The tiger stepping down his blue plaque. The one thing in the room that
nothing could influence. All the other single beautiful things change.
They are beautiful, for a moment, again and again; giving out their
expression, and presently frozen stiff, having no expression. The blue
plaque, intense fathomless eastern blue, the thick spiky grey-green
sharply shaped leaves, going up forever, the heavy striped beast forever
curving through, his great paw always newly set on the base of the
plaque; inexhaustible, never looked at enough; always bringing the same
joy.... If ever the memory of this room fades away, the blue plaque will
remain.
Mr. Hancock was coming upstairs. In a moment she would know whether any
price had been paid; any invisible appointment irrevocably missed.
"Good morning." The everyday tone. Not the tone of welcome after a
holiday.
"Good morning. I'm so sorry I could not get back yesterday."
"Yes ... I suppose it could not be helped." He was annoyed. Perhaps even
a little suspicious....
"You see, my brother-in-law thought I was still on holiday and free to
take my sister home."
"I trust it is not anything serious."
"It was just one of her attacks." Suppose Sarah should have one, at this
moment? Suppose it was Sarah who was paying for her escapade? She
summoned her despairingly, explaining ... saw her instant approval and
her private astonishment at the reason for the deceit.
Supported by Sarah she rounded off her story.
"I see," said Mr. Hancock pleasantly; weighing, accepting. She stood
before him seeing the incident as he would imagine it. It was growing
true in her mind. Presently she would be looking back on it. This was
how criminals got themselves mixed up....
"I'm glad it was not anything serious," said Mr. Hancock gravely,
turning to the scatter of letters on his table. He _was_ glad. And his
kind sympathy was not being fooled. Sarah was always being ill. It was
worth a lie to drag her out into the light of his sympathy. A breath of
true life, born from a lie.
The incident was at an end, safely through. He was satisfied and
believing, gone on into his day. She gathered up his appointment book
from under his nose. He was using it, making entries. But he knew this
small tyranny was her real apology, a curse for the trouble she had been
obliged to give him. While he sat bereft as she took in the items of his
day, their silent everyday conversation was knitted up once more. She
was there, not failing him. He knew she would always be there as long as
he should really need her. She restored the book to its place and stood
at his side affectionately watching him tackle his task, detached, aware
of her affection, secure in its independence.
They were so utterly far apart, foreigners in each other's worlds.
Irreconcilable.... But for all these years she had had daily before her
eyes the spectacle of his life work; the way and the cost of his
undeviating, unsparing work. It must surely be a small comfort to him
that there had been an understanding witness to the shapely building of
his life....
Understanding speech she could never have, with anyone ... except the
Taylors, and she was as incompletely in their world as in his. The joy
of being with him was the absence of the need for speech. She whisked
herself to the door and went out shutting it behind her with a little
slam, a last fling of holiday freedom, her communication to him of the
store of joy she had brought back, the ease with which she was
shouldering her more and more methodical, irrelevant work....
There was nothing to pay. Then the moment over the telegram _had_ been a
revelation....
* * * * *
"You ought to see the Grahams. Stay another day and see the Grahams."
I might have wired asking for another day. Impossible. The day would
have been spoilt by the discomfort of knowing him thinking me ungrateful
and insatiable.... Only being able to say when I came back that I waited
to see a man dying of cancer. He would have thought that morbid. The
minute the telegram was sent the feeling of guilt passed away. Whilst
Hypo was chuckling over it at the top of the stairs there was nothing
and no one. Only the feeling of having broken through and stepped
forward into space. Strong happiness. All the next day was in space; a
day taken out of life; standing by itself.
Mr. Graham was old-fashioned ... and modern too. He seemed to have come
from so far back, to see backwards, understanding, and to see ahead the
things he had always known. Serene and interested, in absolutely
everything. As much in the tiny story of the threepenny-bit as in
anything else, making it seem worth telling, making me able to tell it.
Seeing everything as _real_. Really finding life marvellous in the way
no one else seemed to do.... Ill as he was he looked up my trains,
carefully and thoughtfully.... The horror and fear of death was taken
away from me while I watched him.... Perhaps he had always felt that the
marvellousness of there being such a thing as life was the answer to
everything.... And now that he was dying knew it more completely?
They were both so serene. Everybody was lifted by being with them into
that part of life that goes on behind the life that seems to be being
lived....
All the time it was as if they had witnessed that past fortnight and
made it immaterial ... a part of the immaterial _story_ of life....
* * * * *
That fortnight had the shape of an arranged story, something playing
itself out, with scenes set and timed to come in in the right place.
Upset by that one little scene that had come in of itself....
The clear days after the two men had gone back to town. The long talks
kept undisturbed.... All the long history of Gissing....
Gissing's ideal women over-cultivated, self-important creatures, with
low-pressure vitality and too little animal.... "You're rather like that
you know." ...
"Men would always rather be made love to than talked at."
"Your life is a complex system of evasions. You are a mass of _health_,
unused. You're not doing any thing with yourself...." "... Two kinds of
women, the kind that come it over one, tremendously, and nurses."
"Most good men are something like chimpanzees. The best man in those
relationships is the accomplished rake ... that's the secret of old
Grooge.... Yes; you'd hate him. He's one of the old school; expert
knowledge about women. That's nonsense of course. There _is_ no expert
knowledge about women. Men and women are very much alike. But there's
the honest clean red-blooded people and the posers and rotters and
anæmic people. And there are for your comfort a few genuine monogamists.
Very few."
"You're stuck, you know. Stuffed with romantic ignorance. You're a great
chap. A gentleman. That's an insult, isn't it. You don't exploit
yourself...."
"I'm not sure about you. You've got an awfully good life up in town,
jolly groups; various and interesting. One hesitates to disturb it....
But we're old friends. And there's this silly barrier between us. There
always is between people who evade what is after all only the
development of the friendly handshake."
"She's a very fine artist. Well, she, my dear Miriam, has lovers. They
keep her going. Keep her creative. She's a woman one can talk to....
There's no tiresome barrier...."
"Your women are a sort of omnibus load."
"There's always the box seat."
"They all grin. Your one idea of women is a grin."
"There's a great deal to be said for the cheerful grin. You know, a
woman who has the grit to take things into her own hands, take the
initiative, is no end of a relief. Women want to. They ought to. They're
inhibited by false ideas. They want, nearly all women want all their
corners taken for them."
"This book'll be our brat. You've pulled it together no end. You ought
to chuck your work, have a flat in town. Be general adviser to
authors...."
Queer old professor Bolly, pink and white and loud checks, standing
outside the summer house in the brilliant sun.
"Is this the factory?"
"This is the factory."
"Does he dictate to you?"
"My _dear_ Bolly.... Have five minutes; have _half_ a minute's
conversation with Miss Henderson and then, if you dare, try to imagine
_anyone_ dictating to her."
Pink and white. Two old flamingoes. Pulling the other way. Bringing all
the old conservative world into the study ... sending it forward with
their way of looking at the new things. Such a deep life in them that
old age and artificial teeth and veined hands did not obscure their
youth. Worldly happy religious musical Englishpeople.
"The Barrie question turns solely upon the question of romance. You
cannot, dear young lady, _hesitate_ over Barrie. You must either adore,
or detest. With equal virulence. I am one of the adorers. _Romance_, for
me, is the ultimate _reality_.... Seen through a glass darkly...."
On the other side of the room Mrs. Bolly was telling her tales of
Bayreuth. They were both untouched by the Wilson atmosphere. Not clever.
They brought a glow like fire-light; as if the cold summer hearth were
alight, as the scenes from their stories came into the room and stood
clear.
The second afternoon Hypo stretched out on the study lounge, asleep,
compact and calm in the sunlight like a crusader on a tomb, till just
before they went.
"There's something unconquerable in them."
"Yes, Miriam. Silliness _is_ unconquerable. Poor old Gourlay; went to
Greenland to get away from it. _Died_ to get away from it."
"Don't go away. Camp in here. I'm all to bits. You know you're no end of
a comfort to me."
"I can't be. You're hampered all the time I'm here by the silly things I
say; the way I spoil your talk."
"You've no idea how much I like having you about. Like the sound of your
voice; the way your colour takes the sun, your laughter. I envy you your
sudden laughter, Miriam; the way you lift your chin, and laugh. You're
wasted on yourself, Miriam. You don't know the fine individual things in
yourself. You've got all sorts of illusions, but you've no idea where
you really score."
"Can't get on with anybody."
"You get on with me all right. But you never tell _me_ nice things about
myself. You only laugh at my jokes."
"I've never told you a hundredth part. There's never any time. But I'll
tell you one nice thing. There's a way in which ever since I've known
you, you obliterate other men. Yes. For me. It's most tiresome."
"Oh, my dear! Is that true, Miriam?"
"Oh yes. From the first time I saw you. There you were. I can't bear
your ideas. But I always find myself testing other men, better men, by
the way, by you."
"I haven't any ideas, Miriam, and I'm a reformed character. There's
heaps of time. You're here another ten days yet. You shall camp in here.
We'll talk, devastatingly."
"If I once began----"
"Begin. We're going to explore each other's minds."
"I should bore you to death."
"You never bore me. Really. It does me good to quarrel with Miriam. But
we're not going to quarrel. We're going to explore each other and stop
nowhere. Agreed?"
"I've seen you _ill_ with boredom. You hate silence and you hate
opposition. You always think people's minds are blank when they are
silent. It's just the other way round. Only of course there are so many
kinds of silence. But the test of absolutely everything in life is the
quality of the in-between silences. It's only in silence that you can
judge of your relationship to a person."
"You shall be silent. You shall deploy a whole regiment of silences ...
but you'll fire off an occasional volley of speech?"
"Real speech can only come from complete silence. Incomplete silence is
as fussy as deliberate conversation."
"One has to begin somewhere. Deliberate conversation leads to real
conversation. You _can_ talk, you know, Miriam. You're not a woman of
the world. You don't come off all the time. But when you do, you come
off no end."
* * * * *
If _his_ mind could be tackled even though there were no words to answer
him with, then anyone's mind could be tackled....
Finding him simple and sad, able to be uncertain, took away the spell
from the surroundings; leaving only him.... Seeing life as he saw it,
being forced to admit some of his truths, hard and cruel even if
rearranged or differently stated, made the world a nightmare, a hard
solid daylight nightmare, the only refuge to be, and stay, with him. Yet
the giving up of perpetual opposition brought a falseness.... Smiling
agreement, with unstated differences and reservations piling up all the
time.... Drifting on into a false relationship.
The joy of being with him, the thing that made it worth while to flatter
by seeming to agree was more than half the sense of triumphing over
other women. Of being able to believe myself as interesting and charming
and mysteriously wonderful as all these women we talked about, who lost
their wonder as he stated their formula.
By the time the Grimshaws came everything was sad.... That is why I was
so successful with them. Gay with sadness, easy to talk to, practised in
conversation. Without that they would not have sought me out and carried
me off by themselves and shown me their world....
"I've been through a terrific catechism."
"You've impressed them, Miriam. I'm jealous. They come here; to see me;
and go off with Miriam."
"Bosh. They thought I was intelligent. They don't think so _now_.
Besides they really were trying to interview you through me."
"That's subtle of you, Miriam. Old James. You've no idea how you're
coming on. Or coming out. Yes. I think there's always _been_ a subtle
leap in Miriam. Without words. A song without words. Good formula for
Miriam. What did they interview me about?"
"I refused to be drawn. Suddenly, in the middle of lunch she asked me in
her Cheltenham voice 'What do you do with your leishah?' I think she
really wanted statistics; gutter-snipe statistics."
"She's an enchantress. No end of a lark, really. She runs old Grimshaw.
Runs everybody. You're rather like her you know. You've got the
elements, with your wrist-watch. What did you say?"
"Nothing. I haven't the faintest idea what I do with my leisure. Besides
I can't talk about real things to a bayonet. She _is_ fascinating,
though."
"She's a gypsy. When she looks at one ... with that _brown_ smile ...
one could do anything for her."
"There you are. Your _smiles_.... But he's the most perfect darling.
Absolutely sincere. A Breton peasant. I talked to him about some of your
definitions. Not as yours. As mine."
"Never mind. He knew where they came from."
"Not at all. Only those I thought I agreed with. And he's given me quite
a fresh view of the Lycurgans."
"Now don't you go and desert."
"Well he must be either right or wrong."
"What a damned silly thing to say. Oh what a damned silly thing to say."
Chill windy afternoon, grey tamarisks waving in a bleak wind, tea
indoors and a fire bringing into the summery daylight the sudden message
that summer was at an end. The changed scene chiming together with the
plain outspoken anger. Again the enlivening power of anger, the relief
of the clean cut, of everything brought to an end, of being once more
single and clear, free of everyone, homesick for London....
Mr. Hancock's showing-out bell sounded in the hall. The long sitting had
turned into a short one. No need to go up yet. He'll come downstairs,
pad-pad, flexible hand-made shoes on the thick stair carpet, the sharp
turn at the stair-end, the quick little walk along the passage and soft
neat clatter of leather heels down the stone stairs to the workshop.
Always the same. The same occasion. Which occasion? That used to be so
clear and so tremendous. Confused now, but living on in every sound of
his footsteps.
Homesick for London. For those people whose lives are set in a pattern
with mine, leaving its inner edge free to range.
Perhaps the set pattern is enough. The daily association. The mass of
work. Its results unseen. At the end it might show as a complete whole,
crowded with life. Life comes in; strikes through. Everything comes in
if you are set in a pattern and always in one place. Changed
circumstances bring quickly, but imperfectly, without a background, the
things that would be discovered slowly and perfectly, on a background,
in calm daily air. All lives are the same life. Only one discovery,
coming to everybody.
The little bell on the wall burred gently. Room free. No hurry.
I'll wait till he's gone downstairs.
"Nice Miriam. You really are a dear, you know. You've a ruddy, blazing
temper. You can sulk too, abominably. Then one discovers an unsuspected
streak of sweetness. You forget. You have a rare talent for
forgetfulness and recovery. You're suddenly pillowy. You've no _idea_,
Miriam, what a blessing that is to the creature called man. It's womanly
you are. Now don't resent that. It's a fine thing to be. It makes one
want you, quite desperately. The essential deeps of you. Like an
absolution. I'm admitting your deeps, Miriam."
"It's most inconvenient suddenly to be forgetting you are having a row
with a person. It's really a weakness. Suddenly getting interested."
"Your real weakness is your lack of direction, the instability of your
controls. If I had you on my hands for six months you'd be no end of a
fine chap. Now don't resent that. It's a little crude, I admit. Perhaps
I ought to beg your pardon. I beg your pardon, Miriam."
"I never think about myself. I remember once being told that I was too
excitable. It made me stare, for a few minutes. And now you. I believe
it. But I shall forget again. And you are all wrong about 'controls.' I
don't mean mine. I mean your silly idea of women having feebler controls
than men."
"Not my idea. Tested fact."
"Damn facts. Those arranged tests and their facts are utterly nothing at
all. Women's controls appear to be feebler because they have so much
more to control. I don't mean physically. Mentally. By seeing everything
simultaneously. Unless they are the kind of woman who has been warped
into seeing only one thing at a time. Scientifically. They are freaks.
Women see in terms of life. Men in terms of things, because their lives
are passed amongst scraps."
"_Nice_ Miriam."
"... Now we can begin to talk. It's easier, you know, to talk hand in
hand."
The touch of his hand bringing a perfect separation. Everything suddenly
darkened. Two little people side by side in a darkness. Exactly alike.
Hypo gone. His charm, quite gone.
Alma crossing the end of the lawn. There was not any feeling of guilt.
Only the sense of her isolation. Companionship with her isolation. Then
the shock of his gay voice ringing out to her across the lawn.
"Susan, if you have that day in town, awful things will happen." Her
little pink-clad figure turning for a moment to wave a hand.
"Of course they will! Rather!"
"We're licensed!"
"Susan doesn't like me."
"She does. She likes you no end. Likes you currently. The way your hair
goes back over your ears."
... He misses nothing. That is his charm, his supremacy in charm over
all other men. And misinterprets everything. That is his tragedy. The
secret of his perpetual disappointments. He spoiled everything by the
perpetual shock of his _deliberate_ guilt and _deliberate_ daring. That
was driving me off all the time. The extraordinariness of his idea of
frankness! His 'stark talk' is nothing compared to the untroubled
outspokenness of the Taylors....
The _burden_ of his simplicity. No one in the world could be more
simple....
He thought my silence meant attention and agreement, when I wanted only
to watch the transformation going on all round me. That would have gone
on; if he had given me time; not destroyed everything by his sudden
trick of masterfulness; the silly application of a silly idea.... It's
not only that coercion is wrong; that it's far better to die than to be
coerced. It's the destructiveness of coercion. How long before men
discover that violence drives women utterly away into cold isolation.
Never, since the beginning of the world has a woman been mastered. I'm
glad I know why. Why violence defeats itself....
"You don't desert me completely? We're still friends? You'll go on being
interested in my work?"
He knew nothing of the life that went on of itself, afterwards. I had
driven him away. I felt guilty then. Because I took my decision. And
absolved myself. The huge sounding darkness, expanding, turned to a
forest of moving green and gold. The feeling of immense deliberate
strength going forward, breaking out through life.
If it came again I should absolve myself. But it won't. It is something
in him, and in his being an Englishman and not, like Michael, an alien
mind.
"_Alma._ I want a slice of life!"
"Of course, my very dear! Take one, Miriam. Take a _large_ one. An oat.
Not a vote. One woman, one oat...."
"I want an oat _and_ a vote.... No. I don't want a vote. I want to have
one and not use it. Taking sides simply annihilates me."
"Don't be annihilated, old fing. Take an oat."
"Give me one."
"I will. I _do_!"
Alma's revealed splendour ... lighting and warming the surrounding
bleakness. In that moment her amazing gift that would move her so far
from me seemed nothing. Herself, everything to me. Alma is a star. Her
name should be Stella.... But I had already decided that it would not be
him. And that marvellous beginning cannot come again.
* * * * *
"Particularly jolly schoolgirls! You'll like them. They're free. They
mean to be free. Now they, Miriam, _are_ the new woman." Posing,
exploiting, deliberately uncatlike cats. _How_ could he be taken in?
_Why_ were all her poses revealed to me? What brought me on the scene
just at those moments? Why that strange little series of events placing
me, alone, of the whole large party, innocently there just at that
moment, to see the origin of his idea of a jolly smile and how he
answers it?
"You looked like a Silenus."
"That sort of thing always looks foolish from the outside. It was
nothing. I beg of you, I entreat you to think no more of it."
Again the little bell. Clean. A steady little summons. He had not gone
downstairs.
He was washing his hands; with an air of communicativeness.
"I've a piece of news for you.... I have decided to leave Mr. Orly and
set up, elsewhere, on my own account."
"Really?" The beating of her heart shook the things she was holding in
her hands.
"Yes. It's a decision I've been approaching for some time. As you know,
Mr. Leyton is about to be taken into partnership. I have come to the
conclusion that it is best on the whole to move and develop my practice
along my own lines."
So calmly handing out desolation. Here was the counterpart of the
glorious weeks. Her carelessly-made living was gone; or horribly
reduced. The Orlys alone would not be able to give her a hundred a year.
"When is it to be?"
"Of course, whenever I go, I shall want help."
"_Oh_ ..."
He went very busily on with his handwashing. She knew exactly how he was
smiling, and hidden in her corner smiled back, invisibly, and made
unnecessary clatterings to hide the glorious embarrassment. Dismay
struck across her joy, revealing the future as a grey, laborious working
out of this moment's blind satisfaction. But joy had spoken first and
left her no choice. Startling her with the revelation of the way the
roots of her being still centred in him. Joy deeper and more powerfully
stirring than the joy of the past weeks. They showed now a spread
embroidery of sunlit scenes, powerless, fundamentally irrelevant,
excursions off the main road of her life. Committed beyond recall, she
faced the prospect of unvarying, grinding experience. The truth hidden
below the surfaces of life was to yield itself to her slowly,
imperceptibly, unpleasurably.
She got through the necessary things at top speed, anyhow, to avoid
underlining his need of her, and ran downstairs.
A letter on the hall table, from _Hypo_.... _Dear Miriam--I've headed
off that affair. You've pulled me out of it. You really have. When can I
see you? Just to talk._
A LIST OF THE LIBRARIES
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GAINSBOROUGH. By Arthur B. Chamberlain.
CRUIKSHANK. By W. H. Chesson.
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The six volumes are:
RAPHAEL. By Julia Cartwright.
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HOLBEIN. By Ford Madox Hueffer.
ROSSETTI. By Ford Madox Hueffer.
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Transcriber's Notes
The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical
errors were silently corrected. Further careful corrections, some after
consulting other editions, are listed here (before/after):
[p. 61]:
... regarded her not with the adoration on half-pitying ...
... regarded her not with the adoration or half-pitying ...
[p. 89]:
... of the atmosphere--the interest of boredom ...
... of the atmosphere--the interest or boredom ...
[p. 99]:
... gleam she had caught in the deep wehrmütig ...
... gleam she had caught in the deep wehmütig ...
[p. 107]:
... of life into the humble bésogne de la pensée. ...
... of life into the humble besogne de la pensée. ...
[p. 167]:
... reflectively. As if it had just occurred to her. ...
... she murmured reflectively. As if it had just occurred to her. ...
[p. 169]:
... blue; unseeing; contradictng her matronly ...
... blue; unseeing; contradicting her matronly ...
[p. 204]:
... ironmongery in my rücksack and off we'll ...
... ironmongery in my rucksack and off we'll ...
[p. 224]:
... they become foreigners in England were nothing. ...
... they became foreigners in England were nothing. ...
[p. 238]:
... tryanny was her real apology, a curse for the ...
... tyranny was her real apology, a curse for the ...
End of Project Gutenberg's Revolving Lights, by Dorothy M. Richardson