“You? Is it you?” She seemed doubtful.
Gumbril nodded. “It’s me,” he reassured her. “I’ve shaved; that’s all.”
He had left his beard in the top right-hand drawer of the chest of
drawers, among the ties and the collars.
Emily looked at him judicially. “I like you better without it,” she
decided at last. “You look nicer. Oh no, I don’t mean to say you weren’t
nice before,” she hastened to add. “But—you know—gentler——” She
hesitated. “It’s a silly word,” she said, “but there it is: sweeter.”
That was the unkindest cut of all. “Milder and more melancholy?” he
suggested.
“Well, if you like to put it like that,” Emily agreed.
He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I forgive you,” he said.
He could forgive her anything for the sake of those candid eyes,
anything for the grave, serious mouth, anything for the short brown hair
that curled—oh, but never seriously, never gravely—with such a hilarious
extravagance round her head. He had met her, or rather the Complete Man,
flushed with his commercial triumphs as he returned from his victory
over Mr. Boldero, had met her at the National Gallery. “Old Masters,
young mistresses;” Coleman had recommended the National Gallery. He was
walking up the Venetian Room, feeling as full of swaggering vitality as
the largest composition of Veronese, when he heard, gigglingly whispered
just behind him his Open Sesame to new adventure, “Beaver.” He spun
round on his tracks and found himself face to face with two rather
startled young women. He frowned ferociously: he demanded satisfaction
for the impertinence. They were both, he noticed, of gratifyingly
pleasing appearance and both extremely young. One of them, the elder it
seemed, and the more charming, as he had decided from the first, of the
two, was dreadfully taken aback; blushed to the eyes, stammered
apologetically. But the other, who had obviously pronounced the word,
only laughed. It was she who made easy the forming of an acquaintance
which ripened, half an hour later, over the tea-cups and to the strains
of the most classy music on the fifth floor of Lyons’s Strand Corner
House.
Their names were Emily and Molly. Emily, it seemed, was married. It was
Molly who let that out, and the other had been angry with her for what
was evidently an indiscretion. The bald fact that Emily was married had
at once been veiled with mysteries, surrounded and protected by
silences; whenever the Complete Man asked a question about it, Emily did
not answer and Molly only giggled. But if Emily was married and the
elder of the two, Molly was decidedly the more knowledgeable about life;
Mr. Mercaptan would certainly have set her down as the more civilized.
Emily didn’t live in London; she didn’t seem to live anywhere in
particular. At the moment she was staying with Molly’s family at Kew.
He had seen them the next day, and the day after, and the day after
that; once at lunch, to desert them precipitately for his afternoon with
Rosie; once at tea in Kew Gardens; once at dinner, with a theatre to
follow and an extravagant taxi back to Kew at midnight. The tame decoy
allays the fears of the shy wild birds; Molly, who was tame, who was
frankly a flirting little wanton, had served the Complete Man as a decoy
for the ensnaring of Emily. When Molly went away to stay with friends in
the country, Emily was already inured and accustomed to the hunter’s
presence; she accepted the playful attitude of gallantry, which the
Complete Man, at the invitation of Molly’s rolling eyes and provocative
giggle, had adopted from the first, as natural and belonging to the
established order of things. With giggling Molly to give her a lead, she
had gone in three days much further along the path of intimacy than, by
herself, she would have advanced in ten times the number of meetings.
“It seems funny,” she had said the first time they met after Molly’s
departure, “it seems funny to be seeing you without Molly.”
“It seemed funnier with Molly,” said the Complete Man. “It wasn’t Molly
I wanted to see.”
“Molly’s a very nice, dear girl,” she declared loyally. “Besides, she’s
amusing and can talk. And I can’t; I’m not a bit amusing.”
It wasn’t difficult to retort to that sort of thing; but Emily didn’t
believe in compliments; oh, quite genuinely not.
He set out to make the exploration of her; and now that she was inured
to him, no longer too frightened to let him approach, now, moreover,
that he had abandoned the jocular insolences of the Complete Man in
favour of a more native mildness, which he felt instinctively was more
suitable in this particular case, she laid no difficulties in his way.
She was lonely, and he seemed to understand everything so well; in the
unknown country of her spirit and her history she was soon going eagerly
before him as his guide.
She was an orphan. Her mother she hardly remembered. Her father had died
of influenza when she was fifteen. One of his business friends used to
come and see her at school, take her out for treats and give her
chocolates. She used to call him Uncle Stanley. He was a leather
merchant, fat and jolly with a rather red face, very white teeth and a
bald head that was beautifully shiny. When she was seventeen and a half
he asked her to marry him, and she had said yes.
“But why?” Gumbril asked. “Why on earth?” he repeated.
“He said he’d take me round the world; it was just when the war had come
to an end. Round the world, you know; and I didn’t like school. I didn’t
know anything about it and he was very nice to me; he was very pressing.
I didn’t know what marriage meant.”
“Didn’t know?”
She shook her head; it was quite true. “But not in the least.”
And she had been born within the twentieth century. It seemed a case for
the text-books of sexual psychology. “Mrs. Emily X., born in 1901, was
found to be in a state of perfect innocence and ignorance at the time of
the Armistice, 11th November 1918,” etc.
“And so you married him?”
She had nodded.
“And then?”
She had covered her face with her hands, she had shuddered. The amateur
uncle, now professionally a husband, had come to claim his rights—drunk.
She had fought him, she had eluded him, had run away and locked herself
into another room. On the second night of her honeymoon he gave her a
bruise on the forehead and a bite on the left breast which had gone on
septically festering for weeks. On the fourth, more determined than
ever, he seized her so violently by the throat, that a blood-vessel
broke and she began coughing bright blood over the bedclothes. The
amateur uncle had been reduced to send for a doctor and Emily had spent
the next few weeks in a nursing home. That was four years ago; her
husband had tried to induce her to come back, but Emily had refused. She
had a little money of her own; she was able to refuse. The amateur uncle
had consoled himself with other and more docile nieces.
“And has nobody tried to make love to you since then?” he asked.
“Oh, lots of them have tried.”
“And not succeeded?”
She shook her head. “I don’t like men,” she said. “They’re hateful, most
of them. They’re brutes.”
“_Anch’ io?_”
“What?” she asked, puzzled.
“Am I a brute too?” And behind his beard, suddenly, he felt rather a
brute.
“No,” said Emily, after a little hesitation, “you’re different. At least
I think you are; though sometimes,” she added candidly, “sometimes you
do and say things which make me wonder if you really are different.”
The Complete Man laughed.
“Don’t laugh like that,” she said. “It’s rather stupid.”
“You’re perfectly right,” said Gumbril. “It is.”
And how did she spend her time? He continued the exploration.
Well, she read a lot of books; but most of the novels she got from
Boots’ seemed to her rather silly.
“Too much about the same thing. Always love.”
The Complete Man gave a shrug. “Such is life.”
“Well, it oughtn’t to be,” said Emily.
And then, when she was in the country—and she was often in the country,
taking lodgings here and there in little villages, weeks and months at a
time—she went for long walks. Molly couldn’t understand why she liked
the country; but she did. She was very fond of flowers. She liked them
more than people, she thought.
“I wish I could paint,” she said. “If I could, I’d be happy for ever,
just painting flowers. But I can’t paint.” She shook her head. “I’ve
tried so often. Such dirty, ugly smudges come out on the paper; and it’s
all so lovely in my head, so lovely out in the fields.”
Gumbril began talking with erudition about the flora of West Surrey:
where you could find butterfly orchis and green man and the bee, the
wood where there was actually wild columbine growing, the best
localities for butcher’s broom, the outcrops of clay where you get wild
daffodils. All this odd knowledge came spouting up into his mind from
some underground source of memory. Flowers—he never thought about
flowers nowadays from one year’s end to the other. But his mother had
liked flowers. Every spring and summer they used to go down to stay at
their cottage in the country. All their walks, all their drives in the
governess cart had been hunts after flowers. And naturally the child had
hunted with all his mother’s ardour. He had kept books of pressed
flowers, he had mummified them in hot sand, he had drawn maps of the
country and coloured them elaborately with different coloured inks to
show where the different flowers grew. How long ago all that was!
Horribly long ago! Many seeds had fallen in the stony places of his
spirit, to spring luxuriantly up into stalky plants and wither again
because they had no deepness of earth; many had been sown there and had
died, since his mother scattered the seeds of the wild flowers.
“And if you want sundew,” he wound up, “you’ll find it in the Punch
Bowl, under Hindhead. Or round about Frensham. The Little Pond, you
know, not the Big.”
“But you know all about them,” Emily exclaimed in delight. “I’m ashamed
of my poor little knowledge. And you must really love them as much as I
do.”
Gumbril did not deny it; they were linked henceforth by a chain of
flowers.
But what else did she do?
Oh, of course she played the piano a great deal. Very badly; but at any
rate it gave her pleasure. Beethoven: she liked Beethoven best. More or
less, she knew all the sonatas, though she could never keep up anything
like the right speed in the difficult parts.
Gumbril had again shown himself wonderfully at home. “Aha!” he said. “I
bet you can’t shake that low B in the last variation but one of Op. 106
so that it doesn’t sound ridiculous.”
And of course she couldn’t, and of course she was glad that he knew all
about it and how impossible it was.
In the cab, as they drove back to Kew that evening, the Complete Man had
decided it was time to do something decisive. The parting kiss—more of a
playful sonorous buss than a serious embracement—that was already in the
protocol, as signed and sealed before her departure by giggling Molly.
It was time, the Complete Man considered, that this salute should take
on a character less formal and less playful. One, two, three and,
decisively, as they passed through Hammersmith Broadway, he risked the
gesture. Emily burst into tears. He was not prepared for that, though
perhaps he should have been. It was only by imploring, only by almost
weeping himself, that Gumbril persuaded her to revoke her decision
never, never to see him again.
“I had thought you were different,” she sobbed. “And now, now——”
“Please, please,” he entreated. He was on the point of tearing off his
beard and confessing everything there and then. But that, on second
thoughts, would probably only make things worse.
“Please, I promise.”
In the end, she had consented to see him once again, provisionally, in
Kew Gardens, on the following day. They were to meet at the little
temple that stands on the hillock above the valley of the heathers.
And now, duly, they had met. The Complete Man had been left at home in
the top right-hand drawer, along with the ties and collars. She would
prefer, he guessed, the Mild and Melancholy one; he was quite right. She
had thought him ‘sweeter’ at a first glimpse.
“I forgive you,” he said, and kissed her hand. “I forgive you.”
Hand in hand they walked down towards the valley of the heaths.
“I don’t know why you should be forgiving me,” she said, laughing. “It
seems to me that I ought to be doing the forgiving. After yesterday.”
She shook her head at him. “You made me so wretched.”
“Ah, but you’ve already done your forgiving.”
“You seem to take it very much for granted,” said Emily. “Don’t be too
sure.”
“But I am sure,” said Gumbril. “I can see——”
Emily laughed again. “I feel happy,” she declared.
“So do I.”
“How green the grass is!”
Green, green—after these long damp months it glowed in the sunlight, as
though it were lighted from inside.
“And the trees!”
The pale, high, clot-polled trees of the English spring; the dark,
symmetrical pine trees, islanded here and there on the lawns, each with
its own separate profile against the sky and its own shadow,
impenetrably dark or freckled with moving lights, on the grass at its
feet.
They walked on in silence. Gumbril took off his hat, breathed the soft
air that smelt of the greenness of the garden.
“There are quiet places also in the mind,” he said meditatively. “But we
build bandstands and factories on them. Deliberately—to put a stop to
the quietness. We don’t like the quietness. All the thoughts, all the
preoccupations in my head—round and round, continually.” He made a
circular motion with his hand. “And the jazz bands, the music-hall
songs, the boys shouting the news. What’s it for? what’s it all for? To
put an end to the quiet, to break it up and disperse it, to pretend at
any cost it isn’t there. Ah, but it is; it is there, in spite of
everything, at the back of everything. Lying awake at night,
sometimes—not restlessly, but serenely, waiting for sleep—the quiet
re-establishes itself, piece by piece; all the broken bits, all the
fragments of it we’ve been so busily dispersing all day long. It
re-establishes itself, an inward quiet, like this outward quiet of grass
and trees. It fills one, it grows—a crystal quiet, a growing, expanding
crystal. It grows, it becomes more perfect; it is beautiful and
terrifying, yes, terrifying as well as beautiful. For one’s alone in the
crystal and there’s no support from outside, there’s nothing external
and important, nothing external and trivial to pull oneself up by or to
stand on, superiorly, contemptuously, so that one can look down. There’s
nothing to laugh at or feel enthusiastic about. But the quiet grows and
grows. Beautifully and unbearably. And at last you are conscious of
something approaching; it is almost a faint sound of footsteps.
Something inexpressibly lovely and wonderful advances through the
crystal, nearer, nearer. And, oh, inexpressibly terrifying. For if it
were to touch you, if it were to seize and engulf you, you’d die; all
the regular, habitual, daily part of you would die. There would be an
end of bandstands and whizzing factories, and one would have to begin
living arduously in the quiet, arduously in some strange, unheard-of
manner. Nearer, nearer come the steps; but one can’t face the advancing
thing. One daren’t. It’s too terrifying, it’s too painful to die.
Quickly, before it is too late, start the factory wheels, bang the drum,
blow up the saxophone. Think of the women you’d like to sleep with, the
schemes for making money, the gossip about your friends, the last
outrage of the politicians. Anything for a diversion. Break the silence,
smash the crystal to pieces. There, it lies in bits; it is easily
broken, hard to build up and easy to break. And the steps? Ah, those
have taken themselves off, double quick. Double quick, they were gone at
the first flawing of the crystal. And by this time the lovely and
terrifying thing is three infinities away, at least. And you lie
tranquilly on your bed, thinking of what you’d do if you had ten
thousand pounds, and of all the fornications you’ll never commit.” He
thought of Rosie’s pink underclothes.
“You make things very complicated,” she said, after a silence.
Gumbril spread out his great-coat on a green bank and they sat down.
Leaning back, his hands under his head, he watched her sitting there
beside him. She had taken off her hat; there was a stir of wind in those
childish curls, and at the nape, at the temples, where the hair had
sleaved out thin and fine, the sunlight made little misty haloes of
gold. Her hands clasped round her knees, she sat quite still, looking
out across the green expanses, at the trees, at the white clouds on the
horizon. There was quiet in her mind, he thought. She was native to that
crystal world; for her, the steps came comfortingly through the silence
and the lovely thing brought with it no terrors. It was all so easy for
her and simple.
Ah, so simple, so simple; like the Hire Purchase System on which Rosie
had bought her pink bed. And how simple it was, too, to puddle clear
waters and unpetal every flower!—every wild flower, by God! one ever
passed in a governess cart at the heels of a barrel-bellied pony. How
simple to spit on the floors of churches! _Si prega di non sputare._
Simple to kick one’s legs and enjoy oneself—dutifully—in pink
underclothing. Perfectly simple.
“It’s like the Arietta, don’t you think?” said Emily suddenly, “the
Arietta of Op. 111.” And she hummed the first bars of the air. “Don’t
you feel it’s like that?”
“What’s like that?”
“Everything,” said Emily. “To-day, I mean. You and me. These gardens——”
And she went on humming.
Gumbril shook his head. “Too simple for me,” he said.
Emily laughed. “Ah, but then think how impossible it gets a little
farther on.” She agitated her fingers wildly, as though she were trying
to play the impossible passages. “It begins easily for the sake of poor
imbeciles like me; but it goes on, it goes on, more and more fully and
subtly and abstrusely and embracingly. But it’s still the same
movement.”
The shadows stretched farther and farther across the lawns, and as the
sun declined the level light picked out among the grasses innumerable
stipplings of shadow; and in the paths, that had seemed under the more
perpendicular rays as level as a table, a thousand little shadowy
depressions and sun-touched mountains were now apparent. Gumbril looked
at his watch.
“Good Lord!” he said, “we must fly.” He jumped up. “Quick, quick!”
“But why?”
“We shall be late.” He wouldn’t tell her for what. “Wait and see” was
all that Emily could get out of him by her questioning. They hurried out
of the gardens, and in spite of her protests he insisted on taking a
taxi into town. “I have such a lot of unearned increment to get rid of,”
he explained. The Patent Small-Clothes seemed at the moment remoter than
the farthest stars.