
"The height of civilization," said Jacob.
He was fond of using Latin words.
Magnanimity, virtue--such words when Jacob used them in talk with Bonamy
meant that he took control of the situation; that Bonamy would play
round him like an affectionate spaniel; and that (as likely as not) they
would end by rolling on the floor.
"And Greece?" said Bonamy. "The Parthenon and all that?"
"There's none of this European mysticism," said Jacob.
"It's the atmosphere. I suppose," said Bonamy. "And you went to
Constantinople?"
"Yes," said Jacob.
Bonamy paused, moved a pebble; then darted in with the rapidity and
certainty of a lizard's tongue.
"You are in love!" he exclaimed.
Jacob blushed.
The sharpest of knives never cut so deep.
As for responding, or taking the least account of it, Jacob stared
straight ahead of him, fixed, monolithic--oh, very beautiful!--like a
British Admiral, exclaimed Bonamy in a rage, rising from his seat and
walking off; waiting for some sound; none came; too proud to look back;
walking quicker and quicker until he found himself gazing into motor
cars and cursing women. Where was the pretty woman's face?
Clara's--Fanny's--Florinda's? Who was the pretty little creature?
Not Clara Durrant.
The Aberdeen terrier must be exercised, and as Mr. Bowley was going that
very moment--would like nothing better than a walk--they went together,
Clara and kind little Bowley--Bowley who had rooms in the Albany, Bowley
who wrote letters to the "Times" in a jocular vein about foreign hotels
and the Aurora Borealis--Bowley who liked young people and walked down
Piccadilly with his right arm resting on the boss of his back.
"Little demon!" cried Clara, and attached Troy to his chain.
Bowley anticipated--hoped for--a confidence. Devoted to her mother,
Clara sometimes felt her a little, well, her mother was so sure of
herself that she could not understand other people being--being--"as
ludicrous as I am," Clara jerked out (the dog tugging her forwards). And
Bowley thought she looked like a huntress and turned over in his mind
which it should be--some pale virgin with a slip of the moon in her
hair, which was a flight for Bowley.
The colour was in her cheeks. To have spoken outright about her
mother--still, it was only to Mr. Bowley, who loved her, as everybody
must; but to speak was unnatural to her, yet it was awful to feel, as
she had done all day, that she MUST tell some one.
"Wait till we cross the road," she said to the dog, bending down.
Happily she had recovered by that time.
"She thinks so much about England," she said. "She is so anxious---"
Bowley was defrauded as usual. Clara never confided in any one.
"Why don't the young people settle it, eh?" he wanted to ask. "What's
all this about England?"--a question poor Clara could not have answered,
since, as Mrs. Durrant discussed with Sir Edgar the policy of Sir Edward
Grey, Clara only wondered why the cabinet looked dusty, and Jacob had
never come. Oh, here was Mrs. Cowley Johnson...
And Clara would hand the pretty china teacups, and smile at the
compliment--that no one in London made tea so well as she did.
"We get it at Brocklebank's," she said, "in Cursitor Street."
Ought she not to be grateful? Ought she not to be happy?
Especially since her mother looked so well and enjoyed so much talking
to Sir Edgar about Morocco, Venezuela, or some such place.
"Jacob! Jacob!" thought Clara; and kind Mr. Bowley, who was ever so good
with old ladies, looked; stopped; wondered whether Elizabeth wasn't too
harsh with her daughter; wondered about Bonamy, Jacob--which young
fellow was it?--and jumped up directly Clara said she must exercise
Troy.
They had reached the site of the old Exhibition. They looked at the
tulips. Stiff and curled, the little rods of waxy smoothness rose from
the earth, nourished yet contained, suffused with scarlet and coral
pink. Each had its shadow; each grew trimly in the diamond-shaped wedge
as the gardener had planned it.
"Barnes never gets them to grow like that," Clara mused; she sighed.
"You are neglecting your friends," said Bowley, as some one, going the
other way, lifted his hat. She started; acknowledged Mr. Lionel Parry's
bow; wasted on him what had sprung for Jacob.
("Jacob! Jacob!" she thought.)
"But you'll get run over if I let you go," she said to the dog.
"England seems all right," said Mr. Bowley.
The loop of the railing beneath the statue of Achilles was full of
parasols and waistcoats; chains and bangles; of ladies and gentlemen,
lounging elegantly, lightly observant.
"'This statue was erected by the women of England...'" Clara read out
with a foolish little laugh. "Oh, Mr. Bowley! Oh!" Gallop--gallop--gallop--a
horse galloped past without a rider. The stirrups swung; the pebbles
spurted.
"Oh, stop! Stop it, Mr. Bowley!" she cried, white, trembling, gripping
his arm, utterly unconscious, the tears coming.
"Tut-tut!" said Mr. Bowley in his dressing-room an hour later.
"Tut-tut!"--a comment that was profound enough, though inarticulately
expressed, since his valet was handing his shirt studs.
Julia Eliot, too, had seen the horse run away, and had risen from her
seat to watch the end of the incident, which, since she came of a
sporting family, seemed to her slightly ridiculous. Sure enough the
little man came pounding behind with his breeches dusty; looked
thoroughly annoyed; and was being helped to mount by a policeman when
Julia Eliot, with a sardonic smile, turned towards the Marble Arch on
her errand of mercy. It was only to visit a sick old lady who had known
her mother and perhaps the Duke of Wellington; for Julia shared the love
of her sex for the distressed; liked to visit death-beds; threw slippers
at weddings; received confidences by the dozen; knew more pedigrees than
a scholar knows dates, and was one of the kindliest, most generous,
least continent of women.
Yet five minutes after she had passed the statue of Achilles she had the
rapt look of one brushing through crowds on a summer's afternoon, when
the trees are rustling, the wheels churning yellow, and the tumult of
the present seems like an elegy for past youth and past summers, and
there rose in her mind a curious sadness, as if time and eternity showed
through skirts and waistcoasts, and she saw people passing tragically to
destruction. Yet, Heaven knows, Julia was no fool. A sharper woman at a
bargain did not exist. She was always punctual. The watch on her wrist
gave her twelve minutes and a half in which to reach Bruton Street. Lady
Congreve expected her at five.
The gilt clock at Verrey's was striking five.
Florinda looked at it with a dull expression, like an animal. She looked
at the clock; looked at the door; looked at the long glass opposite;
disposed her cloak; drew closer to the table, for she was pregnant--no
doubt about it, Mother Stuart said, recommending remedies, consulting
friends; sunk, caught by the heel, as she tripped so lightly over the
surface.
Her tumbler of pinkish sweet stuff was set down by the waiter; and she
sucked, through a straw, her eyes on the looking-glass, on the door, now
soothed by the sweet taste. When Nick Bramham came in it was plain, even
to the young Swiss waiter, that there was a bargain between them. Nick
hitched his clothes together clumsily; ran his fingers through his hair;
sat down, to an ordeal, nervously. She looked at him; and set off
laughing; laughed--laughed--laughed. The young Swiss waiter, standing
with crossed legs by the pillar, laughed too.
The door opened; in came the roar of Regent Street, the roar of traffic,
impersonal, unpitying; and sunshine grained with dirt. The Swiss waiter
must see to the newcomers. Bramham lifted his glass.
"He's like Jacob," said Florinda, looking at the newcomer.
"The way he stares." She stopped laughing.
Jacob, leaning forward, drew a plan of the Parthenon in the dust in Hyde
Park, a network of strokes at least, which may have been the Parthenon,
or again a mathematical diagram. And why was the pebble so emphatically
ground in at the corner? It was not to count his notes that he took out
a wad of papers and read a long flowing letter which Sandra had written
two days ago at Milton Dower House with his book before her and in her
mind the memory of something said or attempted, some moment in the dark
on the road to the Acropolis which (such was her creed) mattered for
ever.
"He is," she mused, "like that man in Moliere."
She meant Alceste. She meant that he was severe. She meant that she
could deceive him.
"Or could I not?" she thought, putting the poems of Donne back in the
bookcase. "Jacob," she went on, going to the window and looking over the
spotted flower-beds across the grass where the piebald cows grazed under
beech trees, "Jacob would be shocked."
The perambulator was going through the little gate in the railing. She
kissed her hand; directed by the nurse, Jimmy waved his.
"HE'S a small boy," she said, thinking of Jacob.
And yet--Alceste?
"What a nuisance you are!" Jacob grumbled, stretching out first one leg
and then the other and feeling in each trouser-pocket for his chair
ticket.
"I expect the sheep have eaten it," he said. "Why do you keep sheep?"
"Sorry to disturb you, sir," said the ticket-collector, his hand deep in
the enormous pouch of pence.
"Well, I hope they pay you for it," said Jacob. "There you are. No. You
can stick to it. Go and get drunk."
He had parted with half-a-crown, tolerantly, compassionately, with
considerable contempt for his species.
Even now poor Fanny Elmer was dealing, as she walked along the Strand,
in her incompetent way with this very careless, indifferent, sublime
manner he had of talking to railway guards or porters; or Mrs.
Whitehorn, when she consulted him about her little boy who was beaten by
the schoolmaster.
Sustained entirely upon picture post cards for the past two months,
Fanny's idea of Jacob was more statuesque, noble, and eyeless than ever.
To reinforce her vision she had taken to visiting the British Museum,
where, keeping her eyes downcast until she was alongside of the battered
Ulysses, she opened them and got a fresh shock of Jacob's presence,
enough to last her half a day. But this was wearing thin. And she wrote
now--poems, letters that were never posted, saw his face in
advertisements on hoardings, and would cross the road to let the
barrel-organ turn her musings to rhapsody. But at breakfast (she shared
rooms with a teacher), when the butter was smeared about the plate, and
the prongs of the forks were clotted with old egg yolk, she revised
these visions violently; was, in truth, very cross; was losing her
complexion, as Margery Jackson told her, bringing the whole thing down
(as she laced her stout boots) to a level of mother-wit, vulgarity, and
sentiment, for she had loved too; and been a fool.
"One's godmothers ought to have told one," said Fanny, looking in at the
window of Bacon, the mapseller, in the Strand--told one that it is no
use making a fuss; this is life, they should have said, as Fanny said it
now, looking at the large yellow globe marked with steamship lines.
"This is life. This is life," said Fanny.
"A very hard face," thought Miss Barrett, on the other side of the
glass, buying maps of the Syrian desert and waiting impatiently to be
served. "Girls look old so soon nowadays."
The equator swam behind tears.
"Piccadilly?" Fanny asked the conductor of the omnibus, and climbed to
the top. After all, he would, he must, come back to her.
But Jacob might have been thinking of Rome; of architecture; of
jurisprudence; as he sat under the plane tree in Hyde Park.
The omnibus stopped outside Charing Cross; and behind it were clogged
omnibuses, vans, motor-cars, for a procession with banners was passing
down Whitehall, and elderly people were stiffly descending from between
the paws of the slippery lions, where they had been testifying to their
faith, singing lustily, raising their eyes from their music to look into
the sky, and still their eyes were on the sky as they marched behind the
gold letters of their creed.
The traffic stopped, and the sun, no longer sprayed out by the breeze,
became almost too hot. But the procession passed; the banners glittered
--far away down Whitehall; the traffic was released; lurched on; spun to
a smooth continuous uproar; swerving round the curve of Cockspur Street;
and sweeping past Government offices and equestrian statues down
Whitehall to the prickly spires, the tethered grey fleet of masonry, and
the large white clock of Westminster.
Five strokes Big Ben intoned; Nelson received the salute. The wires of
the Admiralty shivered with some far-away communication. A voice kept
remarking that Prime Ministers and Viceroys spoke in the Reichstag;
entered Lahore; said that the Emperor travelled; in Milan they rioted;
said there were rumours in Vienna; said that the Ambassador at
Constantinople had audience with the Sultan; the fleet was at Gibraltar.
The voice continued, imprinting on the faces of the clerks in Whitehall
(Timothy Durrant was one of them) something of its own inexorable
gravity, as they listened, deciphered, wrote down. Papers accumulated,
inscribed with the utterances of Kaisers, the statistics of ricefields,
the growling of hundreds of work-people, plotting sedition in back
streets, or gathering in the Calcutta bazaars, or mustering their forces
in the uplands of Albania, where the hills are sand-coloured, and bones
lie unburied.
The voice spoke plainly in the square quiet room with heavy tables,
where one elderly man made notes on the margin of typewritten sheets,
his silver-topped umbrella leaning against the bookcase.
His head--bald, red-veined, hollow-looking--represented all the heads in
the building. His head, with the amiable pale eyes, carried the burden
of knowledge across the street; laid it before his colleagues, who came
equally burdened; and then the sixteen gentlemen, lifting their pens or
turning perhaps rather wearily in their chairs, decreed that the course
of history should shape itself this way or that way, being manfully
determined, as their faces showed, to impose some coherency upon Rajahs
and Kaisers and the muttering in bazaars, the secret gatherings, plainly
visible in Whitehall, of kilted peasants in Albanian uplands; to control
the course of events.
Pitt and Chatham, Burke and Gladstone looked from side to side with
fixed marble eyes and an air of immortal quiescence which perhaps the
living may have envied, the air being full of whistling and concussions,
as the procession with its banners passed down Whitehall. Moreover, some
were troubled with dyspepsia; one had at that very moment cracked the
glass of his spectacles; another spoke in Glasgow to-morrow; altogether
they looked too red, fat, pale or lean, to be dealing, as the marble
heads had dealt, with the course of history.
Timmy Durrant in his little room in the Admiralty, going to consult a
Blue book, stopped for a moment by the window and observed the placard
tied round the lamp-post.
Miss Thomas, one of the typists, said to her friend that if the Cabinet
was going to sit much longer she should miss her boy outside the Gaiety.
Timmy Durrant, returning with his Blue book under his arm, noticed a
little knot of people at the street corner; conglomerated as though one
of them knew something; and the others, pressing round him, looked up,
looked down, looked along the street. What was it that he knew?
Timothy, placing the Blue book before him, studied a paper sent round by
the Treasury for information. Mr. Crawley, his fellow-clerk, impaled a
letter on a skewer.
Jacob rose from his chair in Hyde Park, tore his ticket to pieces, and
walked away.
"Such a sunset," wrote Mrs. Flanders in her letter to Archer at
Singapore. "One couldn't make up one's mind to come indoors," she wrote.
"It seemed wicked to waste even a moment."
The long windows of Kensington Palace flushed fiery rose as Jacob walked
away; a flock of wild duck flew over the Serpentine; and the trees were
stood against the sky, blackly, magnificently.
"Jacob," wrote Mrs. Flanders, with the red light on her page, "is hard
at work after his delightful journey..."
"The Kaiser," the far-away voice remarked in Whitehall, "received me in
audience."
"Now I know that face--" said the Reverend Andrew Floyd, coming out of
Carter's shop in Piccadilly, "but who the dickens--?" and he watched
Jacob, turned round to look at him, but could not be sure--
"Oh, Jacob Flanders!" he remembered in a flash.
But he was so tall; so unconscious; such a fine young fellow.
"I gave him Byron's works," Andrew Floyd mused, and started forward, as
Jacob crossed the road; but hesitated, and let the moment pass, and lost
the opportunity.
Another procession, without banners, was blocking Long Acre. Carriages,
with dowagers in amethyst and gentlemen spotted with carnations,
intercepted cabs and motor-cars turned in the opposite direction, in
which jaded men in white waistcoats lolled, on their way home to
shrubberies and billiard-rooms in Putney and Wimbledon.
Two barrel-organs played by the kerb, and horses coming out of
Aldridge's with white labels on their buttocks straddled across the road
and were smartly jerked back.
Mrs. Durrant, sitting with Mr. Wortley in a motor-car, was impatient
lest they should miss the overture.
But Mr. Wortley, always urbane, always in time for the overture,
buttoned his gloves, and admired Miss Clara.
"A shame to spend such a night in the theatre!" said Mrs. Durrant,
seeing all the windows of the coachmakers in Long Acre ablaze.
"Think of your moors!" said Mr. Wortley to Clara.
"Ah! but Clara likes this better," Mrs. Durrant laughed.
"I don't know--really," said Clara, looking at the blazing windows. She
started.
She saw Jacob.
"Who?" asked Mrs. Durrant sharply, leaning forward.
But she saw no one.
Under the arch of the Opera House large faces and lean ones, the
powdered and the hairy, all alike were red in the sunset; and, quickened
by the great hanging lamps with their repressed primrose lights, by the
tramp, and the scarlet, and the pompous ceremony, some ladies looked for
a moment into steaming bedrooms near by, where women with loose hair
leaned out of windows, where girls--where children--(the long mirrors
held the ladies suspended) but one must follow; one must not block the
way.
Clara's moors were fine enough. The Phoenicians slept under their piled
grey rocks; the chimneys of the old mines pointed starkly; early moths
blurred the heather-bells; cartwheels could be heard grinding on the
road far beneath; and the suck and sighing of the waves sounded gently,
persistently, for ever.
Shading her eyes with her hand Mrs. Pascoe stood in her cabbage-garden
looking out to sea. Two steamers and a sailing-ship crossed each other;
passed each other; and in the bay the gulls kept alighting on a log,
rising high, returning again to the log, while some rode in upon the
waves and stood on the rim of the water until the moon blanched all to
whiteness.
Mrs. Pascoe had gone indoors long ago.
But the red light was on the columns of the Parthenon, and the Greek
women who were knitting their stockings and sometimes crying to a child
to come and have the insects picked from its head were as jolly as
sand-martins in the heat, quarrelling, scolding, suckling their babies,
until the ships in the Piraeus fired their guns.
The sound spread itself flat, and then went tunnelling its way with
fitful explosions among the channels of the islands.
Darkness drops like a knife over Greece.
"The guns?" said Betty Flanders, half asleep, getting out of bed and
going to the window, which was decorated with a fringe of dark leaves.
"Not at this distance," she thought. "It is the sea."
Again, far away, she heard the dull sound, as if nocturnal women were
beating great carpets. There was Morty lost, and Seabrook dead; her sons
fighting for their country. But were the chickens safe? Was that some
one moving downstairs? Rebecca with the toothache? No. The nocturnal
women were beating great carpets. Her hens shifted slightly on their
perches.