Hewet and Rachel had long ago reached the particular place on the edge
of the cliff where, looking down into the sea, you might chance on
jelly-fish and dolphins. Looking the other way, the vast expanse of
land gave them a sensation which is given by no view, however extended,
in England; the villages and the hills there having names, and the
farthest horizon of hills as often as not dipping and showing a line of
mist which is the sea; here the view was one of infinite sun-dried
earth, earth pointed in pinnacles, heaped in vast barriers, earth
widening and spreading away and away like the immense floor of the sea,
earth chequered by day and by night, and partitioned into different
lands, where famous cities were founded, and the races of men changed
from dark savages to white civilised men, and back to dark savages
again. Perhaps their English blood made this prospect uncomfortably
impersonal and hostile to them, for having once turned their faces that
way they next turned them to the sea, and for the rest of the time sat
looking at the sea. The sea, though it was a thin and sparkling water
here, which seemed incapable of surge or anger, eventually narrowed
itself, clouded its pure tint with grey, and swirled through narrow
channels and dashed in a shiver of broken waters against massive
granite rocks. It was this sea that flowed up to the mouth of the
Thames; and the Thames washed the roots of the city of London.
Hewet’s thoughts had followed some such course as this, for the first
thing he said as they stood on the edge of the cliff was—
“I’d like to be in England!”
Rachel lay down on her elbow, and parted the tall grasses which grew on
the edge, so that she might have a clear view. The water was very calm;
rocking up and down at the base of the cliff, and so clear that one
could see the red of the stones at the bottom of it. So it had been at
the birth of the world, and so it had remained ever since. Probably no
human being had ever broken that water with boat or with body. Obeying
some impulse, she determined to mar that eternity of peace, and threw
the largest pebble she could find. It struck the water, and the ripples
spread out and out. Hewet looked down too.
“It’s wonderful,” he said, as they widened and ceased. The freshness
and the newness seemed to him wonderful. He threw a pebble next. There
was scarcely any sound.
“But England,” Rachel murmured in the absorbed tone of one whose eyes
are concentrated upon some sight. “What d’you want with England?”
“My friends chiefly,” he said, “and all the things one does.”
He could look at Rachel without her noticing it. She was still absorbed
in the water and the exquisitely pleasant sensations which a little
depth of the sea washing over rocks suggests. He noticed that she was
wearing a dress of deep blue colour, made of a soft thin cotton stuff,
which clung to the shape of her body. It was a body with the angles and
hollows of a young woman’s body not yet developed, but in no way
distorted, and thus interesting and even lovable. Raising his eyes
Hewet observed her head; she had taken her hat off, and the face rested
on her hand. As she looked down into the sea, her lips were slightly
parted. The expression was one of childlike intentness, as if she were
watching for a fish to swim past over the clear red rocks. Nevertheless
her twenty-four years of life had given her a look of reserve. Her
hand, which lay on the ground, the fingers curling slightly in, was
well shaped and competent; the square-tipped and nervous fingers were
the fingers of a musician. With something like anguish Hewet realised
that, far from being unattractive, her body was very attractive to him.
She looked up suddenly. Her eyes were full of eagerness and interest.
“You write novels?” she asked.
For the moment he could not think what he was saying. He was overcome
with the desire to hold her in his arms.
“Oh yes,” he said. “That is, I want to write them.”
She would not take her large grey eyes off his face.
“Novels,” she repeated. “Why do you write novels? You ought to write
music. Music, you see”—she shifted her eyes, and became less desirable
as her brain began to work, inflicting a certain change upon her
face—“music goes straight for things. It says all there is to say at
once. With writing it seems to me there’s so much”—she paused for an
expression, and rubbed her fingers in the earth—“scratching on the
matchbox. Most of the time when I was reading Gibbon this afternoon I
was horribly, oh infernally, damnably bored!” She gave a shake of
laughter, looking at Hewet, who laughed too.
“_I_ shan’t lend you books,” he remarked.
“Why is it,” Rachel continued, “that I can laugh at Mr. Hirst to you,
but not to his face? At tea I was completely overwhelmed, not by his
ugliness—by his mind.” She enclosed a circle in the air with her hands.
She realised with a great sense of comfort how easily she could talk to
Hewet, those thorns or ragged corners which tear the surface of some
relationships being smoothed away.
“So I observed,” said Hewet. “That’s a thing that never ceases to amaze
me.” He had recovered his composure to such an extent that he could
light and smoke a cigarette, and feeling her ease, became happy and
easy himself.
“The respect that women, even well-educated, very able women, have for
men,” he went on. “I believe we must have the sort of power over you
that we’re said to have over horses. They see us three times as big as
we are or they’d never obey us. For that very reason, I’m inclined to
doubt that you’ll ever do anything even when you have the vote.” He
looked at her reflectively. She appeared very smooth and sensitive and
young. “It’ll take at least six generations before you’re sufficiently
thick-skinned to go into law courts and business offices. Consider what
a bully the ordinary man is,” he continued, “the ordinary hard-working,
rather ambitious solicitor or man of business with a family to bring up
and a certain position to maintain. And then, of course, the daughters
have to give way to the sons; the sons have to be educated; they have
to bully and shove for their wives and families, and so it all comes
over again. And meanwhile there are the women in the background. . . .
Do you really think that the vote will do you any good?”
“The vote?” Rachel repeated. She had to visualise it as a little bit of
paper which she dropped into a box before she understood his question,
and looking at each other they smiled at something absurd in the
question.
“Not to me,” she said. “But I play the piano. . . . Are men really like
that?” she asked, returning to the question that interested her. “I’m
not afraid of you.” She looked at him easily.
“Oh, I’m different,” Hewet replied. “I’ve got between six and seven
hundred a year of my own. And then no one takes a novelist seriously,
thank heavens. There’s no doubt it helps to make up for the drudgery of
a profession if a man’s taken very, very seriously by every one—if he
gets appointments, and has offices and a title, and lots of letters
after his name, and bits of ribbon and degrees. I don’t grudge it ’em,
though sometimes it comes over me—what an amazing concoction! What a
miracle the masculine conception of life is—judges, civil servants,
army, navy, Houses of Parliament, lord mayors—what a world we’ve made
of it! Look at Hirst now. I assure you,” he said, “not a day’s passed
since we came here without a discussion as to whether he’s to stay on
at Cambridge or to go to the Bar. It’s his career—his sacred career.
And if I’ve heard it twenty times, I’m sure his mother and sister have
heard it five hundred times. Can’t you imagine the family conclaves,
and the sister told to run out and feed the rabbits because St. John
must have the school-room to himself—‘St. John’s working,’ ‘St. John
wants his tea brought to him.’ Don’t you know the kind of thing? No
wonder that St. John thinks it a matter of considerable importance. It
is too. He has to earn his living. But St. John’s sister—” Hewet puffed
in silence. “No one takes her seriously, poor dear. She feeds the
rabbits.”
“Yes,” said Rachel. “I’ve fed rabbits for twenty-four years; it seems
odd now.” She looked meditative, and Hewet, who had been talking much
at random and instinctively adopting the feminine point of view, saw
that she would now talk about herself, which was what he wanted, for so
they might come to know each other.
She looked back meditatively upon her past life.
“How do you spend your day?” he asked.
She meditated still. When she thought of their day it seemed to her it
was cut into four pieces by their meals. These divisions were
absolutely rigid, the contents of the day having to accommodate
themselves within the four rigid bars. Looking back at her life, that
was what she saw.
“Breakfast nine; luncheon one; tea five; dinner eight,” she said.
“Well,” said Hewet, “what d’you do in the morning?”
“I need to play the piano for hours and hours.”
“And after luncheon?”
“Then I went shopping with one of my aunts. Or we went to see some one,
or we took a message; or we did something that had to be done—the taps
might be leaking. They visit the poor a good deal—old char-women with
bad legs, women who want tickets for hospitals. Or I used to walk in
the park by myself. And after tea people sometimes called; or in summer
we sat in the garden or played croquet; in winter I read aloud, while
they worked; after dinner I played the piano and they wrote letters. If
father was at home we had friends of his to dinner, and about once a
month we went up to the play. Every now and then we dined out;
sometimes I went to a dance in London, but that was difficult because
of getting back. The people we saw were old family friends, and
relations, but we didn’t see many people. There was the clergyman, Mr.
Pepper, and the Hunts. Father generally wanted to be quiet when he came
home, because he works very hard at Hull. Also my aunts aren’t very
strong. A house takes up a lot of time if you do it properly. Our
servants were always bad, and so Aunt Lucy used to do a good deal in
the kitchen, and Aunt Clara, I think, spent most of the morning dusting
the drawing-room and going through the linen and silver. Then there
were the dogs. They had to be exercised, besides being washed and
brushed. Now Sandy’s dead, but Aunt Clara has a very old cockatoo that
came from India. Everything in our house,” she exclaimed, “comes from
somewhere! It’s full of old furniture, not really old, Victorian,
things mother’s family had or father’s family had, which they didn’t
like to get rid of, I suppose, though we’ve really no room for them.
It’s rather a nice house,” she continued, “except that it’s a little
dingy—dull I should say.” She called up before her eyes a vision of the
drawing-room at home; it was a large oblong room, with a square window
opening on the garden. Green plush chairs stood against the wall; there
was a heavy carved book-case, with glass doors, and a general
impression of faded sofa covers, large spaces of pale green, and
baskets with pieces of wool-work dropping out of them. Photographs from
old Italian masterpieces hung on the walls, and views of Venetian
bridges and Swedish waterfalls which members of the family had seen
years ago. There were also one or two portraits of fathers and
grandmothers, and an engraving of John Stuart Mill, after the picture
by Watts. It was a room without definite character, being neither
typically and openly hideous, nor strenuously artistic, nor really
comfortable. Rachel roused herself from the contemplation of this
familiar picture.
“But this isn’t very interesting for you,” she said, looking up.
“Good Lord!” Hewet exclaimed. “I’ve never been so much interested in my
life.” She then realised that while she had been thinking of Richmond,
his eyes had never left her face. The knowledge of this excited her.
“Go on, please go on,” he urged. “Let’s imagine it’s a Wednesday.
You’re all at luncheon. You sit there, and Aunt Lucy there, and Aunt
Clara here”; he arranged three pebbles on the grass between them.
“Aunt Clara carves the neck of lamb,” Rachel continued. She fixed her
gaze upon the pebbles. “There’s a very ugly yellow china stand in front
of me, called a dumb waiter, on which are three dishes, one for
biscuits, one for butter, and one for cheese. There’s a pot of ferns.
Then there’s Blanche the maid, who snuffles because of her nose. We
talk—oh yes, it’s Aunt Lucy’s afternoon at Walworth, so we’re rather
quick over luncheon. She goes off. She has a purple bag, and a black
notebook. Aunt Clara has what they call a G.F.S. meeting in the
drawing-room on Wednesday, so I take the dogs out. I go up Richmond
Hill, along the terrace, into the park. It’s the 18th of April—the same
day as it is here. It’s spring in England. The ground is rather damp.
However, I cross the road and get on to the grass and we walk along,
and I sing as I always do when I’m alone, until we come to the open
place where you can see the whole of London beneath you on a clear day.
Hampstead Church spire there, Westminster Cathedral over there, and
factory chimneys about here. There’s generally a haze over the low
parts of London; but it’s often blue over the park when London’s in a
mist. It’s the open place that the balloons cross going over to
Hurlingham. They’re pale yellow. Well, then, it smells very good,
particularly if they happen to be burning wood in the keeper’s lodge
which is there. I could tell you now how to get from place to place,
and exactly what trees you’d pass, and where you’d cross the roads. You
see, I played there when I was small. Spring is good, but it’s best in
the autumn when the deer are barking; then it gets dusky, and I go back
through the streets, and you can’t see people properly; they come past
very quick, you just see their faces and then they’re gone—that’s what
I like—and no one knows in the least what you’re doing—”
“But you have to be back for tea, I suppose?” Hewet checked her.
“Tea? Oh yes. Five o’clock. Then I say what I’ve done, and my aunts say
what they’ve done, and perhaps some one comes in: Mrs. Hunt, let’s
suppose. She’s an old lady with a lame leg. She has or she once had
eight children; so we ask after them. They’re all over the world; so we
ask where they are, and sometimes they’re ill, or they’re stationed in
a cholera district, or in some place where it only rains once in five
months. Mrs. Hunt,” she said with a smile, “had a son who was hugged to
death by a bear.”
Here she stopped and looked at Hewet to see whether he was amused by
the same things that amused her. She was reassured. But she thought it
necessary to apologise again; she had been talking too much.
“You can’t conceive how it interests me,” he said. Indeed, his
cigarette had gone out, and he had to light another.
“Why does it interest you?” she asked.
“Partly because you’re a woman,” he replied. When he said this, Rachel,
who had become oblivious of anything, and had reverted to a childlike
state of interest and pleasure, lost her freedom and became
self-conscious. She felt herself at once singular and under
observation, as she felt with St. John Hirst. She was about to launch
into an argument which would have made them both feel bitterly against
each other, and to define sensations which had no such importance as
words were bound to give them when Hewet led her thoughts in a
different direction.
“I’ve often walked along the streets where people live all in a row,
and one house is exactly like another house, and wondered what on earth
the women were doing inside,” he said. “Just consider: it’s the
beginning of the twentieth century, and until a few years ago no woman
had ever come out by herself and said things at all. There it was going
on in the background, for all those thousands of years, this curious
silent unrepresented life. Of course we’re always writing about
women—abusing them, or jeering at them, or worshipping them; but it’s
never come from women themselves. I believe we still don’t know in the
least how they live, or what they feel, or what they do precisely. If
one’s a man, the only confidences one gets are from young women about
their love affairs. But the lives of women of forty, of unmarried
women, of working women, of women who keep shops and bring up children,
of women like your aunts or Mrs. Thornbury or Miss Allan—one knows
nothing whatever about them. They won’t tell you. Either they’re
afraid, or they’ve got a way of treating men. It’s the man’s view
that’s represented, you see. Think of a railway train: fifteen
carriages for men who want to smoke. Doesn’t it make your blood boil?
If I were a woman I’d blow some one’s brains out. Don’t you laugh at us
a great deal? Don’t you think it all a great humbug? You, I mean—how
does it all strike you?”
His determination to know, while it gave meaning to their talk,
hampered her; he seemed to press further and further, and made it
appear so important. She took some time to answer, and during that time
she went over and over the course of her twenty-four years, lighting
now on one point, now on another—on her aunts, her mother, her father,
and at last her mind fixed upon her aunts and her father, and she tried
to describe them as at this distance they appeared to her.
They were very much afraid of her father. He was a great dim force in
the house, by means of which they held on to the great world which is
represented every morning in the _Times_. But the real life of the
house was something quite different from this. It went on independently
of Mr. Vinrace, and tended to hide itself from him. He was
good-humoured towards them, but contemptuous. She had always taken it
for granted that his point of view was just, and founded upon an ideal
scale of things where the life of one person was absolutely more
important than the life of another, and that in that scale they were of
much less importance than he was. But did she really believe that?
Hewet’s words made her think. She always submitted to her father, just
as they did, but it was her aunts who influenced her really; her aunts
who built up the fine, closely woven substance of their life at home.
They were less splendid but more natural than her father was. All her
rages had been against them; it was their world with its four meals,
its punctuality, and servants on the stairs at half-past ten, that she
examined so closely and wanted so vehemently to smash to atoms.
Following these thoughts she looked up and said:
“And there’s a sort of beauty in it—there they are at Richmond at this
very moment building things up. They’re all wrong, perhaps, but there’s
a sort of beauty in it,” she repeated. “It’s so unconscious, so modest.
And yet they feel things. They do mind if people die. Old spinsters are
always doing things. I don’t quite know what they do. Only that was
what I felt when I lived with them. It was very real.”
She reviewed their little journeys to and fro, to Walworth, to
charwomen with bad legs, to meetings for this and that, their minute
acts of charity and unselfishness which flowered punctually from a
definite view of what they ought to do, their friendships, their tastes
and habits; she saw all these things like grains of sand falling,
falling through innumerable days, making an atmosphere and building up
a solid mass, a background. Hewet observed her as she considered this.
“Were you happy?” he demanded.
Again she had become absorbed in something else, and he called her back
to an unusually vivid consciousness of herself.
“I was both,” she replied. “I was happy and I was miserable. You’ve no
conception what it’s like—to be a young woman.” She looked straight at
him. “There are terrors and agonies,” she said, keeping her eye on him
as if to detect the slightest hint of laughter.
“I can believe it,” he said. He returned her look with perfect
sincerity.
“Women one sees in the streets,” she said.
“Prostitutes?”
“Men kissing one.”
He nodded his head.
“You were never told?”
She shook her head.
“And then,” she began and stopped. Here came in the great space of life
into which no one had ever penetrated. All that she had been saying
about her father and her aunts and walks in Richmond Park, and what
they did from hour to hour, was merely on the surface. Hewet was
watching her. Did he demand that she should describe that also? Why did
he sit so near and keep his eye on her? Why did they not have done with
this searching and agony? Why did they not kiss each other simply? She
wished to kiss him. But all the time she went on spinning out words.
“A girl is more lonely than a boy. No one cares in the least what she
does. Nothing’s expected of her. Unless one’s very pretty people don’t
listen to what you say. . . . And that is what I like,” she added
energetically, as if the memory were very happy. “I like walking in
Richmond Park and singing to myself and knowing it doesn’t matter a
damn to anybody. I like seeing things go on—as we saw you that night
when you didn’t see us—I love the freedom of it—it’s like being the
wind or the sea.” She turned with a curious fling of her hands and
looked at the sea. It was still very blue, dancing away as far as the
eye could reach, but the light on it was yellower, and the clouds were
turning flamingo red.
A feeling of intense depression crossed Hewet’s mind as she spoke. It
seemed plain that she would never care for one person rather than
another; she was evidently quite indifferent to him; they seemed to
come very near, and then they were as far apart as ever again; and her
gesture as she turned away had been oddly beautiful.
“Nonsense,” he said abruptly. “You like people. You like admiration.
Your real grudge against Hirst is that he doesn’t admire you.”
She made no answer for some time. Then she said:
“That’s probably true. Of course I like people—I like almost every one
I’ve ever met.”
She turned her back on the sea and regarded Hewet with friendly if
critical eyes. He was good-looking in the sense that he had always had
a sufficiency of beef to eat and fresh air to breathe. His head was
big; the eyes were also large; though generally vague they could be
forcible; and the lips were sensitive. One might account him a man of
considerable passion and fitful energy, likely to be at the mercy of
moods which had little relation to facts; at once tolerant and
fastidious. The breadth of his forehead showed capacity for thought.
The interest with which Rachel looked at him was heard in her voice.
“What novels do you write?” she asked.
“I want to write a novel about Silence,” he said; “the things people
don’t say. But the difficulty is immense.” He sighed. “However, you
don’t care,” he continued. He looked at her almost severely. “Nobody
cares. All you read a novel for is to see what sort of person the
writer is, and, if you know him, which of his friends he’s put in. As
for the novel itself, the whole conception, the way one’s seen the
thing, felt about it, make it stand in relation to other things, not
one in a million cares for that. And yet I sometimes wonder whether
there’s anything else in the whole world worth doing. These other
people,” he indicated the hotel, “are always wanting something they
can’t get. But there’s an extraordinary satisfaction in writing, even
in the attempt to write. What you said just now is true: one doesn’t
want to be things; one wants merely to be allowed to see them.”
Some of the satisfaction of which he spoke came into his face as he
gazed out to sea.
It was Rachel’s turn now to feel depressed. As he talked of writing he
had become suddenly impersonal. He might never care for any one; all
that desire to know her and get at her, which she had felt pressing on
her almost painfully, had completely vanished.
“Are you a good writer?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m not first-rate, of course; I’m good second-rate;
about as good as Thackeray, I should say.”
Rachel was amazed. For one thing it amazed her to hear Thackeray called
second-rate; and then she could not widen her point of view to believe
that there could be great writers in existence at the present day, or
if there were, that any one she knew could be a great writer, and his
self-confidence astounded her, and he became more and more remote.
“My other novel,” Hewet continued, “is about a young man who is
obsessed by an idea—the idea of being a gentleman. He manages to exist
at Cambridge on a hundred pounds a year. He has a coat; it was once a
very good coat. But the trousers—they’re not so good. Well, he goes up
to London, gets into good society, owing to an early-morning adventure
on the banks of the Serpentine. He is led into telling lies—my idea,
you see, is to show the gradual corruption of the soul—calls himself
the son of some great landed proprietor in Devonshire. Meanwhile the
coat becomes older and older, and he hardly dares to wear the trousers.
Can’t you imagine the wretched man, after some splendid evening of
debauchery, contemplating these garments—hanging them over the end of
the bed, arranging them now in full light, now in shade, and wondering
whether they will survive him, or he will survive them? Thoughts of
suicide cross his mind. He has a friend, too, a man who somehow
subsists upon selling small birds, for which he sets traps in the
fields near Uxbridge. They’re scholars, both of them. I know one or two
wretched starving creatures like that who quote Aristotle at you over a
fried herring and a pint of porter. Fashionable life, too, I have to
represent at some length, in order to show my hero under all
circumstances. Lady Theo Bingham Bingley, whose bay mare he had the
good fortune to stop, is the daughter of a very fine old Tory peer. I’m
going to describe the kind of parties I once went to—the fashionable
intellectuals, you know, who like to have the latest book on their
tables. They give parties, river parties, parties where you play games.
There’s no difficulty in conceiving incidents; the difficulty is to put
them into shape—not to get run away with, as Lady Theo was. It ended
disastrously for her, poor woman, for the book, as I planned it, was
going to end in profound and sordid respectability. Disowned by her
father, she marries my hero, and they live in a snug little villa
outside Croydon, in which town he is set up as a house agent. He never
succeeds in becoming a real gentleman after all. That’s the interesting
part of it. Does it seem to you the kind of book you’d like to read?”
he enquired; “or perhaps you’d like my Stuart tragedy better,” he
continued, without waiting for her to answer him. “My idea is that
there’s a certain quality of beauty in the past, which the ordinary
historical novelist completely ruins by his absurd conventions. The
moon becomes the Regent of the Skies. People clap spurs to their
horses, and so on. I’m going to treat people as though they were
exactly the same as we are. The advantage is that, detached from modern
conditions, one can make them more intense and more abstract than
people who live as we do.”
Rachel had listened to all this with attention, but with a certain
amount of bewilderment. They both sat thinking their own thoughts.
“I’m not like Hirst,” said Hewet, after a pause; he spoke meditatively;
“I don’t see circles of chalk between people’s feet. I sometimes wish I
did. It seems to me so tremendously complicated and confused. One can’t
come to any decision at all; one’s less and less capable of making
judgments. D’you find that? And then one never knows what any one
feels. We’re all in the dark. We try to find out, but can you imagine
anything more ludicrous than one person’s opinion of another person?
One goes along thinking one knows; but one really doesn’t know.”
As he said this he was leaning on his elbow arranging and rearranging
in the grass the stones which had represented Rachel and her aunts at
luncheon. He was speaking as much to himself as to Rachel. He was
reasoning against the desire, which had returned with intensity, to
take her in his arms; to have done with indirectness; to explain
exactly what he felt. What he said was against his belief; all the
things that were important about her he knew; he felt them in the air
around them; but he said nothing; he went on arranging the stones.
“I like you; d’you like me?” Rachel suddenly observed.
“I like you immensely,” Hewet replied, speaking with the relief of a
person who is unexpectedly given an opportunity of saying what he wants
to say. He stopped moving the pebbles.
“Mightn’t we call each other Rachel and Terence?” he asked.
“Terence,” Rachel repeated. “Terence—that’s like the cry of an owl.”
She looked up with a sudden rush of delight, and in looking at Terence
with eyes widened by pleasure she was struck by the change that had
come over the sky behind them. The substantial blue day had faded to a
paler and more ethereal blue; the clouds were pink, far away and
closely packed together; and the peace of evening had replaced the heat
of the southern afternoon, in which they had started on their walk.
“It must be late!” she exclaimed.
It was nearly eight o’clock.
“But eight o’clock doesn’t count here, does it?” Terence asked, as they
got up and turned inland again. They began to walk rather quickly down
the hill on a little path between the olive trees.
They felt more intimate because they shared the knowledge of what eight
o’clock in Richmond meant. Terence walked in front, for there was not
room for them side by side.
“What I want to do in writing novels is very much what you want to do
when you play the piano, I expect,” he began, turning and speaking over
his shoulder. “We want to find out what’s behind things, don’t we?—Look
at the lights down there,” he continued, “scattered about anyhow.
Things I feel come to me like lights. . . . I want to combine them. . .
. Have you ever seen fireworks that make figures? . . . I want to make
figures. . . . Is that what you want to do?”
Now they were out on the road and could walk side by side.
“When I play the piano? Music is different. . . . But I see what you
mean.” They tried to invent theories and to make their theories agree.
As Hewet had no knowledge of music, Rachel took his stick and drew
figures in the thin white dust to explain how Bach wrote his fugues.
“My musical gift was ruined,” he explained, as they walked on after one
of these demonstrations, “by the village organist at home, who had
invented a system of notation which he tried to teach me, with the
result that I never got to the tune-playing at all. My mother thought
music wasn’t manly for boys; she wanted me to kill rats and
birds—that’s the worst of living in the country. We live in Devonshire.
It’s the loveliest place in the world. Only—it’s always difficult at
home when one’s grown up. I’d like you to know one of my sisters. . . .
Oh, here’s your gate—” He pushed it open. They paused for a moment. She
could not ask him to come in. She could not say that she hoped they
would meet again; there was nothing to be said, and so without a word
she went through the gate, and was soon invisible. Directly Hewet lost
sight of her, he felt the old discomfort return, even more strongly
than before. Their talk had been interrupted in the middle, just as he
was beginning to say the things he wanted to say. After all, what had
they been able to say? He ran his mind over the things they had said,
the random, unnecessary things which had eddied round and round and
used up all the time, and drawn them so close together and flung them
so far apart, and left him in the end unsatisfied, ignorant still of
what she felt and of what she was like. What was the use of talking,
talking, merely talking?