disregard this vast impatience of her being. And the best way to do
that, it seemed to her, was to hurry from one employment to another,
never to be alone, never without some occupation, some excitement. Her
break with Peter had an extraordinary effect of release in her mind.
Hitherto, whatever her resentment had been she had admitted in practice
his claim to exact a certain discretion from her; his opinion had been,
in spite of her resentment, a standard for her. Now she had no standard
at all—unless it was a rebellious purpose to spite him. On Joan’s
personal conduct the thought of Oswald, oddly enough, had scarcely any
influence at all. She adored him as one might a political or historical
hero; she wanted to stand well in his sight, but the idea of him did not
pursue her into the details of her behaviour at all. He seemed
preoccupied with ideas and unobservant. She had never had any struggle
with him; he had never made her do anything. And as for Aunts Phyllis
and Phœbe—while the latter seemed to make vague gestures towards quite
unutterable liberties, the former maintained an attitude of nervous
disavowal. She was a woman far too uncertain-minded for plain speaking.
She was a dear. Clearly she hated cruelty and baseness; except in regard
to such things she set no bounds.
Hitherto Joan had had a very few flirtations; the extremest thing upon
her conscience was Bunny Cuspard’s kiss. She had the natural
shilly-shally of a girl; she was strongly moved to all sorts of
flirtings and experimentings with love, and very adventurous and curious
in these matters; and also she had a system of inhibitions, pride,
hesitation, fastidiousness, and something beyond these things, a sense
of some ultimate value that might easily be lost, that held her back.
Rebelling against Peter had somehow also set her rebelling against these
restraints. Why shouldn’t she know this and that? Why shouldn’t she try
this and that? Why, for instance, was she always “shutting up” Adela
whenever she began to discourse in her peculiar way upon the great
theme? Just a timid prude she had been, but now——.
And all this about undesirable people and unseemly places, all this
picking and choosing as though the world was mud; what nonsense it was!
She could take care of herself surely!
She began deliberately to feel her way through all her friendships to
see whether this thing, passion, lurked in any of them. It was an
interesting exercise of her wits to try over a youth like old Troop, for
example; to lure him on by a touch of flattery, a betrayal of warmth in
her interest, to reciprocal advances. At first Troop wasn’t in the least
in love with her, but she succeeded in suggesting to him that he was.
But the passion in him released an unsuspected fund of egotistical
discourse; he developed a disposition to explain himself and his mental
operations in a large, flattering way both by word of mouth and by
letter. Even when he was roused to a sense of her as lovable, he did not
become really interested in her but only in his love for her. He arrived
at one stride at the same unanalytical acceptance of her as of his God
and the Church and the King and his parents and all the rest of the
Anglican system of things. She was his girl—“the kid.” He really wasn’t
interested in those other things any more than he was in her; once he
had given her her rôle in relation to him his attention returned to
himself. The honour, integrity, and perfection of Troop were the
consuming occupations of his mind. This was an edifying thing to
discover, but not an entertaining thing to pursue; and after a time Joan
set herself to avoid, miss, and escape from Troop on every possible
occasion. But Troop prided himself upon his persistence. He took to
writing her immense, ill-spelt, manly letters, with sentences beginning:
“You understand me very little if——.” It was clear he was hers only
until some simpler, purer, more receptive and acquisitive girl swam into
his ken.
Wilmington, on the other hand, was a silent covetous lover. Joan could
make him go white, but she could not make him talk. She was a little
afraid of him and quite sure of him. But he was not the sort of young
man one can play with, and she marvelled greatly that any one could
desire her so much and amuse her so little. Bunny Cuspard was a more
animated subject for experiment, and you could play with him a lot. He
danced impudently. He could pat Joan’s shoulder, press her hand, slip
his arm round her waist and bring his warm face almost to a kissing
contact as though it was all nothing. Did these approaches warm her
blood? Did she warm his? Anyhow it didn’t matter, and it wasn’t
anything.
Then there was Graham Prothero, a very good-looking friend of Peter’s,
whom she had met while skating. He had a lively eye, and jumped after a
meeting or so straight into Joan’s dreams, where he was still more
lively and good-looking. She wished she knew more certainly whether she
had got into his dreams.
Meanwhile Joan’s curiosity had not spared Jelalludin. She had had him
discoursing on the beauties of Indian love, and spinning for her
imagination a warm moonlight vision of still temples reflected in water
tanks, of silvery water shining between great lily leaves, of music like
the throbbing of a nerve, of brown bodies garlanded with flowers. There
had been a loan of Rabindranath Tagore’s love poems. And once he had
sent her some flowers.
Any of these youths she could make her definite lover she knew, by an
act of self-adaptation and just a little reciprocal giving. Only she had
no will to do that. She felt she must not will anything of the sort. The
thing must come to her; it must take possession of her. Sometimes,
indeed, she had the oddest fancy that perhaps suddenly one of these
young men would become transfigured; would cease to be his clumsy,
ineffective self, and change right into that wonderful, that compelling
being who was to set all things right. There were moments when it seemed
about to happen. And then the illusion passed, and she saw clearly that
it was just old Bunny or just staccato Mir Jelalludin.
In Huntley, Joan found something more intriguing than this pursuit of
the easy and the innocent. Huntley talked with a skilful impudence that
made a bold choice of topics seem the most natural in the world. He
presented himself as a leader in a great emancipation of women. They
were to be freed from “the bondage of sex.” The phrase awakened a warm
response in Joan, who was finding sex a yoke about her imagination. Sex,
Huntley declared, should be as incidental in a woman’s life as it was in
a man’s. But before that could happen the world must free its mind from
the “superstition of chastity,” from the idea that by one single step a
woman passed from the recognizable into an impossible category. We made
no such distinction in the case of men; an artist or a business man was
not suddenly thrust out of the social system by a sexual incident. A
woman was either Mrs. or Miss; a gross publication of elemental facts
that were surely her private affair. No one asked whether a man had
found his lover. Why should one proclaim it in the case of a woman by a
conspicuous change of her name? Here, and not in any matter of votes or
economics was the real feminine grievance. His indignation was
contagious. It marched with all Joan’s accumulated prejudice against
marriage, and all her growing resentment at the way in which emotional
unrest was distracting and perplexing her will and spoiling her work at
Cambridge. But when Huntley went on to suggest that the path to freedom
lay in the heroic abandonment of the “fetish of chastity,” Joan was
sensible of a certain lagging of spirit. A complex of instincts that
conspired to adumbrate that unseen, unknown, and yet tyrannous lover,
who would not leave her in peace and yet would not reveal himself, stood
between her and the extremities of Huntley’s logic.
There were moments when he seemed to be pretending to fill that
oppressive void; moments when he seemed only to be hinting at himself as
a possible instrument of freedom. Joan listened to him gravely enough so
long as he theorized; when he came to personal things she treated him
with the same experimental and indecisive encouragement that she dealt
out to her undergraduate friends. Huntley’s earlier pose of an
intellectual friend was attractive and flattering; then he began to
betray passion, as it were, unwittingly. At a fancy dress dance at
Chelsea—and he danced almost as well as Joan—he became moody. He was
handsome that night in black velvet and silver that betrayed much
natural grace; Joan was a nondescript in black and red, with short
skirts and red beads about her pretty neck. “Joan,” he said suddenly,
“you’re getting hold of me. You’re disturbing me.” He seemed to
soliloquize. “I’ve not felt like this before.” Then very flatteringly
and reproachfully, “You’re so damned intelligent, Joan. And you dance—as
though God made you to make me happy.” He got her out into an open
passage that led from the big studio in which they had been dancing, to
a yard dimly lit by Chinese lanterns, and at the dark turn of the
passage kissed her more suddenly and violently than she had ever been
kissed before. He kissed her lips and held her until she struggled out
of his arms. Up to that moment Joan had been playing with him, half
attracted and half shamming; then once more came the black panic that
had seized her with Bunny and Adela.
She did not know whether she liked him now or hated him. She felt
strange and excited. She made him go back with her into the studio.
“I’ve got to dance with Ralph Winterbaum,” she said.
“Say you’re not offended,” he pleaded.
She gave him no answer. She did not know the answer. She wanted to get
away and think. He perceived her confused excitement and did not want to
give her time to think. She found Winterbaum and danced with him, and
all the time, with her nerves on fire, she was watching Huntley, and he
was watching her. Then she became aware of Peter regarding her coldly,
over the plump shoulder of a fashion-plate artist. She went to him as
soon as the dance was over.
“Peter,” she said, “I want to go home.”
He surveyed her. She was flushed and ruffled, and his eyes and mouth
hardened.
“It’s early.”
“I want to go home.”
“Right. You’re a bit of a responsibility, Joan.”
“Don’t, then,” she said shortly, and turned round to greet Huntley as
though nothing had happened between them.
But she kept in the light and the crowd, and there was a constraint
between them. “I want to talk to you more,” he said, “and when we can
talk without some one standing on one’s toes all the time and listening
hard. I wish you’d come to my flat and have tea with me one day. It’s
still and cosy, and I could tell you all sorts of things—things I can’t
tell you here.”
Joan’s dread of any appearance of timid virtue was overwhelming. And she
was now blind with rage at Peter—why, she would have been at a loss to
say. She wanted to behave outrageously with Huntley. But in Peter’s
sight. This struck her as an altogether too extensive invitation.
“I’ve never noticed much restraint in your conversation,” she said.
“It’s the interruptions I don’t like,” he said.
“You get me no ice, you get me no lemonade,” she complained abruptly.
“That’s what my dear Aunt Adelaide used to call changing the subject.”
“It’s the cry of outraged nature.”
“But I saw you having an ice—not half an hour ago.”
“Not the ice I wanted,” said Joan.
“Distracting Joan! I suppose I must get you that ice. But about the
tea?”
“I _hate_ tea,” said Joan, with a force of decision that for a time
disposed of his project.
Just for a moment he hovered with his eye on her, weighing just what
that decision amounted to, and in that moment she decided that he wasn’t
handsome, that there was something _unsound_ about his profile, that he
was pressing her foolishly. And anyhow, none of it really mattered. He
was nothing really. She had been a fool to go into that dark passage,
she ought to have known her man better; Huntley had been amusing
hitherto and now the thing had got into a new phase that wouldn’t, she
felt, be amusing at all; after this he would pester. She hated being
kissed. And Peter was a beast. Peter was a hateful beast....
Joan and Peter went home in the same taxi—in a grim silence. Yet neither
of them could have told what it was that kept them hostile and silent.
§ 19
But Joan and Peter were not always grimly silent with one another. The
black and inexplicable moods came and passed again. Between these
perplexing mute conflicts of will, they were still good friends. When
they were alone together they were always disposed to be good friends;
it was the presence and excitement and competition of others that
disturbed their relationship; it was when the species invaded their
individualities and threatened their association with its occult and
passionate demands. They would motor-cycle together through the lanes
and roads of Hertfordshire, lunch cheerfully at wayside inns, brotherly
and sisterly, relapse again into mere boy and girl playfellows, race and
climb trees, or, like fellow-students, share their common room amicably,
dispute over a multitude of questions, and talk to Oswald. They both had
a fair share of scholarly ambition and read pretty hard. They had both
now reached the newspaper-reading stage. Peter was beginning to take an
interest in politics, he wanted to discuss socialism and economic
organization thoroughly; biological work alone among all scientific
studies carries a philosophy of its own that illuminates these
questions, and Oswald was happy to try over his current interests in the
light of these fresh, keen young minds. Peter was a discriminating
advocate of the ideas of Guild socialism; Oswald was still a cautious
individualist drifting towards Fabianism. The great labour troubles that
had followed the Coronation of King George had been necessary to
convince him that all was not well with the economic organization of the
empire. Hitherto he had taken economic organization for granted; it
wasn’t a matter for Sydenhams.
Pelham Ford at such times became a backwater from the main current of
human affairs, the current that was now growing steadily more rapid and
troubled. Thinking could go on at Pelham Ford. There were still forces
in that old-world valley to resist the infection of intense impatience
that was spreading throughout the world. The old red house behind its
wall and iron gates seemed as stable as the little hills about it; the
road and the row of great trees between the stream and the road, the
high pathway and the ford and the village promised visibly to endure for
a thousand years. It was when Aunt Phyllis or Aunt Phœbe descended upon
the place to make a party, “get a lot of young people down and brighten
things up,” or when the two youngsters went to London together into the
Sheldrick translation of the _Quartier Latin_, or when they met in
Cambridge in some crowded chattering room that imagination grew
feverish, fierce jealousies awoke, temperaments jarred, and the urge of
adolescence had them in its clutch again.
It was during one of these parties at Pelham Ford that Joan was to
happen upon two great realizations, realizations of so profound an
effect that they may serve to mark the end for her of this great process
of emotional upheaval and discovery that is called adolescence. They
left her shaped. They came to her in no dramatic circumstances, they
were mere conversational incidents, but their effect was profound and
conclusive.
In the New Year of 1914 Oswald was to take Peter to Russia for three
weeks. Before his departure, Aunt Phœbe had insisted that there should
be a Christmas gathering of the young at Pelham Ford. They would skate
or walk or toboggan or play hockey by day, and dress up and dance or
improvise charades and burlesques in the evening. One or two Sheldricks
would come, Peter and Joan could bring down any stray friends who had no
home Christmas to call them, and Aunts Phyllis and Phœbe would collect a
few young people in London.
The gathering was from the first miscellaneous. Christmas is a homing
time for the undergraduates of both sexes, such modern spirits as the
home failed to attract used to go in those days in great droves to the
Swiss winter sports, and Joan found nobody but an ambitious Scotch girl
whom she knew but slightly and Miss Scroby the historian, who was rather
a friend for Aunt Phyllis than herself. Peter discovered that Wilmington
intensely preferred Pelham Ford to his parental roof, and brought also
two other stray men, orphans. This selection was supplemented by Aunt
Phœbe, who had latterly made Hetty Reinhart her especial protégée. She
descanted upon the obvious beauty of Hetty and upon the courage that had
induced Hetty to leave her home in Preston and manage for herself in a
great lonely studio upon Haverstock Hill. “The bachelor woman,” said
Aunt Phœbe; “armed with a latchkey and her purity. A vote shall follow.
Hetty is not one of the devoted yet. But I have my hopes. We need our
Beauty Chorus. Hetty shall be our Helen, and Holloway our Troy.”
So with Peter’s approval Hetty was added to the list before Joan could
express an opinion, and appeared with a moderate sized valise that
contained some extremely exiguous evening costumes, and a steadfast eye
that rested most frequently on Peter. In addition Aunt Phœbe brought two
Irish sisters, one frivolous, the other just recuperating from the
hunger-strike that had ended her imprisonment for window-breaking in
pursuit of the Vote, and a very shy youth of seventeen, Pryce, the
caddie-poet. Huntley was to constitute a sort of outside element in the
party, sharing apartments with young Sopwith Greene the musician, in the
village about half a mile away. These two men were to work and keep away
when they chose, and come in for meals and sports as they thought fit.
At the eleventh hour had come a pathetic and irresistible telegram from
Adela Murchison:
Alone Xmas may I come wire if inconvenient.
and she, too, was comprehended.
The vicarage girls were available for games and meals except on Sunday
and Christmas Day; there was a friendly family of five sons and two
daughters at Braughing, a challenging hockey club at Bishop’s Stortford,
and a scratch collection at Newport available by motor-car for a pick-up
match if the weather proved, as it did prove, too open for skating.
Oswald commonly stood these Aunt parties for a day or so and then
retreated to the Climax Club. Always beforehand he promised himself
great interest and pleasure in the company of a number of exceptionally
bright and representative youths and maidens of the modern school, but
always the actual gathering fatigued him and distressed him. The youths
and maidens wouldn’t be representative, they talked too loud, too fast
and too inconsecutively for him, their wit was too rapid and hard—and
they were all over the house. It was hard to get mental contacts with
them. They paired off when there were no games afoot, and if ever talk
at table ceased to be fragmentary Aunt Phœbe took control of it. In a
day or so he would begin to feel at Pelham Ford like a cat during a
removal; driven out of his dear library, which was the only available
room for dancing, he would try to work in his unaccustomed study, with
vivid, interesting young figures passing his window in groups of two or
three, or only too audibly discussing the world, each other, and their
general arrangements, in the hall.
His home would have felt altogether chaotic to him but for the presence,
the unswerving, if usually invisible, presence of Mrs. Moxton, observing
times and seasons, providing copious suitable meals, dominating by means
of the gong, replacing furniture at every opportunity, referring with a
calm dignity to Joan as the hostess for all the rules and sanctions she
deemed advisable. From unseen points of view one felt her eye. One’s
consolation for the tumult lay in one’s confidence in this discretion
that lay behind it. Even Aunt Phœbe’s way of speaking of “our good
Moxton” did not mask the facts of the case. Pelham Ford was ruled. At
Pelham Ford even Aunt Phœbe came down to meals in time. At Pelham Ford
no fire, once lit, ever went out before it was right for it to do so.
You might in pursuit of facetious ends choose to put your pyjamas
outside your other clothes, wrap your window curtains about you, sport
and dance, and finally, drawn off to some other end, abandon these
wrappings in the dining-room or on the settee on the landing. When you
went to bed your curtains hung primly before your window again, and your
pyjamas lay folded and reproved upon your bed.
The disposition of the new generation to change its clothes, adopt
fantastic clothes, and at any reasonable excuse get right out of its
clothes altogether, greatly impressed Oswald. Hetty in particular
betrayed a delight in the beauties of her own body with a freedom that
in Oswald’s youth was permitted only to sculpture. But Adela made no
secrets of her plump shoulders and arms, and Joan struck him as
insensitive. Skimpiness was the fashion in dress at that time. No doubt
it was all for the best, like the frankness of Spartan maidens. And
another thing that brought a flavour of harsh modernity into the house
was the perpetual music and dancing that raged about it. There was a
pianola in the common room of Joan and Peter, but when they were alone
at home it served only for an occasional outbreak of Bach, or Beethoven,
or Chopin. Now it was in a state of almost continuous eruption. Aunt
Phyllis had ordered a number of rolls of dance music from the
Orchestrelle library, and in addition she had brought down a gramophone.
Never before had music been so easy in the world as it was in those
days. In Oswald’s youth music, good music, was the rare privilege of a
gifted few, one heard it rarely and listened with reverence. Nowadays
Joan could run through a big fragment of the Ninth Symphony, giving a
rendering far better than any but a highly skilled pianist could play,
while she was waiting for Peter to come to breakfast. And this Christmas
party was pervaded with One Steps and Two Steps, pianola called to
gramophone and gramophone to pianola, and tripping feet somewhere never
failed to respond. Most of these young people danced with the wildest
informality. But Hetty and the youngest Irish girl were serious
propagandists of certain strange American dances, the Bunny Hug, and the
Fox Trot; Sopwith Greene and Adela tangoed and were getting quite good
at it, and Huntley wanted to teach Joan an Apache dance. Joan danced by
rule and pattern or by the light of nature as occasion required.
The Christmas dinner was at one o’clock, a large disorderly festival.
Gavan Huntley and Sopwith Greene came in for it. Oswald carved a turkey,
Aunt Phyllis dispensed beef; the room was darkened and the pudding was
brought in flaming blue and distributed in flickering flames.
Mince-pies, almonds and raisins, Brazil nuts, oranges, tangerines,
Carlsbad plums, crystallized fruits and candied peel; nothing was
missing from the customary feast. Then came a mighty banging of
crackers, pre-war crackers, containing elaborate paper costumes and
preposterous gifts. Wilmington ate little and Huntley a great deal, and
whenever Joan glanced at them they seemed to be looking at her. Hetty,
flushed and excited, became really pretty in a paper cap of liberty, she
waved a small tricolour flag and knelt up in her chair to pull crackers
across the table; Peter won a paper cockscomb and was moved to come and
group himself under her arm and crow as “Vive la France!” The two Irish
girls started an abusive but genial argument with Sopwith Greene upon
the Irish question. Aunt Phœbe sat near Aunt Phyllis and discoursed on
whether she ought to go to prison for the Vote. “I try to assault
policemen,” she said. “But they elude me.” One of Peter’s Cambridge
friends, it came to light, had been present at a great scene in which
Aunt Phœbe had figured. He emerged from his social obscurity and
described the affair rather amusingly.