Aaron'sRod

ByD.H.Lawrence

Aaron'sRod

CHAPTERI.THEBLUEBALL

Therewasalarge,brillianteveningstarintheearlytwilight,andunderfoottheearthwashalffrozen.ItwasChristmasEve.AlsotheWarwasover,andtherewasasenseofreliefthatwasalmostanewmenace.Amanfelttheviolenceofthenightmarereleasednowinto thegeneralair.Also therehadbeenanotherwrangleamongthemenonthepit-bankthatevening.AaronSissonwasthelastmanonthelittleblackrailway-lineclimbingthehillhomefromwork.Hewaslatebecausehehadattendedameetingofthemenon thebank.Hewas secretary to theMinersUnion forhiscolliery, andhadheardagooddealofsillywranglingthatlefthimnettled.Hestrodeoverastile,crossedtwofields,strodeanotherstile,andwasinthelongroadofcolliers'dwellings.Justacrosswashisownhouse:hehadbuiltithimself.Hewent through the littlegate,uppast thesideof thehouse to theback.Therehehungamoment,glancingdownthedark,wintrygarden."My father—my father's come!" cried a child's excited voice, and two little

girlsinwhitepinaforesranoutinfrontofhislegs."Father,shallyousettheChristmasTree?"theycried."We'vegotone!""AforeIhavemydinner?"heansweredamiably."Setitnow.Setitnow.—WegotitthroughFredAlton.""Whereisit?"The little girls were dragging a rough, dark object out of a corner of thepassageintothelightofthekitchendoor."It'sabeauty!"exclaimedMillicent."Yes,itis,"saidMarjory."Ishould thinkso,"hereplied,stridingover thedarkbough.Hewent to thebackkitchentotakeoffhiscoat."Setitnow,Father.Setitnow,"clamouredthegirls."Youmightaswell.You'veleftyourdinnersolong,youmightaswelldoitnowbeforeyouhaveit,"cameawoman'splangentvoice,outofthebrilliantlightofthemiddleroom.AaronSissonhadtakenoffhiscoatandwaistcoatandhiscap.Hestoodbare-headedinhisshirtandbraces,contemplatingthetree."WhatamItoputitin?"hequeried.Hepickedupthetree,andhelditerectbythe topmost twig. He felt the cold as he stood in the yard coatless, and hetwitchedhisshoulders."Isn'titabeauty!"repeatedMillicent."Ay!—lop-sidedthough.""Putsomethingon,youtwo!"camethewoman'shighimperativevoice,fromthekitchen."Wearen'tcold,"protestedthegirlsfromtheyard."Comeandputsomethingon," insisted thevoice.Themanstartedoffdownthepath, the littlegirls rangrumbling indoors.Theskywasclear, therewasstillacrystalline,non-luminouslightintheunderair.Aaronrummagedinhisshedat thebottomofthegarden,andfoundaspadeandaboxthatwassuitable.Thenhecameouttohisneat,bare,wintrygarden.Thegirlsflewtowardshim,puttingtheelasticoftheirhatsundertheirchinsastheyran.Thetreeandtheboxlayonthefrozenearth.Theairbreatheddark,frosty,electric."Holditupstraight,"hesaidtoMillicent,ashearrangedthetreeinthebox.Shestoodsilentandheldthetopbough,hefilledinroundtheroots.When it was done, and pressed in, he went for the wheelbarrow. The girls

werehoveringexcitedroundthetree.Hedroppedthebarrowandstoopedtothebox.Thegirlswatchedhimholdbackhisface—theboughsprickedhim."Isitveryheavy?"askedMillicent."Ay!"hereplied,withalittlegrunt.Thentheprocessionsetoff—thetrundlingwheel-barrow, the swinging hissing tree, the two excited little girls. Theyarrivedatthedoor.Downwentthelegsofthewheel-barrowontheyard.Themanlookedatthebox."Whereareyougoingtohaveit?"hecalled."Putitinthebackkitchen,"criedhiswife."You'dbetterhaveitwhereit'sgoingtostop.Idon'twanttohawkitabout.""Putitontheflooragainstthedresser,Father.Putitthere,"urgedMillicent."Youcomeandputsomepaperdown,then,"calledthemotherhastily.The two children ran indoors, the man stood contemplative in the cold,shrugging his uncovered shoulders slightly. The open inner door showed abrightlinoleumonthefloor,andtheendofabrownside-boardonwhichstoodanaspidistra.AgainwithawrenchAaronSissonliftedthebox.Thetreeprickedandstung.Hiswifewatchedhimasheenteredstaggering,withhisfaceaverted."Mindwhereyoumakealotofdirt,"shesaid.He lowered theboxwith a little jerkon to the spread-outnewspaperon thefloor.Soilscattered."Sweepitup,"hesaidtoMillicent.Hisearwaslingeringoverthesudden,clutchinghissofthetree-boughs.A starkwhite incandescent light filled the room andmade everything sharpand hard. In the open fire-place a hot fire burned red.Allwas scrupulouslyclean and perfect.A babywas cooing in a rocker-lesswicker cradle by thehearth.Themother,aslim,neatwomanwithdarkhair,wassewingachild'sfrock.Sheputthisaside,rose,andbegantotakeherhusband'sdinnerfromtheoven."Youstoppedconfabbinglongenoughtonight,"shesaid."Yes,"heanswered,goingtothebackkitchentowashhishands.In a fewminutes he came and sat down to his dinner.The doorswere shutclose, but there was a draught, because the settling of the mines under thehousemadethedoorsnotfit.Aaronmovedhischair,togetoutofthedraught.Buthestillsatinhisshirtandtrousers.Hewasagood-lookingman,fair,andpleasant,aboutthirty-twoyearsold.He

didnottalkmuch,butseemedtothinkaboutsomething.Hiswiferesumedhersewing.Shewasacutelyawareofherhusband,butheseemednotverymuchawareofher."Whatweretheyonabouttoday,then?"shesaid."Aboutthethrow-in.""Anddidtheysettleanything?""They'regoingtotryit—andthey'llcomeoutifitisn'tsatisfactory.""Thebuttieswon'thaveit,Iknow,"shesaid.Hegaveashortlaugh,andwentonwithhismeal.Thetwochildrenweresquattedonthefloorbythetree.Theyhadawoodenbox, fromwhich they had takenmany little newspaper packets,which theywerespreadingoutlikewares."Don'topenany.Wewon'topenanyof themtillwe've taken themallout—andthenwe'llundooneinourturns.Thenwes'llbothundoequal,"Millicentwassaying."Yes,we'lltakethemALLoutfirst,"re-echoedMarjory."AndwhataretheygoingtodoaboutJobArthurFreer?Dotheywanthim?"Afaintsmilecameonherhusband'sface."Nay,Idon'tknowwhattheywant.—Someof'emwanthim—whetherthey'reamajority,Idon'tknow."Shewatchedhimclosely."Majority!I'dgive'emmajority.Theywanttogetridofyou,andmakeafoolof you, and you want to break your heart over it. Strikes me you needsomethingtobreakyourheartover."Helaughedsilently."Nay,"hesaid."Is'llneverbreakmyheart.""You'llgonearertoitoverthat,thanoveranythingelse:justbecausealotofignorantmonkeyswantamonkeyoftheirownsorttodotheUnionwork,andjabbertothem,theywanttogetridofyou,andyoueatyourheartoutaboutit.Morefoolyou,that'sallIsay—morefoolyou.IfyoucaredforyourwifeandchildrenhalfwhatyoucareaboutyourUnion,you'dbealotbetterpleasedintheend.Butyoucareaboutnothingbuta lotof ignorantcolliers,whodon'tknowwhat theywant except it'smoremoney just for themselves.Self, self,self—that'sallitiswiththem—andignorance.""You'dratherhaveselfwithoutignorance?"hesaid,smilingfinely."Iwould,ifI'vegottohaveit.ButwhatIshouldliketoseeisamanthathasthoughtforothers,andisn'tallselfandpolitics."

Hercolorhadrisen,herhandtrembledwithangerasshesewed.Ablanklookhad come over theman's face, as if he did not hear or heed anymore. Hedrankhisteainalongdraught,wipedhismoustachewithtwofingers,andsatlookingabstractedlyatthechildren.Theyhadlaidallthelittlepacketsonthefloor,andMillicentwassaying:"NowI'llundothefirst,andyoucanhavethesecond.I'lltakethis—"Sheunwrapped the bit of newspaper and disclosed a silvery ornament for aChristmastree:afrailthinglikeasilverplum,withdeeprosyindentationsoneachside."Oh!"sheexclaimed."Isn'titLOVELY!"Herfingerscautiouslyheldthelongbubble of silver and glowing rose, cleaving to it with a curious, irritatingpossession. The man's eyes moved away from her. The lesser child wasfumblingwithoneofthelittlepackets."Oh!"—awailwentupfromMillicent."You'vetakenone!—Youdidn'twait."Thenhervoicechangedtoamotherlyadmonition,andshebegantointerfere."Thisisthewaytodoit,look!Letmehelpyou."ButMarjorydrewbackwithresentment."Don't, Millicent!—Don't!" came the childish cry. But Millicent's fingersitched.At lengthMarjoryhadgotouther treasure—a little silverybellwithaglasstophanginginside.Thebellwasmadeoffrailglassysubstance,lightasair."Oh,thebell!"rangoutMillicent'sclangingvoice."Thebell!It'smybell.Mybell!It'smine!Don'tbreakit,Marjory.Don'tbreakit,willyou?"Marjorywas shaking the bell against her ear. But it was dumb, itmade nosound."You'll break it, I know you will.—You'll break it. Give it ME—" criedMillicent, and she began to take away the bell. Marjory set up anexpostulation."LETHERALONE,"saidthefather.Millicentletgoasifshehadbeenstung,butstillherbrassy,impudentvoicepersisted:"She'llbreakit.She'llbreakit.It'smine—""Youundoanother,"saidthemother,politic.Millicentbeganwithhasty,itchingfingerstouncloseanotherpackage."Aw—aw Mother, my peacock—aw, my peacock, my green peacock!"Lavishlyshehoveredoverasinuousgreenishbird,withwingsandtailofspunglass,pearly,andbodyofdeepelectricgreen.

"It'smine—mygreenpeacock!It'smine,becauseMarjory'shadonewingoff,andminehadn't.MygreenpeacockthatIlove!Iloveit!"Sheswungitsoftlyfromthelittleringonitsback.Thenshewenttohermother."Look,Mother,isn'titabeauty?""Mindtheringdoesn'tcomeout,"saidhermother."Yes,it'slovely!"Thegirlpassedontoherfather."Look,Father,don'tyouloveit!""Loveit?"here-echoed,ironicaloverthewordlove.Shestoodforsomemoments,tryingtoforcehisattention.Thenshewentbacktoherplace.Marjoryhadbroughtforthagoldenapple,redononecheek,rathergarish."Oh!"exclaimedMillicentfeverishly,instantlyseizedwithdesireforwhatshehad not got, indifferent to what she had. Her eye ran quickly over thepackages.Shetookone."Now!"sheexclaimedloudly,toattractattention."Now!What'sthis?—What'sthis?Whatwillthisbeautybe?"Withfinickyfingerssheremovedthenewspaper.Marjorywatchedherwide-eyed.Millicentwasself-important."Theblueball!"shecriedinaclimaxofrapture."I'vegotTHEBLUEBALL."Shehelditgloatinginthecupofherhands.Itwasalittleglobeofhardenedglass,ofamagnificentfulldarkbluecolor.Sheroseandwenttoherfather."Itwasyourblueball,wasn'tit,father?""Yes.""Andyouhaditwhenyouwerealittleboy,andnowIhaveitwhenI'malittlegirl.""Ay,"hereplieddrily."Andit'sneverbeenbrokenallthoseyears.""No,notyet.""Andperhapsitneverwillbebroken."Tothisshereceivednoanswer."Won'titbreak?"shepersisted."Can'tyoubreakit?""Yes,ifyouhititwithahammer,"hesaid."Aw!"shecried."Idon'tmeanthat.Imeanifyoujustdropit.Itwon'tbreakifyoudropit,willit?""Idaresayitwon't.""ButWILLit?"

"Ish'dthinknot.""ShouldItry?"Sheproceededgingerlytolettheblueballdrop,itbounceddullyonthefloor-covering."Oh-h-h!"shecried,catchingitup."Iloveit.""LetMEdropit,"criedMarjory,andtherewasaperformanceofadmonitionanddemonstrationfromtheeldersister.ButMillicentmustgofurther.Shebecameexcited."Itwon'tbreak,"shesaid,"evenifyoutossitupintheair."Sheflungitup,itfellsafely.Butherfather'sbrowknittedslightly.Shetosseditwildly:itfellwithalittlesplashingexplosion:ithadsmashed.Ithadfallenonthesharpedgeofthetilesthatprotrudedunderthefender."NOWwhathaveyoudone!"criedthemother.Thechildstoodwithherlipbetweenherteeth,alook,half,ofpuremiseryanddismay,halfofsatisfaction,onherprettysharpface."Shewantedtobreakit,"saidthefather."No, she didn't!What do you say that for!" said themother.AndMillicentburstintoafloodoftears.Herosetolookatthefragmentsthatlaysplashedonthefloor."Youmustmindthebits,"hesaid,"andpick'emallup."Hetookoneof thepieces toexamineit. Itwasfineandthinandhard, linedwithpuresilver,brilliant.He lookedat it closely.So—thiswaswhat itwas.And thiswas theendof it.Hefelt thecurioussoftexplosionof itsbreakingstillinhisears.Hethrewhispieceinthefire."Pickallthebitsup,"hesaid."Giveover!giveover!Don'tcryanymore."Thegood-naturedtoneofhisvoicequietedthechild,asheintendeditshould.Hewentawayintothebackkitchentowashhimself.Ashewasbendinghisheadoverthesinkbeforethelittlemirror,latheringtoshave,therecamefromoutsidethedissonantvoicesofboys,pouringoutthedregsofcarol-singing."WhileShep-ep-ep-ep-herdswatched—"Heheldhissoapybrushsuspendedforaminute.Theycalledthissinging!Hismindflittedbacktoearlycarolmusic.Thenagainheheardthevocalviolenceoutside."Aren'tyouoffthere!"hecalledout,inmasculinemenace.Thenoisestopped,there was a scuffle. But the feet returned and the voices resumed. Almostimmediatelythedooropened,boyswereheardmutteringamongthemselves.

Millicent had given them a penny. Feet scraped on the yard, then wentthuddingalongthesideofthehouse,tothestreet.ToAaronSisson,thiswashome,thiswasChristmas:theunspeakablyfamiliar.Thewarover,nothingwaschanged.Yeteverythingchanged.Thesculleryinwhichhe stoodwaspaintedgreen,quite fresh,veryclean, the floorwas redtiles.Thewash-copperofredbrickswasveryred,themanglewithitsput-upboard was white-scrubbed, the American oil-cloth on the table had a gaypattern, therewasawarm fire, thewater in theboilerhissed faintly.And infrontofhim,beneathhimasheleanedforwardshaving,adropofwaterfellwith strange, incalculable rhythm from the bright brass tap into the whiteenamelledbowl,whichwasnowhalf full ofpure,quiveringwater.Thewarwas over, and everything just the same.The acute familiarity of this house,which he had built for his marriage twelve years ago, the changelesspleasantnessofitallseemedunthinkable.Itpreventedhisthinking.WhenhewentintothemiddleroomtocombhishairhefoundtheChristmastreesparkling,hiswifewasmakingpastryatthetable,thebabywassittingupproppedincushions."Father,"saidMillicent,approachinghimwithaflatblue-and-whiteangelofcotton-wool,andtwoendsofcotton—"tietheangelatthetop.""Tieitatthetop?"hesaid,lookingdown."Yes.Attheverytop—becauseit'sjustcomedownfromthesky.""Aymyword!"helaughed.Andhetiedtheangel.Comingdownstairsafterchanginghewentintotheicycoldparlour,andtookhis music and a small handbag. With this he retreated again to the backkitchen.Hewasstillintrousersandshirtandslippers:butnowitwasacleanwhiteshirt,andhisbestblacktrousers,andnewpinkandwhitebraces.Hesatunder the gas-jet of the back kitchen, looking through his music. Then heopenedthebag,inwhichweresectionsofafluteandapiccolo.Hetookouttheflute,andadjustedit.Ashesathewasphysicallyawareofthesoundsofthenight: thebubblingofwater in theboiler, the faint soundof thegas, thesuddencryingofthebabyinthenextroom,thennoisesoutside,distantboysshouting, distant rags of carols, fragments of voices of men. The wholecountrywasrousedandexcited.The little roomwashot.Aaronroseandopenedasquareventilatorover thecopper, letting in a stream of cold air, whichwas grateful to him. Then hecockedhiseyeoverthesheetofmusicspreadoutonthetablebeforehim.Hetriedhisflute.Andthenatlast,withtheoddgestureofadivertakingaplunge,he swunghis head and began to play.A streamofmusic, soft and rich andfluid,cameoutoftheflute.Heplayedbeautifully.Hemovedhisheadandhisraisedbarearmswithslight,intensemovements,asthedelicatemusicpoured

out.Itwassixteenth-centuryChristmasmelody,verylimpidanddelicate.Thepure,mindless,exquisitemotionandfluidityofthemusicdelightedhimwith a strange exasperation. There was something tense, exasperated to thepointofintolerableanger,inhisgood-humoredbreast,asheplayedthefinely-spun peace-music. The more exquisite the music, the more perfectly heproduced it, in sheer bliss; and at the same time, themore intensewas themaddenedexasperationwithinhim.Millicent appeared in the room. She fidgetted at the sink. Themusicwas abugbear to her, because it prevented her from sayingwhatwas on her ownmind.At length it ended,her fatherwas turningover thevariousbooksandsheets.Shelookedathimquickly,seizingheropportunity."Areyougoingout,Father?"shesaid."Eh?""Areyougoingout?"Shetwistednervously."Whatdoyouwanttoknowfor?"Hemadenootheranswer,andturnedagaintothemusic.Hiseyewentdownasheet—thenoveritagain—thenmorecloselyoveritagain."Areyou?"persistedthechild,balancingononefoot.Helookedather,andhiseyeswereangryunderknittedbrows."Whatareyoubotheringabout?"hesaid."I'm not bothering—I only wanted to know if you were going out," shepouted,quiveringtocry."IexpectIam,"hesaidquietly.Sherecoveredatonce,butstillwithtimidityasked:"We haven't got any candles for the Christmas tree—shall you buy some,becausemotherisn'tgoingout?""Candles!"herepeated,settlinghismusicandtakingupthepiccolo."Yes—shallyoubuyussome,Father?Shallyou?""Candles!"he repeated, putting thepiccolo tohismouth andblowinga fewpiercing,preparatorynotes."Yes, littleChristmas-treecandles—blueonesand redones, inboxes—Shallyou,Father?""We'llsee—ifIseeany—""But SHALL you?" she insisted desperately. She wisely mistrusted hisvagueness.

Buthewaslookingunheedingatthemusic.Thensuddenlythepiccolobrokeforth,wild,shrill,brilliant.HewasplayingMozart.Thechild'sfacewentpalewithangeratthesound.Sheturned,andwentout,closingbothdoorsbehindhertoshutoutthenoise.Theshrill,rapidmovementofthepiccolomusicseemedtopossesstheair,itwas useless to try to shut it out. The man went on playing to himself,measuredandinsistent.Inthefrostyeveningthesoundcarried.Peoplepassingdown the street hesitated, listening. The neighbours knew it was Aaronpractising his piccolo. He was esteemed a good player: was in request atconcertsanddances,alsoatswellballs.Sothevividpipingsoundtickledthedarkness.Heplayedontillaboutseveno'clock;hedidnotwanttogoouttoosoon,inspiteoftheearlyclosingofthepublichouses.Heneverwentwiththestream,butmadeasidecurrentofhisown.Hiswifesaidhewascontrary.Whenhewentintothemiddleroomtoputonhiscollarandtie,thetwolittlegirlswerehavingtheirhairbrushed,thebabywasinbed,therewasahotsmellofmince-piesbakingintheoven."You won't forget our candles, will you, Father?" asked Millicent, withassurancenow."I'llsee,"heanswered.Hiswifewatchedhimasheputonhisovercoatandhat.Hewaswell-dressed,handsome-looking.She felt therewasacuriousglamourabouthim. Itmadeherfeelbitter.Hehadanunfairadvantage—hewasfreetogooff,whileshemuststayathomewiththechildren."There'snoknowingwhattimeyou'llbehome,"shesaid."Ishan'tbelate,"heanswered."It'seasytosayso,"sheretorted,withsomecontempt.Hetookhisstick,andturnedtowardsthedoor."Bring thechildren somecandles for their tree, anddon'tbe so selfish," shesaid."Allright,"hesaid,goingout."Don't sayALLRIGHT ifyounevermean todo it," shecried,with suddenanger,followinghimtothedoor.Hisfigurestoodlargeandshadowyinthedarkness."Howmanydoyouwant?"hesaid."Adozen,"shesaid."Andholderstoo,ifyoucangetthem,"sheadded,withbarrenbitterness.

"Yes—all right," he turned andmelted into the darkness. Shewent indoors,wornwithastrangeandbitterflame.Hecrossedthefieldstowardsthelittletown,whichoncemorefumeditslightsunder the night. The country ran away, rising on his right hand. It was nolongeragreatbankofdarkness.Lightstwinkledfreelyhereandthere,thoughforlornly,nowthatthewar-timerestrictionswereremoved.Itwasnoglitterofpre-warnights,pit-headsglittering far-offwithelectricity.Neitherwas it theblackgulfofthewardarkness:instead,thisforlornsporadictwinkling.Everybodyseemedtobeoutofdoors.Thehollowdarkcountrysidere-echoedlikeashellwithshoutsandcallsandexcitedvoices.Restlessnessandnervousexcitement, nervous hilarity were in the air. There was a sense of electricsurchargeeverywhere,frictional,aneurasthenichasteforexcitement.Every moment Aaron Sisson was greeted with Good-night—Good-night,Aaron—Good-night, Mr. Sisson. People carrying parcels, children, women,thronged home on the dark paths. Theywere all talking loudly, declaimingloudlyaboutwhattheycouldandcouldnotget,andwhatthisortheotherhadlost.When he got into themain street, the only street of shops, itwas crowded.There seemed to have been someviolent but quiet contest, a subdued fight,goingonalltheafternoonandevening:peoplestrugglingtobuythings,togetthings.Moneywas spent likewater, therewas a frenzyofmoney-spending.Thoughthenecessitiesoflifewereinabundance,stillthepeoplestruggledinfrenzyforcheese,sweets,raisins,pork-stuff,evenforflowersandholly,allofwhichwerescarce,andfortoysandknick-knacks,whichweresoldout.Therewas awildgrumbling, but a deep satisfaction in the fight, the struggle.Thesame fight and the same satisfaction in the fightwaswitnessedwhenever atram-car stopped,orwhen it heaved itsway into sight.Then the struggle tomount on board became desperate and savage, but stimulating. Soulssurchargedwithhostilityfoundnowsomeoutletfortheirfeelings.Ashecamenearthelittlemarket-placehebethoughthimselfoftheChristmas-treecandles.Hedidnotintendtotroublehimself.Andyet,whenheglancedinpassingintothesweet-shopwindow,andsawitbareasaboard,theveryfactthatheprobablycouldnotbuythethingsmadehimhesitate,andtry."HaveyougotanyChristmas-treecandles?"heaskedasheenteredtheshop."Howmanydoyouwant?""Adozen.""Can'tletyouhaveadozen.Youcanhavetwoboxes—fourinabox—eight.Six-penceabox.""Gotanyholders?"

"Holders?Don'task.Haven'tseenonethisyear.""Gotanytoffee—?""Cough-drops—two-penceanounce—nothingelseleft.""Givemefourounces."Hewatchedherweighingtheminthelittlebrassscales."You'venotgotmuchofaChristmasshow,"hesaid."Don'ttalkaboutChristmas,asfarassweetsisconcerned.Theyoughttohaveallowedussixtimesthequantity—there'splentyofsugar,whydidn'tthey?Wes'llhavetoenjoyourselveswithwhatwe'vegot.Wemeanto,anyhow.""Ay,"hesaid."Timewehadabitofenjoyment,THISChristmas.Theyoughttohavemadethingsmoreplentiful.""Yes,"hesaid,stuffinghispackageinhispocket.

CHAPTERII.ROYALOAK

Thewarhadkilledthelittlemarketofthetown.Ashepassedthemarketplaceon the brow, Aaron noticed that there were only two miserable stalls. Butpeoplecrowdedjustthesame.Therewasaloudsoundofvoices,men'svoices.Menpressedroundthedoorwaysofthepublic-houses.Buthewasgoingtoapuboutoftown.Hedescendedthedarkhill.Astreet-lamphereandthereshedparsimoniouslight.Inthebottoms,underthetrees,itwasverydark.Butalampglimmeredinfrontofthe"RoyalOak."Thiswasalowwhite house sunk three steps below the highway. It was darkened, butsoundedcrowded.Opening the door, Sisson found himself in the stone passage. Old Bob,carrying three cans, stopped to seewhohad entered—thenwent on into thepublic bar on the left. The bar itselfwas a sort of littlewindow-sill on theright: the pubwas a small one. In thiswindow-opening stood the landlady,drawingandservingtoherhusband.Behindthebarwasatinyparlourorden,thelandlady'spreserve."Oh,it'syou,"shesaid,bobbingdowntolookatthenewcomer.Noneenteredherbar-parlourunlessinvited."Come in," said the landlady. There was a peculiar intonation in hercomplacentvoice,whichshowedshehadbeenexpectinghim,alittleirritably.Hewentacrossintoherbar-parlour.Itwouldnotholdmorethaneightorten

people,alltold—justthebenchesalongthewalls,thefirebetween—andtwolittleroundtables."I began to think you weren't coming," said the landlady, bringing him awhiskey.She was a large, stout, high-coloured woman, with a fine profile, probablyJewish. She had chestnut-coloured eyes, quick, intelligent. Her movementswerelargeandslow,hervoicelaconic."I'mnotsolate,amI?"askedAaron."Yes,youarelate,Ishouldthink."SheLookedupatthelittleclock."Closeonnine.""Ididsomeshopping,"saidAaron,withaquicksmile."Didyouindeed?That'snews,I'msure.Mayweaskwhatyoubought?"Thishedidnotlike.Buthehadtoanswer."Christmas-treecandles,andtoffee.""For the little children? Well you've done well for once! I must say Irecommendyou.Ididn'tthinkyouhadsomuchinyou."She sat herself down in her seat at the end of the bench, and took up herknitting.Aaronsatnexttoher.Hepouredwaterintohisglass,anddrank."It'swarminhere,"hesaid,whenhehadswallowedtheliquor."Yes, it is.Youwon'twant tokeep that thickgoodovercoaton," replied thelandlady."No,"hesaid,"IthinkI'lltakeitoff."Shewatchedhimashehunguphisovercoat.Heworeblackclothes,asusual.Ashereacheduptothepegs,shecouldseethemusclesofhisshoulders,andthe formofhis legs.Her reddish-browneyes seemed toburn, andhernose,thathadasubtle,beautifulHebraiccurve,seemedtoarch itself.Shemadealittle place for him by herself, as he returned. She carried her head thrownback,withdauntlessself-sufficiency.There were several colliers in the room, talking quietly. They were thesuperiortypeall,favouredbythelandlady,wholovedintellectualdiscussion.Opposite,bythefire,satalittle,greenishman—evidentlyanoriental."You'reveryquietallatonce,Doctor,"saidthelandladyinherslow,laconicvoice."Yes.—May I have another whiskey, please?" She rose at once, powerfullyenergetic."Oh,I'msorry,"shesaid.Andshewenttothebar.

"Well,"saidthelittleHindudoctor,"andhowarethingsgoingnow,withthemen?""Thesameasever,"saidAaron."Yes,"saidthestatelyvoiceofthelandlady."AndI'mafraidtheywillalwaysbethesameasever.Whenwilltheylearnwisdom?""Butwhatdoyoucallwisdom?"askedSherardy,theHindu.Hespokewithalittle,childishlisp."WhatdoIcallwisdom?"repeatedthelandlady."Whyallactingtogetherforthecommongood.Thatiswisdominmyidea.""Yes,verywell, that isso.Butwhatdoyoucall thecommongood?"repliedthelittledoctor,withchildishpertinence."Ay,"saidAaron,withalaugh,"that'sit."Theminerswereallstirringnow,totakepartinthediscussion."What do I call the commongood?" repeated the landlady. "That all peopleshouldstudythewelfareofotherpeople,andnotonlytheirown.""Theyarenottostudytheirownwelfare?"saidthedoctor."Ah, that I did not say," replied the landlady. "Let them study their ownwelfare,andthatofothersalso.""Wellthen,"saidthedoctor,"whatisthewelfareofacollier?""Thewelfareof a collier," said the landlady, "is that he shall earn sufficientwagestokeephimselfandhisfamilycomfortable,toeducatehischildren,andtoeducatehimself;forthatiswhathewants,education.""Ay,happenso,"putinBrewitt,abig,fine,good-humouredcollier."Happenso,Mrs.Houseley.Butwhatifyouhaven'tgotmucheducation,tospeakof?""Youcanalwaysgetit,"shesaidpatronizing."Nay—I'mblestifyoucan.It'snousetryin'toeducateamanoverforty—notbybook-learning.Thatisn'tsayinghe'safool,neither.""Andwhat better is them that's got education?" put in anotherman. "Whatbetter is the manager, or th' under-manager, than we are?—Pender's yallerenoughi'th'face.""Heisthat,"assentedthemeninchorus."Butbecausehe'syellowintheface,asyousay,Mr.Kirk,"saidthelandladylargely, "that doesn'tmeanhehasno advantageshigher thanwhatyouhavegot.""Ay," saidKirk. "He canma'emoremoney than I can—that's about a' as itcomesto."

"He canmakemoremoney," said the landlady. "Andwhenhe'smade it, heknowsbetterhowtouseit.""'Appenso,an'a'!—Whatdoeshedo,morethaneatanddrinkandwork?—an'takeitoutofhisselfasightharderthanIdo,byth' looksofhim.—What'sitmatter,ifheeatsabitmoreordrinksabitmore—""No,"reiteratedthelandlady."Henotonlyeatsanddrinks.Hecanread,andhecanconverse.""Mean'a',"saidTomKirk,andthemenburst intoa laugh."Icanread—an'I'vehadmanyatalkan'conversationwithyouinthishouse,Mrs.Houseley—amhavin'oneatthisminute,seemingly.""SEEMINGLY,youare,"saidthelandladyironically."Butdoyouthinktherewould be no difference between your conversation, andMr. Pender's, if hewereheresothatIcouldenjoyhisconversation?""An'whatdifferencewouldtherebe?"askedTomKirk."He'dgohometohisbedjustthesame.""There,youaremistaken.Hewouldbethebetter,andsoshouldI,agreatdealbetter,foralittlegenuineconversation.""Ifit'sconversationasma'eshisbehinddrop—"saidTomKirk."An'putsth'bileinhisface—"saidBrewitt.Therewasagenerallaugh."Icanseeit'snousetalkingaboutitanyfurther,"saidthelandlady,liftingherheaddangerously."Butlookhere,Mrs.Houseley,doyoureallythinkitmakesmuchdifferenceto a man, whether he can hold a serious conversation or not?" asked thedoctor."I do indeed, all the difference in the world—To me, there is no greaterdifference,thanbetweenaneducatedmanandanuneducatedman.""Andwheredoesitcomein?"askedKirk."Butwait abit, now," saidAaronSisson. "You takeaneducatedman—takePender.What'shiseducationfor?Whatdoesheschemefor?—Whatdoeshecontrivefor?Whatdoeshetalkfor?—""Forallthepurposesofhislife,"repliedthelandlady."Ay,an'what'sthepurposeofhislife?"insistedAaronSisson."Thepurposeofhis life," repeated the landlady,ata loss."Ishould thinkheknowsthatbesthimself.""NobetterthanIknowit—andyouknowit,"saidAaron."Well,"saidthelandlady,"ifyouknow,thenspeakout.Whatisit?"

"Tomakemoremoney for the firm—and somakehis ownchanceof a risebetter."Thelandladywasbaffledforsomemoments.Thenshesaid:"Yes,andsupposethathedoes.Isthereanyharminit?Isn'tithisdutytodowhathecanforhimself?Don'tyoutrytoearnallyoucan?""Ay,"saidAaron."Butthere'ssoonalimittowhatIcanearn.—It'slikethis.Whenyouworkitout,everythingcomestomoney.Reckonitasyoulike,it'smoneyonbothsides. It'smoneywe livefor,andmoney iswhatour lives isworth—nothingelse.Moneywelivefor,andmoneywearewhenwe'redead:thatornothing.An'it'smoneyasisbetweenthemastersandus.There'safeweducatedonesgotholdofoneendoftherope,andallthelotofushangingontoth'otherend,an'wes'llgoonpullingourgutsout,timein,timeout—""Butthey'vegotth'longendo'th'rope,th'mastershas,"saidBrewitt."For as long as one holds, the other will pull," concluded Aaron Sissonphilosophically."An'I'malmightysureo'that,"saidKirk.Therewasalittlepause."Yes,that'sallthereisinthemindsofyoumen,"saidthelandlady."Butwhatcan be donewith themoney, that you never think of—the education of thechildren,theimprovementofconditions—""Educate thechildren, so that theycan layholdof the longendof the rope,insteadoftheshortend,"saidthedoctor,withalittlegiggle."Ay,that'sit,"saidBrewitt."I'vepulledatth'shortend,an'myladsmaydoth'same.""Aselfishpolicy,"putinthelandlady."Selfishornot,theymaydoit.""Tillthecracko'doom,"saidAaron,withaglisteningsmile."Orthecracko'th'rope,"saidBrewitt."Yes,andTHENWHAT?"criedthelandlady."Thenweall droponourbacksides," saidKirk.Therewas ageneral laugh,andanuneasysilence."All I can say of youmen," said the landlady, "is that you have a narrow,selfish policy.—Instead of thinking of the children, instead of thinking ofimprovingtheworldyoulivein—""Wehangon,Britishbulldogbreed,"saidBrewitt.Therewasagenerallaugh."Yes,andlittlewiserthandogs,wranglingforabone,"saidthelandlady."Arewetolett'othersiderunoffwi'th'bone,then,whilewesitonourstunts

an'yowlforit?"askedBrewitt."Noindeed.Therecanbewisdomineverything.—It'swhatyouDOwiththemoney,when you've got it," said the landlady, "that'swhere the importancelies.""It'sMissisasgetsit,"saidKirk."Itdoesn'tstopwi'us.""Ay,it'sthewifeasgetsit,ninetypercent,"theyallconcurred."AndwhoSHOULDhave themoney, indeed, ifnotyourwives?Theyhaveeverythingtodowiththemoney.Whatideahaveyou,buttowasteit!""Womenwastenothing—theycouldn'tiftheytried,"saidAaronSisson.Therewasalullforsomeminutes.Themenwereallstimulatedbydrink.Thelandladykept themgoing.Sheherself sippedaglassofbrandy—butslowly.ShesatneartoSisson—andthegreatfiercewarmthofherpresenceenvelopedhim particularly. He loved so to luxuriate, like a cat, in the presence of aviolent woman. He knew that tonight she was feeling very nice to him—afemaleglowthatcameoutofhertohim.Sometimeswhensheputdownherknitting, or took it up again from the bench beside him, her fingers justtouchedhisthigh,andthefineelectricityranoverhisbody,asifhewereacattinglingatacaress.Andyethewasnothappy—norcomfortable.Therewasahard,opposingcorein him, that neither the whiskey nor the woman could dissolve or soothe,tonight.Itremainedhard,nay,becameharderandmoredeeplyantagonistictohis surroundings, every moment. He recognised it as a secret malady hesufferedfrom:thisstrained,unacknowledgedoppositiontohissurroundings,ahardcoreof irrational,exhaustingwithholdingofhimself. Irritating,becausehestillWANTEDtogivehimself.Awomanandwhiskey,thesewereusuallyaremedy—andmusic. But lately these had begun to fail him. No, there wassomething in him that would not give in—neither to the whiskey, nor thewoman,noreventhemusic.Eveninthemidstofhisbestmusic,itsatinthemiddleofhim,thisinvisibleblackdog,andgrowledandwaited,nevertobecajoled.Heknewof its presence—andwas a little uneasy.Forof coursehewantedtolethimselfgo,tofeelrosyandlovingandallthat.Butattheverythought,theblackdogshoweditsteeth.Still he kept the beast at bay—with all his will he kept himself as it weregenial.Hewantedtomeltandberosy,happy.Hesippedhiswhiskeywithgratification,heluxuriatedinthepresenceofthelandlady,veryconfidentof the strengthofher liking forhim.Heglancedatherprofile—that fine throw-backofherhostilehead,wicked in themidstofherbenevolence; thatsubtle,reallyverybeautifuldelicatecurveofhernose,that moved him exactly like a piece of pure sound. But tonight it did notovercomehim.Therewasadevilish littlecoldeye inhisbrain thatwasnot

takeninbywhathesaw.A terrible obstinacy located itself in him. He saw the fine, rich-coloured,secretive face of the Hebrew woman, so loudly self-righteous, and sodangerous,sodestructive,solustful—andhewaitedforhisbloodtomeltwithpassionforher.Butnottonight.Tonighthisinnermostheartwashardandcoldasice.Theverydangerandlustfulnessofher,whichhadsoprickedhissenses,nowmadehimcolder.Hedislikedherathertricks.Hesawheroncetoooften.Herandallwomen.Bah,thelovegame!Andthewhiskeythatwastohelpinthe game!He had drowned himself once too often inwhiskey and in love.Nowhefloatedlikeacorpseinboth,withacold,hostileeye.And at least half of his inward fumewas anger becausehe couldno longerdrown.Nothingwouldhavepleasedhimbetterthantofeelhissensesmeltingandswimmingintoonenesswiththedark.Butimpossible!Cold,withawhitefuryinsidehim,hefloatedwideeyedandapartasacorpse.Hethoughtofthegentleloveofhisfirstmarriedyears,andbecameonlywhiterandcolder,setinmoreintenseobstinacy.Awaveofrevulsionliftedhim.He became aware that he was deadly antagonistic to the landlady, that hedisliked hiswhole circumstances.A cold, diabolical consciousness detacheditselffromhisstateofsemi-intoxication."Is it pretty much the same out there in India?" he asked of the doctor,suddenly.Thedoctorstarted,andattendedtohimonhisownlevel."Probably,"heanswered."Itisworse.""Worse!"exclaimedAaronSisson."How'sthat?""Why,because,inawaythepeopleofIndiahaveaneasiertimeeventhanthepeople of England. Because they have no responsibility. The BritishGovernment takes the responsibility. And the people have nothing to do,except their bit of work—and talk perhaps about national rule, just for apastime.""Theyhavetoearntheirliving?"saidSisson."Yes,"saidthelittledoctor,whohadlivedforsomeyearsamongthecolliers,andbecomequitefamiliarwiththem."Yes,theyhavetoearntheirliving—andthennomore.That'swhytheBritishGovernmentis theworst thingpossiblefor them. It is the worst thing possible. And not because it is a badgovernment.Really, it is not a bad government. It is a good one—and theyknowit—muchbetterthantheywouldmakeforthemselves,probably.Butforthatreasonitissoverybad."The little oriental laughed a queer, sniggering laugh. His eyes were verybright, dilated, completely black. Hewas looking into the ice-blue, pointed

eyes of Aaron Sisson. They were both intoxicated—but grimly so. Theylookedateachotherinelementaldifference.Thewholeroomwasnowattendingtothisnewconversation:whichtheyallaccepted as serious. For Aaron was considered a special man, a man ofpeculiarunderstanding,eventhoughasarulehesaidlittle."Ifitisagoodgovernment,doctor,howcanitbesobadforthepeople?"saidthelandlady.The doctor's eyes quivered for the fraction of a second, as he watched theotherman.Hedidnotlookatthelandlady."Itwouldnotmatterwhatkindofmess theymade—andtheywouldmakeamess,iftheygovernedthemselves,thepeopleofIndia.Theywouldprobablymake the greatest muddle possible—and start killing one another. But itwouldn'tmatteriftheyexterminatedhalfthepopulation,solongastheydiditthemselves,andwereresponsibleforit."Againhiseyesdilated,utterlyblack,totheeyesoftheotherman,andanarchlittlesmileflickeredonhisface."I thinkitwouldmatterverymuchindeed,"saidthelandlady."TheyhadfarbetterNOTgovernthemselves."Shewas,forsomereason,becomingangry.Thelittlegreenishdoctoremptiedhisglass,andsmiledagain."Butwhatdifferencedoesitmake,"saidAaronSisson,"whethertheygovernthemselves or not? They only live till they die, eitherway."And he smiledfaintly. He had not really listened to the doctor. The terms "BritishGovernment," and "bad for the people—good for the people," made himmalevolentlyangry.Thedoctorwasnonplussedforamoment.Thenhegatheredhimselftogether."It matters," he said; "it matters.—People should always be responsible forthemselves.How can any people be responsible for another race of people,andforaracemucholderthantheyare,andnotatallchildren."AaronSissonwatchedtheother'sdarkface,withitsutterlyexposedeyes.Hewasinastateofsemi-intoxicatedangerandclairvoyance.Hesawintheblack,void,glisteningeyesof theorientalonly the samedanger, the samemenacethat he saw in the landlady. Fair, wise, even benevolent words: always thehumangoodspeaking,andalwaysunderneath,somethinghateful, somethingdetestable and murderous. Wise speech and good intentions—they wereinvariablymaggoty with these secret inclinations to destroy theman in theman.Wheneverheheardanyoneholding forth: the landlady, thisdoctor, thespokesmanonthepitbank:orwhenhereadtheall-righteousnewspaper;hissoulcurdledwithrevulsionasfromsomethingfoul.Eventheinfernalloveand

good-willofhiswife.Tohellwithgood-will!Itwasmorehatefulthanill-will.Self-righteousbullying,likepoisongas!Thelandladylookedattheclock."Tenminutesto,gentlemen,"shesaidcoldly.ForshetooknewthatAaronwasspoiledforherforthatnight.The men began to take their leave, shakily. The little doctor seemed toevaporate.The landladyhelpedAarononwithhiscoat.Shesawthecuriouswhitenessroundhisnostrilsandhiseyes,thefixedhellishlookonhisface."You'll eat a mince-pie in the kitchen with us, for luck?" she said to him,detaininghimtilllast.Butheturnedlaughingtoher."Nay,"hesaid,"Imustbegettinghome."He turned andwent straight out of the house.Watching him, the landlady'sfacebecameyellowwithpassionandrage."ThatlittlepoisonousIndianviper,"shesaidaloud,attributingAaron'smoodtothedoctor.Herhusbandwasnoisilyboltingthedoor.Outside itwasdarkand frosty.Agangofmen lingered in the roadnear thecloseddoor.Aaronfoundhimselfamongthem,hisheartbittererthansteel.Themenweredispersing.Heshouldtaketheroadhome.Butthedevilwasinit,ifhecouldtakeastrideinthehomewarddirection.Thereseemedawallinfront of him. He veered. But neither could he take a stride in the oppositedirection.Sohewasdestined toveer round, likesomesortofweather-cock,thereinthemiddleofthedarkroadoutsidethe"RoyalOak."But as he turned, he caught sight of a third exit. Almost opposite was themouth of Shottle Lane, which led off under trees, at right angles to thehighroad,uptoNewBrunswickColliery.Heveeredtowardstheoff-chanceofthisopening, inadeliriumof icyfury,andplungedaway into thedark lane,walkingslowly,onfirmlegs.

CHAPTERIII."THELIGHTEDTREE"

ItisremarkablehowmanyoddorextraordinarypeoplethereareinEngland.WehearcontinualcomplaintsofthestodgydullnessoftheEnglish.Itwouldbe quite as just to complain of their freakish, unusual characters. Only enmassethemetalisallBritannia.Inanuglylittleminingtownwefindtheoddonesjustasdistinctasanywhereelse.Only it happens that dull people invariablymeet dull people, and odd

individualsalwayscomeacrossoddindividuals,nomatterwheretheymaybe.Sothattoeachkindsocietyseemsallofapiece.Atoneendofthedarktree-coveredShottleLanestoodthe"RoyalOak"publichouse;andMrs.Houseleywascertainlyanoddwoman.At theotherendofthe lanewasShottleHouse,where theBricknells lived; theBricknellswereodd, also. Alfred Bricknell, the old man, was one of the partners in theCollieryfirm.HisEnglishwasincorrect,hisaccent,broadDerbyshire,andhewasnotagentlemaninthesnobbishsenseoftheword.Yethewaswell-to-do,andverystuck-up.Hiswifewasdead.ShottleHousestoodtwohundredyardsbeyondNewBrunswickColliery.Thecolliery was imbedded in a plantation, whence its burning pit-hill glowed,fumed, and stank sulphur in the nostrils of the Bricknells. Even war-timeeffortshadnotputout this refusefire.Apart fromthis,ShottleHousewasapleasant square house, rather old, with shrubberies and lawns. It ended thelaneinadeadend.Onlyafield-pathtrekkedawaytotheleft.OnthisparticularChristmasEveAlfredBricknellhadonlytwoofhischildrenat home. Of the others, one daughter was unhappily married, and away inIndiaweeping herself thinner; anotherwas nursing her babies in Streatham.Jim,thehopeofthehouse,andJulia,nowmarriedtoRobertCunningham,hadcomehomeforChristmas.Thepartywas seated in thedrawing-room, that thegrown-updaughtershadmadeveryfineduringtheirperiodsofcourtship.Itswallswerehungwithfinegrey canvas, it had a large, silvery grey, silky carpet, and the furniturewascoveredwithdarkgreensilkymaterial.Intothisreticencepiecesoffuturism,OmegacushionsandVan-Gogh-likepicturesexplodedtheircolours.SuchchicwouldcertainlynothavebeenlookedforupShottleLane.Theoldmansatinhishighgreyarm-chairverynearanenormouscoalfire.Inthishousetherewasnocoal-rationing.Thefinestcoalwasarrangedtoobtainagiganticglowsuchasacoal-ownermaywellenjoy,agreat,intensemassofpure red fire.At this fireAlfredBricknell toasted his tan, lambs-wool-linedslippers.Hewasalargeman,wearingaloosegreysuit,andsprawlinginthelargegreyarm-chair.The soft lamp-light fell onhis clean, bald,Michael-Angelohead,acrosswhicha fewpurehairsglittered.His chinwas sunkonhisbreast, sothat his sparse but strong-haired white beard, in which every strand stooddistinct,likespunglasslitheandelastic,curvednowupwardsandinwards,inacuriouscurvereturninguponhim.Heseemedtobesunkinstern,prophet-likemeditation.Asamatteroffact,hewasasleepafteraheavymeal.Across,seatedonapouffeontheothersideofthefire,wasacameo-likegirlwith neat black hair done tight and bright in the French mode. She had

strangely-drawneyebrows,andhercolourwasbrilliant.Shewashot,leaningbackbehindtheshaftofoldmarbleofthemantel-piece,toescapethefire.Sheworeasimpledressofapple-greensatin,withfullsleevesandampleskirtanda tiny bodice of green cloth. This was Josephine Ford, the girl Jim wasengagedto.JimBricknellhimselfwasatallbigfellowofthirty-eight.Hesatinachairinfrontofthefire,somedistanceback,andstretchedhislonglegsfarinfrontofhim.Hischin toowassunkonhisbreast,hisyoung foreheadwasbald,andraised in oddwrinkles, he had a silent half-grin on his face, a little tipsy, alittlesatyr-like.Hissmallmoustachewasreddish.Behindhimaroundtablewascoveredwithcigarettes,sweets,andbottles.Itwasevident JimBricknelldrankbeer forchoice.Hewanted toget fat—thatwas his idea.But he couldn't bring it off: hewas thin, though not too thin,excepttohisownthinking.HissisterJuliawasbunchedupinalowchairbetweenhimandhisfather.Shetoowasatallstagofathing,butshesatbuncheduplikeawitch.Sheworeawine-purpledress, her arms seemed topokeoutof the sleeves, and shehaddraggedherbrownhair intostraight,untidystrands.Yetshehadrealbeauty.She was talking to the young man who was not her husband: a fair, pale,fattish young fellow in pince-nez and dark clothes. This was Cyril Scott, afriend.Theonlyotherpersonstoodattheroundtablepouringoutredwine.Hewasafresh, stoutish young Englishman in khaki, Julia's husband, RobertCunningham,alieutenantabouttobedemobilised,whenhewouldbecomeasculptoroncemore.Hedrankredwineinlargethroatfuls,andhiseyesgrewalittlemoist.Theroomwashotandsubdued,everyonewassilent."I say," saidRobert suddenly, from the rear—"anybodyhave a drink?Don'tyoufinditratherhot?""Is thereanotherbottleofbeer there?"saidJim,withoutmoving, toosettledeventostiraneye-lid."Yes—Ithinkthereis,"saidRobert."Thanks—don'topenityet,"murmuredJim."Haveadrink,Josephine?"saidRobert."Nothankyou,"saidJosephine,bowingslightly.Finding the drinks did not go, Robert went round with the cigarettes.JosephineFordlookedatthewhiterolls."Thankyou,"shesaid,andtakingone,suddenlylickedherratherfull,dryredlipswith the rapid tipofher tongue. Itwas anoddmovement, suggestinga

snake's flicker. She put her cigarette between her lips, and waited. Hermovementswereveryquietandwellbred;butperhapstooquiet,theyhadthedangerous impassivity of the Bohemian, Parisian or American rather thanEnglish."Cigarette,Julia?"saidRoberttohiswife.Sheseemedtostartortwitch,asifdazed.Thenshelookedupatherhusbandwith a queer smile, puckering the corners of her eyes. He looked at thecigarettes, not at her.His face had the blunt voluptuous gravity of a younglion,agreatcat.Shekepthimstandingforsomemomentsimpassively.Thensuddenly she hung her long, delicate fingers over the box, in doubt, andspasmodicallyjabbedatthecigarettes,clumsilyrakingoneoutatlast."Thankyou,dear—thankyou,"shecried,ratherhigh,lookingupandsmilingonce more. He turned calmly aside, offering the cigarettes to Scott, whorefused."Oh!"saidJulia,suckingtheendofhercigarette."Robertissohappywithallthe good things—aren't you dear?" she sang, breaking into a hurried laugh."We aren't used to such luxurious living,we aren't—AREWEDEAR—No,we'renotsuchswellsasthis,we'renot.Oh,ROBBIE,isn'titallright,isn'titjustallright?"Shetailedoffintoherhurried,wild,repeatedlaugh."We'resohappyinalandofplenty,AREN'TWEDEAR?""DoyoumeanI'mgreedy,Julia?"saidRobert."Greedy!—Oh, greedy!—he asks if he's greedy?—no you're not greedy,Robbie,you'renotgreedy.Iwantyoutobehappy.""I'mquitehappy,"hereturned."Oh, he's happy!—Really!—he's happy! Oh, what an accomplishment! Oh,my word!" Julia puckered her eyes and laughed herself into a nervoustwitchingsilence.Robertwentroundwiththematches.Juliasuckedhercigarette."Giveusalight,Robbie,ifyouAREhappy!"shecried."It'scoming,"heanswered.Josephine smoked with short, sharp puffs. Julia sucked wildly at her light.Robert returned to his red wine. Jim Bricknell suddenly roused up, lookedroundonthecompany,smilingalittlevacuouslyandshowinghisodd,pointedteeth."Where'sthebeer?"heasked,indeeptones,smilingfullintoJosephine'sface,asifsheweregoingtoproduceitbysomesleightofhand.Thenhewheeledroundtothetable,andwassoonpouringbeerdownhisthroatasdownapipe.Then he dropped supine again. Cyril Scott was silently absorbing gin and

water."I say," said Jim, from the remote depths of his sprawling. "Isn't theresomethingwecoulddotowhilethetimeaway?"Everybodysuddenlylaughed—itsoundedsoremoteandabsurd."What, play bridge or poker or something conventional of that sort?" saidJosephineinherdistinctvoice,speakingtohimasifhewereachild."Oh, damn bridge," said Jim in his sleep-voice. Then he began pulling hispowerfullengthtogether.Hesatontheedgeofhischair-seat,leaningforward,peeringintoallthefacesandgrinning."Don't lookatmelikethat—solong—"saidJosephine,inherself-containedvoice."Youmakemeuncomfortable."Shegaveanoddlittlegruntofalaugh,and the tip of her tongue went over her lips as she glanced sharply, halffurtivelyroundtheroom."Ilikelookingatyou,"saidJim,hissmilebecomingmoremalicious."Butyoushouldn't,whenItellyounot,"shereturned.Jim twisted round to look at the state of the bottles. The father also cameawake.Hesatup."Isn'tittime,"hesaid,"thatyouallputawayyourglassesandcigarettesandthoughtofbed?"Jimrolledslowlyroundtowardshisfather,sprawlinginthelongchair."Ah,Dad,"hesaid,"tonight'sthenight!Tonight'ssomenight,Dad.—Youcansleepanytime—"hisgrinwidened—"buttherearen'tmanynightstosithere—likethis—Eh?"Hewas looking up all the time into the face of his father, full and nakedlyliftinghisface to thefaceofhisfather,andsmilingfixedly.Thefather,whowas perfectly sober, except for the contagion from the young people, felt awildtremorgothroughhisheartashegazedonthefaceofhisboy.Herosestiffly."Youwant to stay?" he said. "Youwant to stay!—Well then—well then, I'llleave you. But don't be long." The old man rose to his full height, rathermajestic. The four younger people also rose respectfully—only Jim lay stillprostrateinhischair,twistinguphisfacetowardshisfather."Youwon'tstaylong,"saidtheoldman,lookingroundalittlebewildered.Hewas seeking a responsible eye. Josephine was the only one who had anyfeelingforhim."No,wewon'tstaylong,Mr.Bricknell,"shesaidgravely."Goodnight,Dad,"saidJim,ashisfatherlefttheroom.

Josephinewenttothewindow.Shehadratherastiff,poupeewalk."How is thenight?" shesaid,as if tochange thewhole feeling in the room.Shepushedbackthethickgrey-silkcurtains."Why?"sheexclaimed."Whatisthatlightburning?Aredlight?""Oh,that'sonlythepit-bankonfire,"saidRobert,whohadfollowedher."Howstrange!—Whyisitburningnow?""Italwaysburns,unfortunately—itismostconsistentatit.Itistherefusefromthemines.Ithasbeenburningforyears,inspiteofalleffortstothecontrary.""Howverycurious!Maywelookatit?"JosephinenowturnedthehandleoftheFrenchwindows,andsteppedout."Beautiful!"theyheardhervoiceexclaimfromoutside.In the room, Julia laid her hand gently, protectively over the hand of CyrilScott."JosephineandRobertareadmiringthenighttogether!"shesaid,smilingwithsubtletendernesstohim."Naturally! Young people always do these romantic things," replied CyrilScott.Hewastwenty-twoyearsold,sohecouldaffordtobecynical."Dothey?—Don'tyouthinkit'sniceofthem?"shesaid,gentlyremovingherhandfromhis.Hiseyeswereshiningwithpleasure."Ido. Ienvy themenormously.Oneonlyneeds tobesufficientlynaive,"hesaid."Onedoes,doesn'tone!"cooedJulia."Isay,doyouhearthebells?"saidRobert,pokinghisheadintotheroom."No,dear!Doyou?"repliedJulia."Bells!Hearthebells!Bells!"exclaimedthehalf-tipsyandself-consciousJim.Andherolledinhischairinanexplosionofsudden,silentlaughter,showinghismouthfulofpointedteeth,likeadog.Thenhegraduallygatheredhimselftogether,foundhisfeet,smilingfixedly."Prettycoolnight!"hesaidaloud,whenhefelttheaironhisalmostbaldhead.Thedarknesssmeltofsulphur.JosephineandRoberthadmovedoutofsight.Juliawasabstracted,followingthemwithher eyes.With almost supernatural keenness she seemed to catchtheirvoicesfromthedistance."Yes, Josephine, WOULDN'T that be AWFULLY ROMANTIC!"—shesuddenlycalledshrilly.Thepairinthedistancestarted.

"What—!"theyheardJosephine'ssharpexclamation."What's that?—What would be romantic?" said Jim as he lurched up andcaughtholdofCyrilScott'sarm."Josephinewants tomakeagreat illuminationof thegroundsof theestate,"saidJulia,magniloquent."No—no—Ididn'tsayit,"remonstratedJosephine."WhatJosephinesaid,"explainedRobert,"wassimplythatitwouldbeprettytoputcandlesononeofthegrowingtrees,insteadofhavingaChristmas-treeindoors.""Oh,Josephine,howsweetofyou!"criedJulia.CyrilScottgiggled."Good egg!Champion idea, Josey,my lass.Eh?What—!" cried Jim. "Whynot carry it out—eh? Why not? Most attractive." He leaned forward overJosephine,andgrinned."Oh,no!"expostulated Josephine. "It all sounds so sillynow.No.Letusgoindoorsandgotobed.""NO, Josephine dear—No! It's a LOVELY IDEA!" cried Julia. "Let's getcandlesandlanternsandthings—""Let's!"grinnedJim."Let's,everybody—let's.""Shallwereally?"askedRobert. "Shallwe illuminateoneof the fir-treesbythelawn?""Yes!Howlovely!"criedJulia."I'llfetchthecandles.""Thewomenmustputonwarmcloaks,"saidRobert.They trooped indoors for coats and wraps and candles and lanterns. Then,lightedbyabicyclelamp,theytroopedofftotheshedtotwistwireroundthecandlesforholders.Theyclusteredroundthebench."Isay,"saidJulia,"doesn'tCyrillooklikeapilotonastormynight!Oh,Isay—!"andshewentintooneofherhurriedlaughs.They all looked at Cyril Scott, who was standing sheepishly in thebackground, inavery largeovercoat, smokinga largepipe.Theyoungmanwasuncomfortable,butassumedastoicairofphilosophicindifference.Soontheywerebusyroundapricklyfir-treeattheendofthelawn.Jimstoodin the background vaguely staring. The bicycle lamp sent a beam of strongwhitelightdeepintotheuncannyfoliage,headsclusteredandhandsworked.Thenightabovewassilent,dim.Therewasnowind.Intheneardistancetheycouldhearthepantingofsomeengineatthecolliery.

"Shallwe light them aswe fix them," askedRobert, "or save them for onegrandrocketattheend?""Oh, as we do them," said Cyril Scott, who had lacerated his fingers andwantedtoseesomereward.A match spluttered. One naked little flame sprang alight among the darkfoliage.Thecandleburnedtremulously,naked.Theyallweresilent."Weoughttodoaritualdance!Weoughttoworshipthetree,"sangJulia,inherhighvoice."Holdonaminute.We'llhavealittlemoreillumination,"saidRobert."Whyyes.Wewantmorethanonecandle,"saidJosephine.But Julia had dropped the cloak in which she was huddled, and with armsslung asunder was sliding, waving, crouching in a pas seul before the tree,lookinglikeananimatedboughherself.Jim,whowashugginghispipe in thebackground,broke intoashort,harsh,cacklinglaugh."Aren'twefools!"hecried."What?Oh,God'slove,aren'twefools!""No—why?"criedJosephine,amusedbutresentful.ButJimvouchsafednothingfurther,onlystoodlikeaRedIndiangrippinghispipe.Thebeamofthebicycle-lampmovedandfelluponthehandsandfacesoftheyoung people, and penetrated the recesses of the secret trees. Several littletonguesofflameclippedsensitiveandruddyonthenakedair,sendingafaintglowovertheneedlefoliage.Theygaveastrange,perpendicularaspirationinthenight.Juliawavedslowlyinhertreedance.Jimstoodapart,withhislegsstraddled,amotionlessfigure.Thepartyroundthetreebecameabsorbedandexcitedasmoreruddytonguesofflameprickedupwardfromthedarktree.Palecandlesbecameevident,theairwasluminous.Theilluminationwasbecomingcomplete,harmonious.Josephinesuddenlylookedround."Why-y-y!"cameherlongnoteofalarm.Amaninabowlerhatandablackovercoatstoodontheedgeofthetwilight."Whatisit?"criedJulia."Homo sapiens!" said Robert, the lieutenant. "Hand the light, Cyril." Heplayed thebeamof light full on the intruder; aman in abowlerhat,with ablackovercoatbuttonedtohisthroat,apale,dazed,blinkingface.Thehatwastiltedataslightlyjauntyangleoverthelefteye,themanwaswell-featured.Hedidnotspeak.

"Didyouwantanything?"askedRobert,frombehindthelight.AaronSissonblinked,tryingtoseewhoaddressedhim.Tohim,theywereallillusory.Hedidnotanswer."Anythingyouwanted?"repeatedRobert,military,ratherperemptory.Jim suddenly doubled himself up and burst into a loud harsh cackle oflaughter. Whoop! he went, and doubled himself up with laughter. Whoop!Whoop!hewent,andfellonthegroundandwrithedwithlaughter.Hewasinthatstateofintoxicationwhenhecouldfindnoreleasefrommaddeningself-consciousness.Heknewwhathewasdoing,hediditdeliberately.Andyethewasalsobesidehimself, ina sortofhysterics.Hecouldnothelphimself inexasperatedself-consciousness.Theothersallbegantolaugh,unavoidably.Itwasacontagion.Theylaughedhelplesslyandfoolishly.OnlyRobertwasanxious."I'mafraidhe'llwakethehouse,"hesaid,lookingatthedoubledupfigureofJimwrithingonthegrassandwhoopingloudly."Ornotenough,"putinCyrilScott.HetwiggedJim'scondition."No—no!"criedJosephine,weakwithlaughinginspiteofherself."No—it'stoolong—I'mliketodielaughing—"Jimembraced theearth inhis convulsions.EvenRobert shookquiteweaklywithlaughter.Hisfacewasred,hiseyesfullofdancingwater.Yethemanagedtoarticulate."Isay,youknow,you'llbringtheoldmandown."Thenhewentoffagainintospasms."Hu!Hu!"whoopedJim,subsiding."Hu!"Herolledoverontohisback,andlaysilent.Theothersalsobecameweaklysilent."What'samiss?"saidAaronSisson,breakingthisspell.Theyallbegantolaughagain,exceptJim,wholayonhisbacklookingupatthestrangesky."What'reyoulaughingat?"repeatedAaron."We're laughing at theman on the ground," replied Josephine. "I think he'sdrunkalittletoomuch.""Ay,"saidAaron,standingmuteandobstinate."Didyouwantanything?"Robertenquiredoncemore."Eh?"Aaronlookedup."Me?No,notme."Asortofinertiakepthimrooted.The young people looked at one another and began to laugh, rather

embarrassed."Another!"saidCyrilScottcynically.Theywishedhewouldgoaway.Therewasapause."Whatdoyoureckonstarsare?"askedthesepulchralvoiceofJim.Hestilllayflatonhisbackonthegrass.Josephinewenttohimandpulledathiscoat."Getup,"shesaid."You'lltakecold.Getupnow,we'regoingindoors.""Whatdoyoureckonstarsare?"hepersisted.AaronSissonstoodontheedgeofthelight,smilinglystaringatthescene,likeaboyoutofhisplace,butstubbornlykeepinghisground."Getupnow,"saidJosephine."We'vehadenough."ButJimwouldnotmove.RobertwentwiththebicyclelampandstoodatAaron'sside."ShallIshowyoualighttotheroad—you'reoffyourtrack,"hesaid."You'reinthegroundsofShottleHouse.""Icanfindmyroad,"saidAaron."Thankyou."Jimsuddenlygotupandwenttopeeratthestranger,pokinghisfaceclosetoAaron'sface."Right-o,"hereplied."You'renothalfabadsortofchap—Cheery-o!What'syourdrink?""Mine—whiskey,"saidAaron."Come in and have one.We're the only sober couple in the bunch—what?"criedJim.Aaron stood unmoving, static in everything. Jim took him by the armaffectionately.Thestrangerlookedattheflickeringtree,withitstiersoflights."AChristmastree,"hesaid,jerkinghisheadandsmiling."That's right, old man," said Jim, seeming thoroughly sober now. "Comeindoorsandhaveadrink."AaronSissonnegativelyallowedhimselftobeledoff.Theothersfollowedinsilence,leavingthetreetoflickerthenightthrough.Thestrangerstumbledattheopenwindow-door."Mindthestep,"saidJimaffectionately.They crowded to the fire,whichwas still hot. The newcomer looked roundvaguely.Jimtookhisbowlerhatandgavehimachair.Hesatwithoutlookinground, a remote, abstract look on his face. Hewas very pale, and seemed-inwardlyabsorbed.

The party threw off their wraps and sat around. Josephine turned to AaronSisson,whosatwithaglassofwhiskeyinhishand,ratherslackinhischair,inhisthickishovercoat.Hedidnotwanttodrink.Hishairwasblond,quitetidy,hismouthandchinhandsomebuta littleobstinate,hiseyes inscrutable.Hispallor was not natural to him. Though he kept the appearance of a smile,underneathhewashardandopposed.Hedidnotwishtobewiththesepeople,andyet,mechanically,hestayed."Doyoufeelquitewell?"Josephineaskedhim.Helookedatherquickly."Me?" he said.He smiled faintly. "Yes, I'm all right." Then he dropped hisheadagainandseemedoblivious."Tellusyourname,"saidJimaffectionately.Thestrangerlookedup."Myname'sAaronSisson,ifit'sanythingtoyou,"hesaid.Jimbegantogrin."It'sanameIdon'tknow,"hesaid.Thenhenamedallthepartypresent.Butthestrangerhardlyheeded,thoughhiseyeslookedcuriouslyfromonetotheother,slow,shrewd,clairvoyant."Wereyouonyourwayhome?"askedRobert,huffy.Thestrangerliftedhisheadandlookedathim."Home!"herepeated."No.Theotherroad—"Heindicatedthedirectionwithhishead,andsmiledfaintly."Beldover?"inquiredRobert."Yes."Hehaddroppedhisheadagain,asifhedidnotwanttolookatthem.ToJosephine,thepale,impassive,blank-seemingface,theblueeyeswiththesmile which wasn't a smile, and the continual dropping of the well-shapedheadwascuriouslyaffecting.Shewantedtocry."Areyouaminer?"Robertasked,dehauteenbas."No,"criedJosephine.Shehadlookedathishands."Men'scheckweighman," repliedAaron.Hehademptiedhisglass.Heput itonthetable."Haveanother?"saidJim,whowasattendingfixedly,withcuriousabsorption,tothestranger."No,"criedJosephine,"nomore."

Aaron lookedat Jim, thenather, and smiled slowly,with remotebitterness.Thenheloweredhisheadagain.Hishandswerelooselyclaspedbetweenhisknees."Whataboutthewife?"saidRobert—theyounglieutenant."Whataboutthewifeandkiddies?You'reamarriedman,aren'tyou?"Thesardoniclookofthestrangerrestedonthesubaltern."Yes,"hesaid."Won'ttheybeexpectingyou?"saidRobert,tryingtokeephistemperandhistoneofauthority."Iexpecttheywill—""Thenyou'dbetterbegettingalong,hadn'tyou?"Theeyesoftheintruderrestedallthetimeontheflushedsubaltern.ThelookonAaron'sfacebecameslowlysatirical."Oh,dryup thearmytouch,"saidJimcontemptuously, toRobert."We'reallcivvieshere.We'reallright,aren'twe?"hesaidloudly,turningtothestrangerwithagrinthatshowedhispointedteeth.Aarongaveabrieflaughofacknowledgement."Howmanychildrenhaveyou?"sangJuliafromherdistance."Three.""Girlsorboys?""Girls.""Allgirls?Dearlittlethings!Howold?""Oldesteight—youngestninemonths—""So small!" sang Julia,with real tenderness now—Aaron dropped his head."Butyou'regoinghome to them,aren'tyou?"saidJosephine, inwhoseeyesthetearshadalreadyrisen.Helookedupather,athertears.Hisfacehadthesamepaleperversesmile."Nottonight,"hesaid."Butwhy?You'rewrong!"criedJosephine.Hedroppedhisheadandbecameoblivious."Well!" saidCyrilScott, risingat lastwithaboredexclamation. "I think I'llretire.""Willyou?"saidJulia,alsorising."You'llfindyourcandleoutside."She went out. Scott bade good night, and followed her. The four peopleremainedintheroom,quitesilent.ThenRobertroseandbegantowalkabout,

agitated."Don'tyougobackto'em.Haveanightout.Youstopheretonight,"Jimsaidsuddenly,inaquietintimatetone.Thestrangerturnedhisheadandlookedathim,considering."Yes?"hesaid.Heseemedtobesmilingcoldly."Oh, but!" cried Josephine. "Your wife and your children! Won't they beawfullybothered?Isn'titawfullyunkindtothem?"She rose in her eagerness.He sat turning up his face to her. She could notunderstandhisexpression."Won'tyougohometothem?"shesaid,hysterical."Nottonight,"herepliedquietly,againsmiling."You're wrong!" she cried. "You're wrong!" And so she hurried out of theroomintears."Er—what bed do you propose to put him in?" askedRobert rather officer-like."Don'tproposeatall,mylad,"repliedJim,ironically—hedidnotlikeRobert.Thentothestrangerhesaid:"You'llbeallrightonthecouchinmyroom?—it'sagoodcouch,bigenough,plentyofrugs—"Hisvoicewaseasyandintimate.Aaronlookedathim,andnodded.They had another drink each, and at last the two set off, rather stumbling,upstairs.Aaroncarriedhisbowlerhatwithhim.Robertremainedpacinginthedrawing-roomforsometime.Thenhewentout,toreturninalittlewhile.Heextinguishedthelampsandsawthatthefirewassafe.Thenhewent to fasten thewindow-doorssecurely.Outsidehesaw theuncannyglimmerofcandlesacrossthelawn.Hehadhalfamindtogooutandextinguishthem—buthedidnot.Sohewentupstairsandthehousewasquiet.Faintcrumbsofsnowwerefallingoutside.WhenJimwokeinthemorningAaronhadgone.OnlyonthefloorweretwopacketsofChristmas-treecandles, fallenfromthestranger'spockets.Hehadgone through the drawing-room door, as he had come. The housemaid saidthatwhileshewascleaningthegrateinthedining-roomsheheardsomeonegointo the drawing-room: a parlour-maid had even seen someone come out ofJim'sbedroom.But theyhadboth thought itwasJimhimself, forhewasanunsettledhousemate.Therewasathinfilmofsnow,alovelyChristmasmorning.

CHAPTERIV."THEPILLAROFSALT"

Ourstorywillnotyetseedaylight.AfewdaysafterChristmas,Aaronsatinthe open shed at the bottom of his own garden, looking out on the rainydarkness.Nooneknewhewasthere.Itwassometimeaftersixintheevening.Fromwherehesat,he lookedstraightup thegarden to thehouse.Theblindwasnotdrawninthemiddlekitchen,hecouldseethefiguresofhiswifeandonechild.Therewasa lightalso in theupstairswindow.Hiswifewasgoneupstairsagain.Hewondered if shehad thebaby ill.Hecouldseeher figurevaguely behind the lace curtains of the bedroom. It was like looking at hishomethroughthewrongendofatelescope.Nowthelittlegirlshadgonefromthemiddleroom:onlytoreturninamoment.His attention strayed. Hewatched the light falling from the window of thenext-door house.Uneasily, he looked along thewhole range of houses. Thestreet sloped down-hill, and the backswere open to the fields. So he saw acurioussuccessionoflightedwindows,betweenwhichjuttedtheintermediarybackpremises,sculleryandouthouse, indark littleblocks. Itwassomethinglikethekeyboardofapiano:morestill,likeasuccessionofmusicalnotes.Forthe rectangular planes of lightwere of different intensities, somebright andkeen,somesoft,warm,likecandle-light,andtherewasonesurfaceofpureredlight,oneortwowerealmostinvisible,darkgreen.Sothelongscaleoflightsseemedtotrillacrossthedarkness,nowbright,nowdim,swellingandsinking.Theeffectwasstrange.Andthusthewholeprivatelifeofthestreetwasthreadedinlights.Therewasasenseofindecentexposure,fromsomanybacks.Hefelthimselfalmostinphysicalcontactwith thiscontiguousstretchofbackpremises.Heheard thefamiliarsoundofwatergushingfromthesinkintothegrate,thedroppingofapail outside the door, the clink of a coal shovel, the banging of a door, thesoundofvoices.Somanyhousescheekbyjowl,somanysquirminglives,somanybackyards,backdoorsgivingontothenight.Itwasrevolting.Awayinthestreetitself,aboywascallingthenewspaper:"—'NINGPOST!—'NING PO-O-ST!" It was a long, melancholy howl, and seemed toepitomise the whole of the dark, wet, secretive, thickly-inhabited night. AfigurepassedthewindowofAaron'sownhouse,entered,andstoodinsidetheroom talking toMrs.Sisson. Itwasayoungwoman inabrownmackintoshand a black hat. She stood under the incandescent light, and her hat nearlyknockedtheglobe.Nextdooramanhadrunoutinhisshirtsleeves:thistimea young, dark-headed collier running to the gate for a newspaper, runningbare-headed, coatless, slippered in the rain.He had got his news-sheet, andwas returning. And just at that moment the young man's wife came out,

shadinghercandlewithaladingtin.Shewasgoingtothecoal-houseforsomecoal.Herhusbandpassedheron the threshold.Shecouldbeheardbreakingthebitsofcoalandplacingthemonthedustpan.Thelightfromhercandlefellfaintlybehindher.Thenshewentback,blownbyaswirlofwind.Butagainshewasatthedoor,hastilystandingherironshovelagainstthewall.Thensheshutthebackdoorwithabang.Thesenoisesseemedtoscrapeandstrikethenight.In Aaron's own house, the young person was still talking to Mrs. Sisson.Millicent cameout, shelteringa candlewithherhand.Thecandleblewout.She ran indoors,andemergedagain,herwhitepinafore fluttering.This timesheperformedherlittlejourneysafely.Hecouldseethefaintglimmerofhercandleemergingsecretlyfromthecloset.The young person was taking her leave. He could hear her sympathetic—"Well—goodnight!Ihopeshe'llbenoworse.GoodnightMrs.Sisson!"Shewas gone—he heard the windy bang of the street-gate. Presently Millicentemergedagain,flittingindoors.Soherosetohisfeet,balancing,swayingalittlebeforehestartedintomotion,assomanycolliersdo.Thenhemovedalongthepath towards thehouse, intherainanddarkness,veryslowlyedgingforwards.Suddenlythedooropened.Hiswifeemergedwithapail.Hesteppedquietlyaside,ontohissidegarden,amongthesweetherbs.Hecouldsmellrosemaryandsageandhyssop.Alowwalldividedhisgardenfromhisneighbour's.Heput his handon it, on itswetness, ready to dropover shouldhiswife comeforward.Butsheonlythrewthecontentsofherpailonthegardenandretiredagain.Shemighthaveseenhimhadshelooked.Heremainedstandingwherehe was, listening to the trickle of rain in the water-butt. The hollowcountryside laybeyondhim.Sometimes in thewindydarknesshe could seetheredburnofNewBrunswickbank,orthebrilliantjewelsoflightclusteredatBestwoodColliery.Awayinthedarkhollow,nearer,theglareoftheelectricpower-stationdisturbedthenight.Soagainthewindswirledtherainacrossallthesehieroglyphsofthecountryside,familiartohimashisownbreast.A motor-car was labouring up the hill. His trained ear attended to itunconsciously. It stopped with a jar. There was a bang of the yard-gate. Ashortishdarkfigureinabowlerhatpassedthewindow.Millicentwasdrawingdowntheblind.Itwasthedoctor.Theblindwasdrawn,hecouldseenomore.Stealthilyhebegan toapproach thehouse.Hestoodby theclimbingroseoftheporch, listening.Heheardvoicesupstairs.Perhapsthechildrenwouldbedownstairs.Helistenedintently.Voiceswereupstairsonly.Hequietlyopenedthe door. The room was empty, save for the baby, who was cooing in hercradle.Hecrossedtothehall.Atthefootofthestairshecouldhearthevoice

oftheIndiandoctor:"Nowlittlegirl,youmustjustkeepstillandwarminbed,andnotcryforthemoon."Hesaid"demoon,"justasever.—Marjorymustbeill.SoAaronquietlyentered theparlour. Itwasacold,clammyroom,dark.Hecould hear footsteps passing outside on the asphalt pavement below thewindow, and thewind howlingwith familiar cadence.He began feeling forsomethinginthedarknessofthemusic-rackbesidethepiano.Hetouchedandfelt—hecouldnotfindwhathewanted.Perplexed,heturnedandlookedoutofthewindow.Throughtheironrailingofthefrontwallhecouldseethelittlemotorcarsendingitsstraightbeamsoflightinfrontofit,upthestreet.Hesatdownonthesofabythewindow.Theenergyhadsuddenlyleftallhislimbs.He satwith his head sunk, listening. The familiar room, the familiarvoiceofhiswifeandhischildren—hefeltweakasifheweredying.Hefeltweak like a drowningmanwho acquiesces in the waters. His strength wasgone,hewassinkingback.Hewouldsinkbacktoitall,floathenceforthlikeadrownedman.So he heard voices coming nearer from upstairs, feet moving. They werecomingdown."No,Mrs.Sisson,youneedn'tworry,"heheardthevoiceofthedoctoronthestairs."Ifshegoesonassheis,she'llbeallright.Onlyshemustbekeptwarmandquiet—warmandquiet—that'sthechiefthing.""Oh,whenshehasthoseboutsIcan'tbearit,"Aaronheardhiswife'svoice.Theyweredownstairs.Theirfeetclick-clickedonthetiledpassage.Theyhadgoneintothemiddleroom.Aaronsatandlistened."Shewon'thaveanymorebouts. If shedoes,givehera fewdrops fromthelittlebottle,andraiseherup.Butshewon'thaveanymore,"thedoctorsaid."Ifshedoes,Is'llgooffmyhead,IknowIshall.""No,youwon't.No,youwon'tdoanythingofthesort.Youwon'tgooffyourhead.You'llkeepyourheadonyourshoulders,whereitoughttobe,"protestedthedoctor."Butitnearlydrivesmemad.""Thendon't let it.Thechildwon't die, I tell you.Shewill be all right,withcare.Who have you got sitting up with her? You're not to sit up with hertonight,Itellyou.Doyouhearme?""MissSmitham's coming in.But it's nogood—Ishall have to sit up. I shallHAVEto.""Itellyouyouwon't.YouobeyME.Iknowwhat'sgoodforyouaswellasforher.Iamthinkingofyouasmuchasofher."

"ButIcan'tbearit—allalone."Thiswasthebeginningoftears.Therewasadeadsilence—thenasoundofMillicentweepingwithhermother.Asamatteroffact,thedoctorwasweepingtoo,forhewasanemotionalsympatheticsoul,overforty."Never mind—never mind—you aren't alone," came the doctor's matter-of-fact voice, after a loud nose-blowing. "I am here to help you. I will dowhateverIcan—whateverIcan.""Ican'tbearit.Ican'tbearit,"weptthewoman.Anothersilence,anothernose-blowing,andagainthedoctor:"You'llHAVEtobear it—Itellyou there'snothingelsefor it.You'llhave tobear it—butwe'lldoourbest foryou. Iwilldomybest foryou—always—ALWAYS—in sickness or out of sickness—There!" He pronounced thereoddly,notquitedhere."Youhaven'theardfromyourhusband?"headded."Ihadaletter—"—sobs—"fromthebankthismorning.""FROMDEBANK?""Telling me they were sending me so much per month, from him, as anallowance,andthathewasquitewell,buthewastravelling.""Wellthen,whynotlethimtravel?Youcanlive.""Buttoleavemealone,"therewasburningindignationinhervoice."Togooffandleavemewitheveryresponsibility,toleavemewithalltheburden.""WellIwouldn'ttroubleabouthim.Aren'tyoubetteroffwithouthim?""I am. I am," she cried fiercely. "When I got that letter thismorning, I saidMAYEVILBEFALLYOU,YOUSELFISHDEMON.AndIhopeitmay.""Well-well,well-well,don'tfret.Don'tbeangry,itwon'tmakeitanybetter,Itellyou.""Angry!IAMangry.I'mworsethanangry.AweekagoIhadn'tagreyhairinmyhead.Nowlookhere—"Therewasapause."Well-well,well-well,nevermind.Youwillbeallright,don'tyoubother.Yourhairisbeautifulanyhow.""Whatmakesmesomad is thatheshouldgooff like that—neveraword—coollytakeshishook.Icouldkillhimforit.""Wereyoueverhappytogether?""Wewereallrightatfirst.IknowIwasfondofhim.Buthe'dkillanything.—Hekepthimselfback,alwayskepthimselfback,couldn'tgivehimself—"Therewasapause.

"Ah well," sighed the doctor. "Marriage is a mystery. I'm glad I'm notentangledinit.""Yes,tomakesomewoman'slifeamisery.—I'msureitwasdeathtolivewithhim,heseemedtokilleverythingoffinsideyou.Hewasamanyoucouldn'tquarrelwith,andgetitover.Quiet—quietinhistempers,andselfishthroughandthrough.I'velivedwithhimtwelveyears—Iknowwhatitis.Killing!Youdon'tknowwhathewas—""IthinkIknewhim.Afairman?Yes?"saidthedoctor."Fairtolookat.—There'saphotographofhimintheparlour—takenwhenhewasmarried—andoneofme.—Yes,he'sfairhaired."Aaronguessedthatshewasgettingacandletocomeintotheparlour.Hewastempted towaitandmeet them—andaccept itallagain.Devilishly tempted,he was. Then he thought of her voice, and his heart went cold. Quick asthought, he obeyed his first impulse.He felt behind the couch, on the floorwherethecurtainsfell.Yes—thebagwasthere.Hetookitatonce.Inthenextbreathhesteppedoutoftheroomandtip-toedintothepassage.Heretreatedtothefarend,near thestreetdoor,andstoodbehindthecoats thathungonthehall-stand.Atthatmomenthiswifecameintothepassage,holdingacandle.Shewasred-eyedwithweeping,andlookedfrail."DidYOUleavetheparlourdooropen?"sheaskedofMillicent,suspiciously."No,"saidMillicentfromthekitchen.Thedoctor,withhissoft,OrientaltreadfollowedMrs.Sissonintotheparlour.Aaronsawhiswifeholdupthecandlebeforehisportraitandbegintoweep.Butheknewher.Thedoctorlaidhishandsoftlyonherarm,andleftitthere,sympathetically. Nor did he remove it when Millicent stole into the room,lookingverywoe-begoneandimportant.Thewifeweptsilently,andthechildjoinedin."Yes,Iknowhim,"saidthedoctor."Ifhethinkshewillbehappierwhenhe'sgone away, youmust be happier too,Mrs. Sisson. That's all. Don't let himtriumphoveryoubymakingyoumiserable.Youenjoyyourselfaswell.You'reonlyagirl—-"Butatearcamefromhiseye,andheblewhisnosevigorouslyonalargewhitesilkhandkerchief,andbegantopolishhispincenez.Thenheturned,andtheyallbundledoutoftheroom.Thedoctortookhisdeparture.Mrs.Sissonwentalmostimmediatelyupstairs,andMillicentshortlycreptafterher.ThenAaron,whohadstoodmotionlessasifturnedtoapillarofsalt,wentquietlydownthepassageandintothelivingroom.Hisfacewasverypale,ghastly-looking.Hecaughtaglimpseofhimself

inthemirroroverthemantel,ashepassed,andfeltweak,asifhewerereallya criminal. But his heart did not relax, nevertheless. So he hurried into thenight,downthegarden,climbedthefenceintothefield,andwentawayacrossthefieldintherain,towardsthehighroad.Hefeltsickineveryfibre.Healmosthatedthelittlehandbaghecarried,whichheldhisfluteandpiccolo.Itseemedaburdenjustthen—amillstoneroundhisneck.Hehatedthescenehehadleft—andhehatedthehard,inviolableheartthatstuckunchanginginhisownbreast.Coming to the high-road, he saw a tall, luminous tram-car roving alongthroughtherain.The tramsranacrosscountryfromtownto town.Hedarednotboard,becausepeopleknewhim.Sohetookasideroad,andwalkedinadetourfortwomiles.Thenhecameoutonthehigh-roadagainandwaitedforatram-car.Therainblewonhisface.Hewaitedalongtimeforthelastcar.

CHAPTERV.ATTHEOPERA

A friend had given Josephine Ford a box at the opera for one evening; ourstory continues by night. The box was large and important, near the stage.JosephineandJuliawerethere,withRobertandJim—alsotwomoremen.Thewomensatinthefrontofthebox,conspicuously.Theywerebothpoor,theywere rather excited. But they belonged to a set which looked on socialtriumphs as a downfall that one allows oneself. The two men, Lilly andStruthers, were artists, the former literary, the latter a painter. Lilly sat byJosephineinthefrontofthebox:hewasherlittlelionoftheevening.Fewwomen can sit in the front of a big box, on a crowded and full-swingopera night,without thrilling and dilating. There is an intoxication in beingthus thrust forward, conspicuous and enhanced, right in the eye of the vastcrowdthatlinesthehollowshelloftheauditorium.ThusevenJosephineandJulia leaned their elbows and poised their heads regally, lookingcondescendinglydownuponthewatchfulworld.Theyweretwopoorwomen,havingnothingtodowithsociety.Halfbohemians.Josephine was an artist. In Paris she was a friend of a very fashionabledressmaker and decorator, master of modern elegance. Sometimes shedesigneddressesforhim,andsometimessheacceptedfromhimacommissiontodecoratearoom.Usuallyatherlastsou,itgaveherpleasuretodisposeofcostlyandexquisitethingsforotherpeople,andthenberidofthem.Thiseveningherdresswasasimple,butamarvellouslypoisedthingofblackand silver: in thewords of the correct journal.With her tight, black, brighthair, her arched brows, her dusky-ruddy face and her bare shoulders; her

strange equanimity, her long, slow, slanting looks; she looked foreign andfrightening,clearasacameo,butdark,faroff.JuliawastheEnglishbeauty,inalovelybluedress.Herhairwasbecominglyuntidyonherlowbrow,herdarkblueeyeswanderedandgot excited,hernervousmouth twitched.Herhigh-pitched,sing-songvoiceandherhurried laughcouldbeheard in the theatre.Shetwistedabeautifullittlefanthatadeadartisthadgivenher.Not being fashionable, they were in the boxwhen the overture began. TheoperawasVerdi—Aida. If it is impossible to be in an important box at theoperawithoutexperiencingthestrangeintoxicationofsocialpre-eminence,itisjustasimpossibletobetherewithoutsomefeelingofhorroratthesightthestagepresents.Josephine leaned her elbow and looked down: she knew how arresting thatproud,ratherstiffbendofherheadwas.ShehadsomeaboriginalAmericaninherblood.Butas she looked, shepursedhermouth.Theartist inher forgoteverything,shewasfilledwithdisgust.TheshamEgyptofAidahidfromhernothingofitsshame.Thesingerswereallcolour-washed,deliberatelycolour-washedtoabrightorangetint.Themenhadoblongdabsofblackwoolundertheirlowerlip;thebeardofthemightyPharaohs.Thisoblongdabshookandwaggedtothesinging.The vulgar bodies of the fleshywomenwere unendurable. They all lookedsuch goodmeat.Whywere their haunches so prominent? Itwas a questionJosephine could not solve. She scanned their really expensive, brilliantclothing.Itwasnearlyright—nearlysplendid.Itonlylackedthatlastsubtletywhichtheworldalwayslacks,thelastfinalclinchingwhichputscalmintoaseaoffabric,andyetistheoppositepoletomachinefixity.But the leading tenorwas the chief pain.Hewas large, stout, swathed in acummerbund,andlookedlikeaeunuch.Thisfattish,emasculatedlookseemscommoninstageheroes—eventheextremelypopular.Thetenorsangbravely,hismouthmade a large, coffin-shaped, yawning gap in his orange face, hislittlebeardflutteredoddly,likeatail.HeturneduphiseyestoJosephine'sboxas he sang—that being the regulation direction. Meanwhile his abdomenshookashecaughthisbreath,thefleshofhisfat,nakedarmsswayed.Josephine looked downwith the fixed gravity of aRed Indian, immovable,inscrutable. Itwasnot till the scenewasended that she liftedherheadas ifbreakingaspell,sentthepointofhertonguerapidlyoverherdriedlips,andlookedroundintothebox.Herbrowneyesexpressedshame,fear,anddisgust.Acuriousgrimacewentoverherface—agrimaceonlytobeexpressedbytheexclamation Merde! But she was mortally afraid of society, and its fixedinstitutions.Rapidlyshescannedtheeyesofherfriendsinthebox.SherestedontheeyesofLilly,adark,uglyman.

"Isn'titnasty?"shesaid."Youshouldn't looksoclosely,"hesaid.Buthetookitcalmly,easily,whilstshefeltfloodsofburningdisgust,alongingtodestroyitall."Oh-ho-ho!"laughedJulia."It'ssofu-nny—sofunny!""Ofcoursewearetoonear,"saidRobert."Sayyouadmirethatpinkfondantoverthere,"saidStruthers,indicatingwithhiseyebrowsablondlargewomaninwhitesatinwithpinkedging,whosatinaboxopposite,ontheuppertier."Oh, the fondant—exactly—the fondant!Yes, I admire her immensely! Isn'tsheexactlyIT!"sangJulia.Josephinewasscanningtheauditorium.Somanymyriadsoffaces—likebeadson a bead-work pattern—all bead-work, in different layers. She bowed tovariousacquaintances—mostlyAmericans inuniform,whomshehadknowninParis. She smiled toLadyCochrane, twoboxes off—LadyCochranehadgivenherthebox.Butshefeltrathercoldlytowardsher.Thecurtainrose,theoperawounditsslowlengthalong.Theaudiencelovedit.Theycheeredwithmadenthusiasm.Josephinelookeddownonthechoppyseaofapplause,whiteglovesclapping,headsshaking.Thenoisewasstrangeandrattling.Whatacuriousmultipleobjecta theatre-audiencewas!Itseemedtohave a million heads, a million hands, and one monstrous, unnaturalconsciousness.Thesingersappearedbeforethecurtain—theapplauseroseuplikecloudsofdust."Oh,isn'tittoowonderful!"criedJulia."Iamwildwithexcitement.Areyouallofyou?""Absolutelywild,"saidLillylaconically."WhereisScottto-night?"askedStruthers.Juliaturnedtohimandgavehimalong,queerlookfromherdarkblueeyes."He'sinthecountry,"shesaid,ratherenigmatic."Don't you know, he's got a house down in Dorset," said Robert, verballyrushingin."HewantsJuliatogodownandstay.""Isshegoing?"saidLilly."Shehasn'tdecided,"repliedRobert."Oh!What'stheobjection?"askedStruthers."Well,nonewhatsoever,asfarascanbeseen,except thatshecan'tmakeuphermind,"repliedRobert."Julia'sgotnomind,"saidJimrudely.

"Oh!Hearthebrotherlyverdict!"laughedJuliahurriedly."YoumeantogodowntoDorsetalone!"saidStruthers."Whynot?"repliedRobert,answeringforher."Andstayhowlong?""Oh—aslongasitlasts,"saidRobertagain."Startingwitheternity,"saidLilly,"andworkingbacktoafortnight.""Andwhat'sthematter?—looksbadintheeyesoftheworld?""Yes—aboutthat.Afraidofcompromisingherself—"Lillylookedatthem."Dependswhatyoutaketheworldtomean.Doyoumeanusinthisbox,orthecrewoutsidethere?"hejerkedhisheadtowardstheauditorium."Doyouthink,Lilly,thatwe'retheworld?"saidRobertironically."Oh,yes,Iguesswe'reshipwreckedinthisbox,likeRobinsonCrusoes.Andwhatwe do on our own little islandmatters to us alone.As for the infinitecrowdsofhowlingsavagesoutsidethereintheunspeakable,allyou'vegottodoismindtheydon'tscrapyou.""ButWON'Tthey?"saidStruthers."Notunlessyouputyourheadintheirhands,"saidLilly."Idon'tknow—"saidJim.Butthecurtainhadrisen,theyhushedhimintosilence.Allthroughthenextscene,Juliapuzzledherself,astowhethersheshouldgodowntothecountryandlivewithScott.Shehadcarriedonanervouskindofamourwith him, based on soul sympathy and emotional excitement. Butwhethertogoandlivewithhim?Shedidn'tknowifshewantedtoornot:andshe couldn't for her life findout.Shewas in that nervous statewhendesireseemstoevaporatethemomentfulfilmentisoffered.Whenthecurtaindroppedsheturned."Yousee,"shesaid,screwinguphereyes,"IhavetothinkofRobert."Shecutthewordintwo,withanoddlittlehitchinhervoice—"ROB-ert.""My dear Julia, can't you believe that I'm tired of being thought of," criedRobert,flushing.Juliascreweduphereyesinaslowsmile,oddlycogitating."Well,whoAMItothinkof?"sheasked."Yourself,"saidLilly."Oh,yes!Why,yes!Ineverthoughtofthat!"Shegaveahurriedlittlelaugh.

"Butthenit'snoFUNtothinkaboutoneself,"shecriedflatly."IthinkaboutROB-ert, and SCOTT." She screwed up her eyes and peered oddly at thecompany."Whichofthemwillfindyouthegreatesttreat,"saidLillysarcastically."Anyhow,"interjectedRobertnervously,"itwillbesomethingnewforScott.""Stalebunsforyou,oldboy,"saidJimdrily."Idon't sayso.But—"exclaimed theflushed, full-bloodedRobert,whowasnothingifnotcourteoustowomen."Howlongha'youbeenmarried?Eh?"askedJim."Sixyears!"sangJuliasweetly."GoodGod!""Yousee,"saidRobert,"Juliacan'tdecideanythingforherself.Shewaitsforsomeoneelsetodecide,thensheputsherspokein.""Putitplainly—"beganStruthers."Butdon'tyouknow,it'snoUSEputtingitplainly,"criedJulia."ButDOyouwanttobewithScott,outandout,orDON'Tyou?"saidLilly."Exactly!"chimedRobert."That'sthequestionforyoutoanswerJulia.""IWON'Tanswerit,"shecried."WhyshouldI?"Andshelookedawayintotherestlesshiveofthetheatre.Shespokesowildlythatsheattractedattention.Butithalfpleasedher.Shestaredabstractedlydownatthepit.Themenlookedatoneanotherinsomecomicconsternation."Oh,damnitall!"saidthelongJim,risingandstretchinghimself."She'sdeadnutsonScott.She'salloverhim.She'dhaveelopedwithhimweeksagoifithadn'tbeensoeasy.Shecan'tstandit thatRobertoffers tohandher intothetaxi."He gave hismalevolent grin round the company, thenwent out.He did notreappearforthenextscene."Ofcourse,ifshelovesScott—"beganStruthers.Juliasuddenlyturnedwithwilddesperation,andcried:"Ilikehimtremendously—tre-men-dous-ly!HeDOESunderstand.""Whichwedon't,"saidRobert.Julia smiled her long, odd smile in their faces: one might almost say shesmiledintheirteeth."WhatdoYOUthink,Josephine?"askedLilly.Josephinewasleaningfroward.Shestarted.Hertonguewentrapidlyoverher

lips."Who—?I—?"sheexclaimed."Yes.""I think Julia should gowith Scott," said Josephine. "She'll botherwith theideatillshe'sdoneit.Sheloveshim,really.""Ofcourseshedoes,"criedRobert.Julia, with her chin resting on her arms, in a position which irritated theneighbouringLadyCochranesincerely,wasgazingwithunseeingeyesdownuponthestalls."Wellthen—"beganStruthers.Butthemusicstruckupsoftly.Theywereallrather bored. Struthers kept on making small, half audible remarks—whichwasbadform,anddispleasedJosephine,thehostessoftheevening.When the curtain camedown for the endof the act, themengot up.Lilly'swife,Tanny,suddenlyappeared.Shehadcomeonafteradinnerengagement."Wouldyouliketeaoranything?"Lillyasked.Thewomenrefused.Themenfilteredoutontothecrimsonandwhite,curvingcorridor. Julia, Josephine and Tanny remained in the box. Tanny was soonhitchedontotheconversationinhand."Ofcourse,"shereplied,"onecan'tdecidesuchathinglikedrinkingacupoftea.""Ofcourse,onecan't,dearTanny,"saidJulia."After all, one doesn't leave one's husband every day, to go and live withanotherman.Evenifonelooksonitasanexperiment—.""It'sdifficult!"criedJulia."It'sdifficult!IfeeltheyallwanttoFORCEmetodecide.It'scruel.""Oh,menwith their beastly logic, their either-this-or-that stunt, they are anawfulbore.—Butofcourse,Robertcan't loveyouREALLY,orhe'dwant tokeepyou.IcanseeLillydiscussingsuchathingforME.Butthenyoudon'tloveRoberteither,"saidTanny."Ido!Oh,Ido,Tanny!IDOlovehim,Ilovehimdearly.Ithinkhe'sbeautiful.Robert's beautiful. And he NEEDS me. And I need him too. I need hissupport.Yes,Idolovehim.""ButyoulikeScottbetter,"saidTanny."Only because he—he's different," sang Julia, in long tones. "You seeScotthas his art.His artmatters.AndROB-ert—Robert is a dilettante, don't youthink—he'sdilettante—"ShescreweduphereyesatTanny.Tannycogitated."OfcourseIdon'tthinkthatmatters,"shereplied.

"Butitdoes,itmatterstremendously,dearTanny,tremendously.""Ofcourse,"Tannysheeredoff."IcanseeScotthasgreatattractions—agreatwarmthsomewhere—""Exactly!"criedJulia."HeUNDERSTANDS!""And I believe he's a real artist. Youmight evenwork together.Youmightwritehislibrettos.""Yes!—Yes!—"Juliaspokewithalong,ponderinghiss."ItmightbeAWFULLYnice,"saidTannyrapturously."Yes!—Itmight!—Itmight—!"pondered Julia. Suddenly she gave herself ashake.Thenshelaughedhurriedly,asifbreakingfromherlineofthought."And wouldn't Robert be an AWFULLY nice lover for Josephine! Oh,wouldn'tthatbesplendid!"shecried,withherhighlaugh.Josephine,whohadbeengazingdownintotheorchestra,turnednow,flushingdarkly."ButIdon'twantalover,Julia,"shesaid,hurt."Josephine dear!Dear old Josephine!Don't you really!Oh, yes, you do.—IwantonesoBADLY,"criedJulia,withhershaking laugh."Robert'sawfullygoodtome.Butwe'vebeenmarriedsixyears.Anditdoesmakeadifference,doesn'tit,Tannydear?""Agreatdifference,"saidTanny."Yes, it makes a difference, it makes a difference," mused Julia. "Dear oldRob-ert—Iwouldn't hurt him forworlds. Iwouldn't.Doyou think itwouldhurtRobert?"Shescreweduphereyes,lookingatTanny."Perhaps it would do Robert good to be hurt a little," said Tanny. "He's sowell-nourished.""Yes!—Yes!—Iseewhatyoumean,Tanny!—PooroldROB-ert!Oh,pooroldRob-ert,he'ssoyoung!""HeDOESseemyoung,"saidTanny."Onedoesn'tforgiveit.""He is young," said Julia. "I'm five years older than he. He's only twenty-seven.PoorOldRobert.""Robert isyoung,and inexperienced," said Josephine, suddenly turningwithanger."ButIdon'tknowwhyyoutalkabouthim.""Is he inexperienced, Josephine dear? IS he?" sang Julia. Josephine flusheddarkly,andturnedaway."Ah,he'snotsoinnocentasallthat,"saidTannyroughly."Thoseyoungyoung

men,whoseemsofresh,they'redeepenough,really.They'refarlessinnocentreallythanmenwhoareexperienced.""Theyare,aren'tthey,Tanny,"repeatedJuliasoftly."They'reold—olderthanthe OldMan of the Seas, sometimes, aren't they? Incredibly old, like littleboyswhoknowtoomuch—aren'tthey?Yes!"Shespokequietly,seriously,asifithadstruckher.Below, the orchestra was coming in. Josephine was watching closely. Juliabecameawareofthis."Doyouseeanybodyweknow,Josephine?"sheasked.Josephinestarted."No,"shesaid,lookingatherfriendsquicklyandfurtively."DearoldJosephine,sheknowsallsortsofpeople,"sangJulia.Atthatmomentthemenreturned."Have you actually come back!" exclaimed Tanny to them. They sat downwithoutanswering.Jimspreadhimselfasfarashecould,inthenarrowspace.He staredupwards,wrinklinghis ugly, queer face. Itwas evident hewas inoneofhismoods."Ifonlysomebodylovedme!"hecomplained."IfonlysomebodylovedmeIshouldbeallright.I'mgoingtopieces."Hesatupandpeeredintothefacesofthewomen."ButweALL loveyou," said Josephine, laughinguneasily. "Whyaren'tyousatisfied?""I'mnotsatisfied.I'mnotsatisfied,"murmuredJim."Would you like to bewrapped in swaddling bands and laid at the breast?"askedLilly,disagreeably.Jim opened his mouth in a grin, and gazed long and malevolently at hisquestioner."Yes,"hesaid.Thenhesprawledhislongsixfootoflimbandbodyacrosstheboxagain."You should try loving somebody, for a change," said Tanny. "You've beenlovedtoooften.Whynottryandlovesomebody?"Jimeyedhernarrowly."Icouldn'tloveYOU,"hesaid,invicioustones."Alabonneheure!"saidTanny.ButJimsankhischinonhischest,andrepeatedobstinately:"Iwanttobeloved."

"How many times have you been loved?" Robert asked him. "It would beratherinterestingtoknow."JimlookedatRobertlongandslow,butdidnotanswer."Didyoueverkeepcount?"Tannypersisted.Jimlookedupather,malevolent."IbelieveIdid,"hereplied."Fortyistheagewhenamanshouldbegintoreckonup,"saidLilly.Jimsuddenlysprangtohisfeet,andbrandishedhisfists."I'llpitchthelotofyouoverthebloodyrail,"hesaid.Heglaredatthem,fromunderhisbald,wrinkledforehead.Josephineglancedround.Shehadbecomeaduskywhitecolour.Shewasafraidofhim,andshedislikedhimintenselynowadays."Doyourecogniseanyoneintheorchestra?"sheasked.The party in the box had become dead silent. They looked down. Theconductorwas at his stand. Themusic began. They all remained silent andmotionless during the next scene, each thinking his own thoughts. Jimwasuncomfortable.Hewantedtomakegood.Hesatwithhiselbowsonhisknees,grinningslightly,lookingdown.Atthenextintervalhestoodupsuddenly."ItISthechap—What?"heexclaimedexcitedly,lookingroundathisfriends."Who?"saidTanny."ItIShe?"saidJosephinequietly,meetingJim'seye."Sure!"hebarked.Hewasleaningforwardovertheledge,rattlingaprogrammeinhishand,asiftryingtoattractattention.Thenhemadesignals."Thereyouare!"heexclaimedtriumphantly."That'sthechap.""Who?Who?"theycried.ButneitherJimnorJosephinewouldvouchsafeananswer.The next was the long interval. Jim and Josephine gazed down at theorchestra.Themusicianswere layingaside their instrumentsand rising.Theuglyfire-curtainbeganslowlytodescend.Jimsuddenlyboltedout."IsitthatmanAaronSisson?"askedRobert."Where?Where?"criedJulia."Itcan'tbe."ButJosephine'sfacewasclosedandsilent.Shedidnotanswer.Thewholepartymovedouton to thecrimson-carpetedgangway.Groupsofpeoplestoodaboutchatting,menandwomenwerepassingalong,topayvisits

or to finddrinks. Josephine'sparty staredaround, talkingdesultorily.Andatlength they perceived Jim stalking along, leadingAaron Sisson by the arm.Jimwasgrinning,theflautistlookedunwilling.Hehadacomelyappearance,in his white shirt—a certain comely blondness and repose. And as much agentlemanasanybody."Well!"criedJosephinetohim."Howdoyoucomehere?""Iplaytheflute,"heanswered,asheshookhands.Thelittlecrowdstoodinthegangwayandtalked."Howwonderfulofyoutobehere!"criedJulia.Helaughed."Doyouthinkso?"heanswered."Yes, Ido.—It seemssoFARfromShottleHouseandChristmasEve.—Oh,wasn'titexciting!"criedJulia.Aaronlookedather,butdidnotanswer."We'veheardallaboutyou,"saidTannyplayfully."Oh,yes,"hereplied."Come!"saidJosephine,ratherirritated."Wecrowdupthegangway."Andsheledthewayinsidethebox.Aaronstoodandlookeddownatthedishevelledtheatre."Yougetalltheview,"hesaid."Wedo,don'twe!"criedJulia."Morethan'sgoodforus,"saidLilly."Telluswhatyouaredoing.You'vegotapermanentjob?"askedJosephine."Yes—atpresent.""Ah!It'smoreinterestingforyouthanatBeldover."Shehadtakenherseat.Helookeddownatherduskyyoungface.Hervoicewasalwaysclearandmeasured."It'sachange,"hesaid,smiling."Oh, it must be more than that," she said. "Why, you must feel a wholedifference.It'sawholenewlife."Hesmiled,asifhewerelaughingathersilently.Sheflushed."Butisn'tit?"shepersisted."Yes.Itcanbe,"hereplied.Helookedasifhewerequietlyamused,butdissociated.Noneofthepeoplein

the boxwere quite real to him.Hewas not really amused. Julia found himdull,stupid.Tannyalsowasoffendedthathecouldnotperceiveher.Themenremainedpracticallysilent."You'reachapIalwayshopedwouldturnupagain,"saidJim."Oh,yes!"repliedAaron,smilingasifamused."Butperhapshedoesn'tlikeus!Perhapshe'snotgladthatweturnedup,"saidJulia,leavinghersting.Theflautistturnedandlookedather."Youcan'tREMEMBERus,canyou?"sheasked."Yes,"hesaid."Icanrememberyou.""Oh,"shelaughed."Youareunflattering."Hewasannoyed.Hedidnotknowwhatshewasgettingat."Howareyourwifeandchildren?"sheaskedspitefully."Allright,Ithink.""Butyou'vebeenbacktothem?"criedJosephineindismay.Helookedather,aslow,halfsmilinglook,butdidnotspeak."Come and have a drink. Damn the women," said Jim uncouthly, seizingAaronbythearmanddragginghimoff.

CHAPTERVI.TALK

Thepartystayedtotheendoftheinterminableopera.TheyhadagreedtowaitforAaron.Hewas tocomearoundto thevestibulefor them,after theshow.They trooped slowly down-stairs into the crush of the entrance hall.Chattering, swirling people, red carpet, palms green against cream-and-giltwalls,smallwhirlpoolsoflifeattheopen,darkdoorways,meninoperahatssteering decisively about-it was the old scene. But there were no taxis—absolutelyno taxis.And itwas raining.Fortunately thewomenhadbroughtshoes.They slipped these on. Jim rocked through the crowd, in his tall hat,lookingfortheflautist.At last Aaron was found—wearing a bowler hat. Julia groaned in spirit.Josephine's brow knitted. Not that anybody cared, really. But as one mustfrown at something, why not at the bowler hat?Acquaintances and elegantyoungmeninuniformsinsistedonrushingupandbowingandexchangingafewwords,eitherwithJosephine,orJim,orJulia,orLilly.Theywerecoldlyreceived.Thepartyveeredoutintothenight.

Thewomenhuggedtheirwrapsaboutthem,andsetoffsharply,feelingsomerepugnance for thewetpavements and the crowd.Theyhadnot far togo—only to Jim's rooms inAdelphi. Jimwas leadingAaron,holdinghimby thearmandslightlypinchinghismuscles. Itgavehimgreatsatisfaction tohavebetweenhis fingers the arm-musclesof aworking-man,oneof the commonpeople,thefonsetorigoofmodernlife.JimwastalkingrathervaguelyaboutLabourandRobertSmillie,andBolshevism.Hewasallforrevolutionandthetriumphoflabour.So they arrived,mounted a dark stair, and entered a large, handsome room,one of the Adams rooms. Jim had furnished it from Heale's with stripedhangings,greenandwhiteandyellowanddarkpurple,andwithagreen-and-blackcheckedcarpet,andgreatstripe-coveredchairsandChesterfield.Abiggas-firewassoonglowinginthehandsomeoldfire-place,thepanelledroomseemedcosy.While Jim was handing round drinks and sandwiches, and Josephine wasmakingtea,RobertplayedBachonthepiano—thepianola,rather.Thechairsandloungewereinahalf-circleroundthefire.Thepartythrewofftheirwrapsandsankdeepinto thisexpensivecomfortofmodernbohemia.TheyneededtheBach to takeawaythebad taste thatAidahad left in theirmouths.Theyneeded the whiskey and curacao to rouse their spirits. They needed theprofoundcomfortinwhichtosinkawayfromtheworld.Allthemen,exceptAaron,hadbeenthroughthewarinsomewayorother.Butheretheywere,intheoldsettingexactly,theoldbohemianroutine.Thebell rang,Jimwentdownstairs.He returnedshortlywitha frail,elegantwoman—fashionableratherthanbohemian.Shewascreamandauburn,Irish,withaslightly-liftedupperlipthatgaveherapatheticlook.ShedroppedherwrapandsatdownbyJulia,takingherhanddelicately."Howareyou,darling?"sheasked."Yes—I'mhappy,"saidJulia,givingherodd,screwed-upsmile.Thepianolastopped, theyallchatted indiscriminately. Jimwaswatching thenew-comer—Mrs.Browning—withaconcentratedwolfishgrin."I like her," he said at last. "I've seen her before, haven't I?—I like herawfully.""Yes,"saidJosephine,withaslightgruntofalaugh."Hewantstobeloved.""Oh,"criedClariss."SodoI!""Thenthereyouare!"criedTanny."Alas,no,therewearen't,"criedClariss.Shewasbeautifultoo,withherliftedupper-lip."Webothwanttobeloved,andsowemisseachotherentirely.Werunon in twoparallel lines, thatcannevermeet."She laughed lowandhalf

sad."Doesn'tSHEloveyou?"saidAarontoJimamused,indicatingJosephine."Ithoughtyouwereengaged.""HER!"leeredJimvindictively,glancingatJosephine."Shedoesn'tloveme.""Isthattrue?"askedRoberthastily,ofJosephine."Why,"shesaid,"yes.WhyshouldhemakemesayoutherethatIdon'tlovehim!""Gotyoumygirl,"saidJim."Thenit'snoengagement?"saidRobert."Listentotherowfoolsmake,rushingin,"saidJimmaliciously."No,theengagementisbroken,"saidJosephine."Worldcomingtopiecesbitbybit,"saidLilly.Jimwastwistinginhischair,andlookinglikeaChinesedragon,diabolical.Theroomwasuneasy."What gives you such a belly-ache for love, Jim?" said Lilly, "or for beingloved?Whydoyouwantsobadlytobeloved?""BecauseIlikeit,damnyou,"barkedJim."BecauseI'minneedofit."Noneofthemquiteknewwhethertheyoughttotakeitasajoke.Itwasjustabittoorealtobequitepleasant."Whyareyousuchababy?"saidLilly."Thereyouare,sixfootinlength,havebeenacavalryofficerandfoughtintwowars,andyouspendyourtimecryingforsomebodytoloveyou.You'reacomic.""AmIthough?"saidJim."I'mlosinglife.I'mgettingthin.""Youdon'tlookasifyouwerelosinglife,"saidLilly."Don'tI?Iam,though.I'mdying.""Whatof?Lackoflife?""That'saboutit,myyoungcock.Life'sleavingme.""BettersingTosti'sFarewelltoit."Jimwhohadbeensprawlingfulllengthinhisarm-chair,thecentreofinterestofallthecompany,suddenlysprangforwardandpushedhisface,grinning,inthefaceofLilly."You'reafunnycustomer,youare,"hesaid.Thenheturnedroundinhischair,andsawClarisssittingatthefeetofJulia,withonewhitearmoverherfriend'sknee.Jimimmediatelystuckforwardhismuzzle and gazed at her. Clariss had loosened her masses of thick, auburnhair,so that ithunghalf free.Herfacewascreamypale,herupper lip lifted

withoddpathos!Shehadrose-rubiesinherears."IlikeHER,"saidJim."What'shername?""Mrs.Browning.Don'tbesorude,"saidJosephine."Browningforgravies.AnyrelationofRobert?""Oh,yes!Youaskmyhusband,"cametheslow,plangentvoiceofClariss."You'vegotahusband,haveyou?""Rather!Haven'tI,Juley?""Yes,"saidJulia,vaguelyandwispily."Yes,dear,youhave.""Andtwofinechildren,"putinRobert."No!Youdon'tmeanit!"saidJim."Who'syourhusband?Anybody?""Rather!"camethedeepvoiceofClariss."Heseestothat."Jimstared,grinning,showinghispointedteeth,reachingnearerandnearertoClarisswho, inher frail scrapofaneveningdress, amethystandsilver,wassittingstillinthedeepblackhearth-rug,herarmoverJulia'sknee,takingverylittlenoticeofJim,althoughheamusedher."Ilikeyouawfully,Isay,"herepeated."Thanks,I'msure,"shesaid.Theotherswerelaughing,sprawlingin theirchairs,andsippingcuracaoandtaking a sandwich or a cigarette. Aaron Sisson alone sat upright, smilingflickeringly.Josephinewatchedhim,andherpointedtonguewentfromtimetotimeoverherlips."ButI'msure,"shebrokein,"thisisn'tveryinterestingfortheothers.Awfullyboring!Don'tbesillyallthetime,Jim,orwemustgohome."Jimlookedatherwithnarrowedeyes.Hehatedhervoice.Shelethereyereston his for a moment. Then she put her cigarette to her lips. Robert waswatchingthemboth.Josephinetookhercigarettefromherlipsagain."Tell us about yourself, Mr. Sisson," she said. "How do you like being inLondon?""IlikeLondon,"saidAaron.Where did he live? Bloomsbury. Did he know many people? No—nobodyexceptamanintheorchestra.Howhadhegothisjob?Throughanagent.Etc.Etc."Whatdoyoumakeoftheminers?"saidJim,suddenlytakinganewline."Me?"saidSisson."Idon'tmakeanythingofthem."

"Doyouthinkthey'llmakeastandagainstthegovernment?""Whatfor?""Nationalisation.""Theymight,oneday.""Thinkthey'dfight?""Fight?""Yes."Aaronsatlaughing."Whathavetheytofightfor?""Why, everything!What haven't they to fight for?" cried Josephine fiercely."Freedom,liberty,andescapefromthisvilesystem.Won'ttheyfightforthat?"Aaronsatsmiling,slowlyshakinghishead."Nay,"hesaid,"youmustn'taskmewhatthey'lldo—I'veonlyjustleftthem,forgood.They'lldoalotofcavilling.""Butwon'ttheyACT?"criedJosephine."Act?"saidAaron."How,act?""Why, defy the government, and take things in their own hands," saidJosephine."Theymight,sometime,"saidAaron,ratherindifferent."Iwishtheywould!"criedJosephine."My,wouldn'tIloveitifthey'dmakeabloodyrevolution!"They were all looking now at her. Her black brows were twitching, in herblackandsilverdressshelookedlikeasymbolofyoungdisaster."Mustitbebloody,Josephine?"saidRobert."Why, yes. I don't believe in revolutions that aren't bloody," said Josephine."Wouldn'tIloveit!I'dgoinfrontwitharedflag.""Itwouldberatherfun,"saidTanny."Wouldn'tit!"criedJosephine."Oh, Josey, dear!" cried Julia hysterically. "Isn't she a red-hot Bolsher! Ishouldbefrightened.""No!"criedJosephine."Ishouldloveit.""SoshouldI,"saidJim,inaluscioussortofvoice."Whatpricemachine-gunsattheendoftheStrand!That'sadaytolivefor,what?""Ha!Ha!"laughedClariss,withherdeeplaugh."We'dallBolshtogether.I'd

givethecheers.""Iwouldn'tmindgettingkilled.I'dloveit,inarealfight,"saidJosephine."But,Josephine,"saidRobert,"don'tyouthinkwe'vehadenoughofthatsortof thing in the war? Don't you think it all works out rather stupid andunsatisfying?""Ah,butacivilwarwouldbedifferent.I'venointerest infightingGermans.Butacivilwarwouldbedifferent.""That'safact,itwould,"saidJim."Onlyratherworse,"saidRobert."No,Idon'tagree,"criedJosephine."You'dfeelyouweredoingsomething,inacivilwar.""Pullingthehousedown,"saidLilly."Yes,"shecried."Don'tyouhateit,thehousewelivein—London—England—America!Don'tyouhatethem?""I don't like them.But I can't getmuch fire inmyhatred.They pall onmerather,"saidLilly."Ay!"saidAaron,suddenlystirringinhischair.Lillyandheglancedatoneanotherwithalookofrecognition."Still,"saidTanny,"there'sgottobeaclearancesomedayorother.""Oh,"drawledClariss. "I'mall for a clearance. I'mall for pulling thehousedown.OnlywhileitstandsIdowantcentralheatingandagoodcook.""MayIcometodinner?"saidJim."Oh,yes.You'dfinditratherdomestic.""Wheredoyoulive?""Ratherfaroutnow—Amersham.""Amersham?Where'sthat—?""Oh,it'sonthemap."Therewasalittlelull.Jimgulpeddownadrink,standingatthesideboard.Hewasa tall, fine,soldierlyfigure,andhisface,with its littlesandymoustacheandbaldforehead,wasodd.AaronSissonsatwatchinghim,unconsciously."Helloyou!"saidJim."Haveone?"Aaronshookhishead,andJimdidnotpresshim.Itsavedthedrinks."You believe in love, don't you?" said Jim, sitting down near Aaron, andgrinningathim.

"Love!"saidAaron."LOVE!hesays,"mockedJim,grinningatthecompany."Whataboutit,then?"askedAaron."It'slife!Loveislife,"saidJimfiercely."It'savice,likedrink,"saidLilly."Eh?Avice!"saidJim."Maybeforyou,oldbird.""Moresostillforyou,"saidLilly."It's life. It's life!" reiteratedJim."Don'tyouagree?"He turnedwolfishly toClariss."Oh,yes—everytime—"shedrawled,nonchalant."Here, let'swrite itdown," saidLilly.He foundabluepencil andprinted inlargelettersontheoldcreamymarbleof themantel-piecepanel:—LOVEISLIFE.Juliasuddenlyroseandflungherarmsasunderwildly."Oh,Ihatelove.Ihateit,"sheprotested.Jimwatchedhersardonically."Lookather!"hesaid."LookatLesbiawhohateslove.""No,butperhapsit isadisease.Perhapsweareallwrong,andwecan'tloveproperly,"putinJosephine."Have another try," said Jim,—"I knowwhat love is. I've thought about it.Loveisthesoul'srespiration.""Let'shavethatdown,"saidLilly.LOVE IS THE SOUL'S RESPIRATION. He printed it on the old mantel-piece.Jimeyedtheletters."It'sright,"hesaid."Quiteright.Whenyoulove,yoursoulbreathesin.Ifyoudon'tbreathein,yousuffocate.""What about breathing out?" said Robert. "If you don't breathe out, youasphyxiate.""Rightyouare,MockTurtle—"saidJimmaliciously."Breathingoutisabloodyrevolution,"saidLilly."You'vehitthenailonthehead,"saidJimsolemnly."Let'srecorditthen,"saidLilly.Andwiththebluepencilheprinted:WHENYOULOVE,YOURSOULBREATHESIN—WHENYOURSOUL

BREATHESOUT,IT'SABLOODYREVOLUTION."IsayJim,"hesaid."Youmustbebustingyourself,tryingtobreathein.""Don'tyoubetooclever.I'vethoughtaboutit,"saidJim."WhenI'minlove,Iget a great inrush of energy. I actually feel it rush in—here!"He poked hisfingeron thepitofhisstomach."It's thesoul'sexpansion.And if Ican'tgettheserushesofenergy,I'MDYING,ANDIKNOWIAM."Hespokethelastwordswithsuddenferocityanddesperation."AllIknowis,"saidTanny,"youdon'tlookit.""IAM.Iam."Jimprotested."I'mdying.Life'sleavingme.""Maybeyou'rechokingwithlove,"saidRobert."Perhapsyouhavebreathedinsomuch,youdon'tknowhowtoletitgoagain.Perhapsyoursoul'sgotacrickinit,withexpandingsomuch.""You'reabloodyyoungsuckingpig,youare,"saidJim."Evenatthatage,I'velearnedmymanners,"repliedRobert.Jimlookedroundtheparty.ThenheturnedtoAaronSisson."Whatdoyoumakeof'em,eh?"hesaid.Aaronshookhishead,andlaughed."Me?"hesaid.ButJimdidnotwaitforananswer."I've had enough," said Tanny suddenly rising. "I think you're all silly.Besides,it'sgettinglate.""She!"saidJim,risingandpointingluridlytoClariss."She'sLove.AndHE'stheWorkingPeople.Thehope is these two—"He jerked a thumbatAaronSisson,afterhavingindicatedMrs.Browning."Oh, how awfully interesting. It's quite a long time since I've been apersonification.—I suppose you've never been one before?" said Clariss,turningtoAaroninconclusion."No,Idon'tthinkIhave,"heanswered."I hope personification is right.—Ought to be allegory or something else?"ThisfromClarisstoRobert."Oraparable,Clariss,"laughedtheyounglieutenant."Goodbye,"saidTanny."I'vebeenawfullybored.""Haveyou?"grinnedJim."Goodbye!Betterlucknexttime.""We'dbetterlooksharp,"saidRobert,"ifwewanttogetthetube."ThepartyhurriedthroughtherainynarrowstreetsdowntotheEmbankment

station.RobertandJuliaandClarissweregoingwest,Lillyandhiswifeweregoing to Hampstead, Josephine and Aaron Sisson were going both toBloomsbury."Isuppose,"saidRobert,onthestairs—"Mr.Sissonwillseeyoutoyourdoor,Josephine.Helivesyourway.""There'snoneedatall,"saidJosephine.Thefourwhoweregoingnorthwentdowntothelowtubelevel.Itwasnearlythelasttrain.Thestationwashalfdeserted,halfrowdy,severalfellowsweredrunk, shouting and crowing. Down there in the bowels of London, aftermidnight,everythingseemedhorribleandunnatural."HowIhatethisLondon,"saidTanny.ShewashalfNorwegian,andhadspentalargepartofherlifeinNorway,beforeshemarriedLilly."Yes,sodoI,"saidJosephine."Butifonemustearnone'slivingonemuststayhere. I wish I could get back to Paris. But there's nothing doing forme inFrance.—Whendoyougobackintothecountry,bothofyou?""Friday,"saidLilly."Howlovelyforyou!—AndwhenwillyougotoNorway,Tanny?""Inaboutamonth,"saidTanny."Youmustbeawfullypleased.""Oh—thankful—THANKFULtogetoutofEngland—""I know.That's how I feel.Everything is so awful—sodismal anddreary, Ifindit—"Theycrowded into the train.Menwere stillyelling likewildbeasts—otherswereasleep—soldiersweresinging."HaveyoureallybrokenyourengagementwithJim?"shrilledTannyinahighvoice,asthetrainroared."Yes,he'simpossible,"saidJosephine."Perfectlyhystericalandimpossible.""AndSELFISH—"criedTanny."Ohterribly—"criedJosephine."ComeuptoHampsteadtolunchwithus,"saidLillytoAaron."Ay—thankyou,"saidAaron.Lilly scribbled directions on a card. The hot, jaded midnight undergroundrattledon.AaronandJosephinegotdowntochangetrains.

CHAPTERVII.THEDARKSQUAREGARDEN

Josephine had invited Aaron Sisson to dinner at a restaurant in Soho, oneSunday evening. They had a corner to themselves, and with a bottle ofBurgundyshewasgettinghishistoryfromhim.Hisfatherhadbeenashaft-sinker,earninggoodmoney,buthadbeenkilledbya fall down the shaftwhenAaronwas only four years old. Thewidowhadopenedashop:Aaronwasheronlychild.Shehaddonewellinhershop.Shehad wanted Aaron to be a schoolteacher. He had served three yearsapprenticeship,thensuddenlythrownitupandgonetothepit."Butwhy?"saidJosephine."Icouldn'ttellyou.Ifeltmorelikeit."Hehad a curiousqualityof an intelligent, almost sophisticatedmind,whichhad repudiated education. On purpose he kept the midland accent in hisspeech.Heunderstoodperfectlywhatapersonificationwas—andanallegory.Buthepreferredtobeilliterate.Josephinefoundoutwhataminer'scheckweighmanwas.Shetriedtofindoutwhat sort of wife Aaron had—but, except that she was the daughter of apublicanandwasdelicateinhealth,shecouldlearnnothing."Anddoyousendhermoney?"sheasked."Ay,"saidAaron."Thehouseismine.AndIallowhersomuchaweekoutofthemoney in the bank.Mymother leftme a bit over a thousandwhen shedied.""Youdon'tmindwhatIsay,doyou?"saidJosephine."NoIdon'tmind,"helaughed.He had this pleasant-seeming courteousmanner.But he really kept her at adistance.InsomethingsheremindedherofRobert:blond,erect,nicelybuilt,fresh and English-seeming. But there was a curious cold distance to him,which she could not get across. An inward indifference to her—perhaps toeverything.Yethislaughwassohandsome."Will you tell me why you left your wife and children?—Didn't you lovethem?"Aaronlookedattheodd,round,darkmuzzleofthegirl.Shehadhadherhairbobbed,andithunginodddarkfolds,veryblack,overherears."WhyIlefther?"hesaid."Fornoparticularreason.They'reallrightwithoutme."Josephinewatchedhisface.Shesawapallorofsufferingunderitsfreshness,andastrangetensioninhiseyes.

"Butyoucouldn'tleaveyourlittlegirlsfornoreasonatall—""Yes,Idid.Fornoreason—exceptIwantedtohavesomefreeroomroundme—toloosemyself—""Youmeanyouwantedlove?"flashedJosephine,thinkinghesaidlose."No,Iwantedfreshair.Idon'tknowwhatIwanted.WhyshouldIknow?""Butwemustknow:especiallywhenotherpeoplewillbehurt,"saidshe."Ah,well!Abreathoffreshair,bymyself.Ifeltforcedtofeel—IfeelifIgoback home now, I shall be FORCED—forced to love—or care—orsomething.""Perhapsyouwantedmorethanyourwifecouldgiveyou,"shesaid."Perhapsless.She'smadeuphermindshelovesme,andshe'snotgoingtoletmeoff.""Didyouneverloveher?"saidJosephine."Oh,yes. I shallnever loveanybodyelse.But I'mdamned if Iwant tobealoveranymore.Toherortoanybody.That'sthetopandbottomofit.Idon'twanttoCARE,whencareisn'tinme.AndI'mnotgoingtobeforcedtoit."Thefat,apronedFrenchwaiterwashoveringnear.Josephinelethimremovetheplatesandtheemptybottle."Havemorewine,"shesaidtoAaron.But he refused. She liked him because of his dead-level indifference to hissurroundings.Frenchwaitersandforeignfood—henoticedtheminhisquick,amiable-looking fashion—buthewas indifferent. Josephinewaspiqued.Shewantedtopiercethisamiablealoofnessofhis.Sheorderedcoffeeandbrandies."Butyoudon'twanttogetawayfromEVERYTHING,doyou?ImyselffeelsoLOSTsometimes—sodreadfullyalone:not inasillysentimental fashion,becausemen keep tellingme they loveme, don't you know. But my LIFEseemsalone,forsomereason—""Haven'tyougotrelations?"hesaid."No one, now mother is dead. Nothing nearer than aunts and cousins inAmerica.IsupposeIshallseethemallagainoneday.Buttheyhardlycountoverhere.""Whydon'tyougetmarried?"hesaid."Howoldareyou?""I'mtwenty-five.Howoldareyou?""Thirty-three.""Youmight almostbe anyage.—Idon't knowwhy Idon't getmarried. In a

way,Ihateearningmyownliving—yetIgoon—andIlikemywork—""Whatareyoudoingnow?""I'm painting scenery for a new play—rather fun—I enjoy it. But I oftenwonderwhatwillbecomeofme.""Inwhatway?"Shewasalmostaffronted."Whatbecomesofme?Oh,Idon'tknow.Anditdoesn'tmatter,nottoanybodybutmyself.""Whatbecomesofanybody,anyhow?Welivetillwedie.Whatdoyouwant?""Why,IkeepsayingIwant togetmarriedandfeelsureofsomething.ButIdon'tknow—Ifeeldreadfulsometimes—asifeveryminutewouldbethelast.Ikeepgoingonandon—Idon'tknowwhatfor—andITkeepsgoingonandon—goodnessknowswhatit'sallfor.""Youshouldn'tbotheryourself,"hesaid."Youshouldjustletitgoonandon—""ButIMUSTbother,"shesaid."Imustthinkandfeel—""You'venooccasion,"hesaid."How—?" she said, with a sudden grunting, unhappy laugh. Then she lit acigarette."No,"shesaid."WhatIshouldreallylikemorethananythingwouldbeanendoftheworld.Iwishtheworldwouldcometoanend."Helaughed,andpouredhisdropsofbrandydownhisthroat."Itwon't,forwishing,"hesaid."No, that's theawfulpartof it. It'll justgoonandon—Doesn't itmakeyoufeelyou'dgomad?"Helookedatherandshookhishead."Youseeitdoesn'tconcernme,"hesaid."SolongasIcanfloatbymyself.""ButAREyouSATISFIED!"shecried."Ilikebeingbymyself—Ihatefeelingandcaring,andbeingforcedintoit.Iwanttobeleftalone—""Youaren'tverypolitetoyourhostessoftheevening,"shesaid,laughingabitmiserably."Oh,we'reallright,"hesaid."YouknowwhatImean—""Youlikeyourowncompany?Doyou?—SometimesIthinkI'mnothingwhenI'malone.SometimesIthinkIsurelymustbenothing—nothingness."

Heshookhishead."No,"hesaid."No.Ionlywanttobeleftalone.""Nottohaveanythingtodowithanybody?"shequeriedironically."Nottoanyextent."Shewatchedhim—andthenshebubbledwithalaugh."Ithinkyou'refunny,"shesaid."Youdon'tmind?""No—why—It'sjustasyouseeit.—JimBricknell'sararecomic,tomyeye.""Oh,him!—no,notactually.He'sself-consciousandselfishandhysterical.Itisn'tabitfunnyafterawhile.""Ionlyknowwhat I've seen," saidAaron. "You'dbothofyou likeabloodyrevolution,though.""Yes.Onlywhenitcamehewouldn'tbethere.""Wouldyou?""Yes,indeedIwould.Iwouldgiveeverythingtobeinit.I'dgiveheavenandearthforagreatbigupheaval—andthendarkness.""Perhapsyou'llgetit,whenyoudie,"saidAaron."Oh,butIdon'twanttodieandleaveallthisstanding.Ihateitso.""Whydoyou?""Butdon'tyou?""No,itdoesn'treallybotherme.""ItmakesmefeelIcan'tlive.""Ican'tseethat.""Butyoualwaysdisagreewithone!"saidJosephine."HowdoyoulikeLilly?Whatdoyouthinkofhim?""Heseemssharp,"saidAaron."Buthe'smorethansharp.""Oh,yes!He'sgothisfingerinmostpies.""Anddoesn'tliketheplumsinanyofthem,"saidJosephinetartly."Whatdoeshedo?""Writes—storiesandplays.""Andmakesitpay?""Hardlyatall.—Theywantustogo.Shallwe?"Sherosefromthetable.Thewaiterhandedherhercloak,andtheywentoutintotheblowydarknight.She

foldedherwraproundher,andhurriedforwardwithshort,sharpsteps.TherewasacertainParisianchicandmincingnessabouther,eveninherwalk:butunderneath,astriding,savagesuggestionasifshecouldlegitingreatstrides,likesomesavagesquaw.Aaronpressedhisbowlerhatdownonhisbrow."Wouldyourathertakeabus?"shesaidinahighvoice,becauseofthewind."I'dratherwalk.""SowouldI."They hurried across the Charing Cross Road, where great buses rolled androcked,crammedwithpeople.Herheelsclickedsharplyonthepavement,astheywalkedeast.TheycrossedHolborn,andpassedtheMuseum.Andneitherofthemsaidanything.Whentheycametothecorner,sheheldoutherhand."Look!"shesaid."Don'tcomeanyfurther:don'ttrouble.""I'llwalkroundwithyou:unlessyou'drathernot.""No—Butdoyouwanttobother?""It'snobother."So theypursued theirway through thehighwind,and turnedat last into theold, beautiful square. It seemed dark and deserted, dark like a savagewildernessintheheartofLondon.Thewindwasroaringinthegreatbaretreesofthecentre,asifitweresomewilddarkgrovedeepinaforgottenland.Josephineopenedthegateofthesquaregardenwithherkey,andletitslamtobehindhim."Howwonderfulthewindis!"sheshrilled."Shallwelistentoitforaminute?"Sheledhimacrossthegrasspasttheshrubstothebigtreeinthecentre.Theresheclimbeduptoaseat.Hesatbesideher.Theysatinsilence,lookingatthedarkness.Rainwasblowing in thewind.Theyhuddled against thebig tree-trunk,forshelter,andwatchedthescene.Beyond the tall shrubs and the high, heavy railings the wet street gleamedsilently.ThehousesoftheSquareroselikeacliffonthisinnerdarksea,dimlylightedatoccasionalwindows.Boughsswayedandsang.A taxi-cabswirledroundacorner likeacat, andpurred toa standstill.Therewasa lightofanopenhalldoor.Butall faraway, it seemed,unthinkably faraway.Aaronsatstill and watched. He was frightened, it all seemed so sinister, this dark,bristlingheartofLondon.Windboomedandtorelikewavesrippingashinglebeach.Thetwowhitelightsofthetaxistaredroundanddeparted,leavingthecoastatthefootofthecliffsdeserted,faintlyspilledwithlightfromthehigh

lamp.Beyondthere,ontheouterrim,apolicemanpassedsolidly.Josephinewasweepingsteadilyall the time,but inaudibly.Occasionallysheblewhernoseandwipedherface.Buthehadnotrealized.Shehardlyrealizedherself. She sat near the strange man. He seemed so still and remote—sofascinating."Givemeyourhand,"shesaidtohim,subduedly.Hetookhercoldhandinhiswarm,livinggrasp.Sheweptmorebitterly.Henoticedatlast."Whyareyoucrying?"hesaid."Idon'tknow,"shereplied,rathermatter-of-fact,throughhertears.Sohe lethercry,andsaidnomore,butsatwithhercoldhand inhiswarm,easyclasp."You'llthinkmeafool,"shesaid."Idon'tknowwhyIcry.""Youcancryfornothing,can'tyou?"hesaid."Why,yes,butit'snotverysensible."Helaughedshortly."Sensible!"hesaid."Youareastrangeman,"shesaid.Buthetooknonotice."DidyoueverintendtomarryJimBricknell?"heasked."Yes,ofcourse.""Ican'timagineit,"hesaid."Whynot?"Both were watching blankly the roaring night of mid-London, thephantasmagoricoldBloomsburySquare.Theywerestillhandinhand."Suchasyoushouldn'tmarry,"hesaid."Butwhynot?Iwantto.""Youthinkyoudo.""YesindeedIdo."Hedidnotsayanymore."Whyshouldn'tI?"shepersisted."Idon'tknow—"Andagainhewassilent."You'veknownsomelife,haven'tyou?"heasked.

"Me?Why?""Youseemto.""DoI? I'msorry.DoIseemvicious?—No,I'mnotvicious.—I'veseensomelife,perhaps—inParismostly.Butnotmuch.Whydoyouask?""Iwasn'tthinking.""Butwhatdoyoumean?Whatareyouthinking?""Nothing.Nothing.""Don'tbesoirritating,"saidshe.Buthedidnotanswer,andshebecamesilentalso.Theysathandinhand."Won'tyoukissme?"camehervoiceoutofthedarkness.Hewaitedsomemoments, thenhisvoicesoundedgently,halfmocking,halfreproachful."Nay!"hesaid."Whynot?""Idon'twantto.""Whynot?"sheasked.Helaughed,butdidnotreply.Shesatperfectlystillforsometime.Shehadceasedtocry.Inthedarknessherfacewassetandsullen.Sometimesa sprayof rainblewacross it.Shedrewherhandfromhis,androsetoherfeet."Illgoinnow,"shesaid."You'renotoffended,areyou?"heasked."No.Why?"Theysteppeddowninthedarknessfromtheirperch."Iwondered."Shestrodeoffforsomelittleway.Thensheturnedandsaid:"Yes,Ithinkitisratherinsulting.""Nay,"hesaid."Notit!Notit!"Andhefollowedhertothegate.Sheopenedwithherkey,andtheycrossedtheroadtoherdoor."Good-night,"shesaid,turningandgivinghimherhand."You'llcomeandhavedinnerwithme—orlunch—willyou?Whenshallwemakeit?"heasked.

"Well,Ican'tsayforcertain—I'mverybusyjustnow.I'llletyouknow."Apolicemanshedhislightonthepairofthemastheystoodonthestep."All right," saidAaron,droppingback, and shehastilyopened thebigdoor,andentered.

CHAPTERVIII.APUNCHINTHEWIND

The Lillys had a labourer's cottage in Hampshire—pleasant enough. Theywerepoor.Lillywasalittle,dark,thin,quickfellow,hiswifewasstrongandfair.TheyhadknownRobertandJuliaforsomeyears,butJosephineandJimwerenewacquaintances,—fairlynew.OnedayinearlyspringLillyhadatelegram,"Comingtoseeyouarrive4:30—Bricknell."Hewassurprised,butheandhiswifegotthespareroomready.Andatfouro'clockLillywentoff to thestation.Hewasafewminutes late,andsawJim'stall,ratherelegantfigurestalkingdownthestationpath.Jimhadbeenanofficer in the regulararmy,andstill spenthourswithhis tailor.Butinsteadofbeingasoldierhewasasortofsocialist,andared-hotrevolutionaryofaveryineffectualsort."Goodlad!"heexclaimed,asLillycameup."Thoughtyouwouldn'tmind.""Notatall.Letmecarryyourbag."Jimhadabagandaknapsack."Ihadaninspirationthismorning,"saidJim."IsuddenlysawthatiftherewasamaninEnglandwhocouldsaveme,itwasyou.""Saveyoufromwhat?"askedLilly,ratherabashed."Eh—?"andJimstooped,grinningatthesmallerman.Lilly was somewhat puzzled, but he had a certain belief in himself as asaviour.The twomen tramped rather incongruously through the lanes to thecottage.Tannywasinthedoorwayastheycameupthegardenpath."Sonicetoseeyou!Areyouallright?"shesaid."A-one!"saidJim,grinning."Niceofyoutohaveme.""Oh,we'reawfullypleased."Jimdroppedhisknapsackonthebroadsofa."I'vebroughtsomefood,"hesaid."Haveyou!That'ssensibleofyou.Wecan'tgetagreatdealhere,exceptjustatweek-ends,"saidTanny.

Jimfishedoutapoundofsausagesandapotoffishpaste."Howlovelythesausages,"saidTanny."We'llhavethemfordinnertonight—andwe'llhavetheotherforteanow.You'dlikeawash?"ButJimhadalreadyopenedhisbag,takenoffhiscoat,andputonanoldone."Thanks,"hesaid.Lillymadethetea,andatlengthallsatdown."Wellhowunexpectedthisis—andhownice,"saidTanny."Jolly—eh?"saidJim.Heaterapidly,stuffinghismouthtoofull."Howiseverybody?"askedTanny."All right. Julia's gone with Cyril Scott. Can't stand that fellow, can you?What?""Yes,Ithinkhe'srathernice,"saidTanny."WhatwillRobertdo?""HaveashotatJosephine,apparently.""Really?Isheinlovewithher?I thoughtso.Andshelikeshimtoo,doesn'tshe?"saidTanny."Verylikely,"saidJim."Isupposeyou'rejealous,"laughedTanny."Me!"Jimshookhishead."Notabit.Liketoseetheballkeptrolling.""Whathaveyoubeendoinglately?""Beenstayingafewdayswithmywife.""No,really!Ican'tbelieveit."JimhadaFrenchwife,whohaddivorcedhim,andtwochildren.Nowhewaspayingvisitstothiswifeagain:purelyfriendly.Tannydidmostofthetalking.Jimexcitedher,withhiswayof looking inher faceandgrinningwolfishly,andatthesametimeaskingtobesaved.Aftertea,hewantedtosendtelegrams,soLillytookhimroundtothevillagepost-office.Telegramswereanecessarypartofhislife.Hehadtobesuddenlystarting off to keep sudden appointments, or he felt he was a void in theatmosphere.HetalkedtoLillyaboutsocialreform,andsoon.Jim'sworkintown was merely nominal. He spent his time wavering about and going tovariousmeetings,philanderingandweeping.LillykeptinthebackofhismindtheSavingwhichJameshadcometolookfor. He intended to do his best. After dinner the three sat cosily round thekitchenfire.

"But what do you really think will happen to the world?" Lilly asked Jim,amidmuchtalk."What?There'ssomethingbigcoming,"saidJim."Wherefrom?""Watch Ireland, andwatch Japan—they're the two poles of theworld," saidJim."IthoughtRussiaandAmerica,"saidLilly."Eh?What?RussiaandAmerica!They'lldependonIrelandandJapan.Iknowit.I'vehadavisionofit.IrelandonthissideandJapanontheother—they'llsettleit.""Idon'tseehow,"saidLilly."Idon'tseeHOW—ButIhadavisionofit.""Whatsortofvision?""Couldn'tdescribeit.""Butyoudon'tthinkmuchoftheJapanese,doyou?"askedLilly."Don'tI!Don'tI!"saidJim."What,don'tyouthinkthey'rewonderful?""No.Ithinkthey'reratherunpleasant.""Ithinkthesalvationoftheworldlieswiththem.""Funnysalvation,"saidLilly."Ithinkthey'reanythingbutangels.""Doyouthough?Nowthat'sfunny.Why?""Looking at them even. I knew a Russian doctor who'd been through theRusso-Japanesewar,andwhohadgoneabitcracked.HesaidhesawtheJapsrushatrench.TheythreweverythingawayandflungthemselvesthroughtheRussianfireandsimplydroppedinmasses.ButthosethatreachedthetrenchesjumpedinwithbarehandsontheRussiansandtore theirfacesapartandbittheirthroatsout—fairlyrippedthefacesoffthebone.—Ithadsentthedoctorabitcracked.Hesaidthewoundedwereawful,—theirfaces tornoffandtheirthroatsmangled—anddeadJapswithfleshbetweentheteeth—Godknowsifit's true.Butthat's theimpressiontheJapanesehadmadeonthisman.Ithadaffectedhismindreally."JimwatchedLilly,andsmiledasifhewerepleased."No—really—!"hesaid."Anyhowthey'remoredemonthanangel,Ibelieve,"saidLilly."Oh,no,Rawdon,butyoualwaysexaggerate,"saidTanny."Maybe,"saidLilly.

"IthinkJapanesearefascinating—fascinating—soquick,andsuchFORCEinthem—""Rather!—eh?"saidJim,lookingwithaquicksmileatTanny."IthinkaJapaneseloverwouldbemarvellous,"shelaughedriskily."Is'dthinkhewould,"saidJim,screwinguphiseyes."DoyouhatethenormalBritishasmuchasIdo?"sheaskedhim."Hatethem!Hatethem!"hesaid,withanintimategrin."Their beastly virtue," said she. "And I believe there's nobodymoreviciousunderneath.""Nobody!"saidJim."Butyou'reBritishyourself,"saidLillytoJim."No,I'mIrish.Family'sIrish—mymotherwasaFitz-patrick.""AnyhowyouliveinEngland.""Becausetheywon'tletmegotoIreland."Thetalkdrifted.Jimfinishedupallthebeer,andtheypreparedtogotobed.Jimwasabittipsy,grinning.Heaskedforbreadandcheesetotakeupstairs."Willyouhavesupper?"saidLilly.Hewassurprised,becauseJimhadeatenstrangelymuchatdinner."No—where's the loaf?"And he cut himself about half of it. Therewas nocheese."Bread'lldo,"saidJim."Sitdownandeatit.Havecocoawithit,"saidTanny."No,Iliketohaveitinmybedroom.""Youdon'teatbreadinthenight?"saidLilly."Ido.""Whatafunnythingtodo."The cottage was in darkness. The Lillys slept soundly. Jim woke up andchewed bread and slept again. In the morning at dawn he rose and wentdownstairs. Lilly heard him roaming about—heard the woman come in toclean—heardthemtalking.Sohegotuptolookafterhisvisitor,thoughitwasnot seveno'clock, and thewomanwasbusy.—Butbeforehewentdown,heheardJimcomeupstairsagain.Mrs.ShortwasbusyinthekitchenwhenLillywentdown."Theothergentlemanhavebeendown,Sir," saidMrs.Short. "Heaskedmewhere thebread andbutterwere, so I said should I cut himapiece.Buthe

wouldn't letme do it. I gave him a knife and he took it for himself, in thepantry.""I say, Bricknell," said Lilly at breakfast time, "why do you eat so muchbread?""I'vegottofeedup.I'vebeenstarvedduringthisdamnedwar.""Buthunksofbreadwon'tfeedyouup.""Gives the stomach something to work at, and prevents it grinding on thenerves,"saidJim."Butsurelyyoudon'twanttokeepyourstomachalwaysfullandheavy.""Ido,myboy.Ido.Itneedskeepingsolid.I'mlosinglife,ifIdon't.ItellyouI'mlosinglife.Letmeputsomethinginsideme.""Idon'tbelievebread'sanyuse."DuringbreakfastJimtalkedaboutthefutureoftheworld."IreckonChrist'sthefinestthingtimehaseverproduced,"saidhe;"andwillremainit.""Butyoudon'twantcrucifixionsadinfinitum,"saidLilly."What?Whynot?""Onceisenough—andhavedone.""Don'tyouthinkloveandsacrificearethefinestthingsinlife?"saidJim,overhisbacon."DependsWHATlove,andwhatsacrifice,"saidLilly."IfIreallybelieveinanAlmightyGod,IamwillingtosacrificeforHim.Thatis,I'mwillingtoyieldmy own personal interest to the bigger creative interest.—But it's obviousAlmightyGodisn'tmereLove.""I think it is. Love and only love," said Jim. "I think the greatest joy issacrificingoneselftolove.""ToSOMEONEyoulove,youmean,"saidTanny."NoIdon't.Idon'tmeansomeoneatall.Imeanlove—love—love.Isacrificemyselftolove.Ireckonthat'sthehighestmaniscapableof.""Butyoucan'tsacrificeyourselftoanabstractprinciple,"saidTanny."That'sjustwhatyoucando.Andthat's thebeautyofit.Whorepresentstheprincipledoesn'tmatter.Christistheprincipleoflove,"saidJim."Butno!"saidTanny."ItMUSTbemoreindividual.ItmustbeSOMEBODYyou love, not abstract love in itself. How can you sacrifice yourself to anabstraction."

"Ha,IthinkLoveandyourChristdetestable,"saidLilly—"asheerignominy.""Finestthingtheworldhasproduced,"saidJim."No.Athingwhichsetsitselfuptobebetrayed!No,it'sfoul.Don'tyouseeit'stheJudasprincipleyoureallyworship.Judasistherealhero.ButforJudasthewholeshowwouldhavebeenmanque.""Ohyes,"saidJim."Judaswas inevitable. I'mnotsure that Judaswasn't thegreatest of the disciples—and Jesus knew it. I'm not sure Judas wasn't thediscipleJesusloved.""JesuscertainlyencouragedhiminhisJudastricks,"saidTanny.JimgrinnedknowinglyatLilly."Then it was a nasty combination. And anything which turns on a Judasclimax is a dirty show, tomy thinking. I think your Judas is a rotten, dirtyworm, just a dirty little self-conscious sentimental twister. And out of allChristianity he is the hero today.When people sayChrist theymean Judas.Theyfindhimlusciousonthepalate.AndJesusfosteredhim—"saidLilly."He's a profound figure, is Judas. It's taken two thousand years to begin tounderstandhim,"saidJim,pushingthebreadandmarmaladeintohismouth."Atraitorisatraitor—noneedtounderstandanyfurther.Andasystemwhichrests all its weight on a piece of treachery makes that treachery not onlyinevitable but sacred. That'swhy I'm sick of Christianity.—At any rate thismodernChrist-mongery.""The finest thing theworld has produced, or everwill produce—Christ andJudas—"saidJim."Nottome,"saidLilly."Foulcombination."Itwasa lovelymorning inearlyMarch.Violetswereout, and the firstwildanemones.Thesunwasquitewarm.Thethreewereabouttotakeoutapicniclunch.LillyhoweverwassufferingfromJim'spresence."Jollynicehere,"saidJim."MindifIstaytillSaturday?"Therewasapause.Lillyfelthewasbeingbullied,almostobscenelybullied.Washegoingtoagree?SuddenlyhelookedupatJim."I'dratheryouwenttomorrow,"hesaid.Tanny,whowassittingoppositeJim,droppedherheadinconfusion."What'stomorrow?"saidJim."Thursday,"saidLilly."Thursday,"repeatedJim.AndhelookedupandgotLilly'seye.Hewantedtosay"Fridaythen?"

"Yes,I'dratheryouwentThursday,"repeatedLilly."ButRawdon—!"brokeinTanny,whowassuffering.Shestopped,however."We canwalk across countrywith you someway if you like," saidLilly toJim.Itwasasortofcompromise."Fine!"saidJim."We'lldothat,then."Itwas lovely sunshine, and theywandered through thewoods.BetweenJimandTannywasasortofgrowingrapprochement,whichgotonLilly'snerves."What the hell do you take that beastly personal tone for?" cried Lilly atTanny,asthethreesatunderaleaflessgreatbeech-tree."ButI'mnotpersonalatall,amI,Mr.Bricknell?"saidTanny.JimwatchedLilly,andgrinnedpleasedly."Whyshouldn'tyoube,anyhow?"hesaid."Yes!"sheretorted."Whynot!""NotwhileI'mhere.Iloathetheslimycreepypersonalintimacy.—'Don'tyouthink, Mr. Bricknell, that it's lovely to be able to talk quite simply tosomebody?Oh, it's such a relief, aftermost people—-'" Lillymimicked hiswife'slastspeechsavagely."ButIMEANit,"criedTanny."Itislovely.""Dirtymessing,"saidLillyangrily.Jimwatched the dark, irascible little man with amusement. They rose, andwenttolookforaninn,andbeer.TannystillclungratherstickilytoJim'sside.But itwasa lovelyday, thefirstofall thedaysofspring,withcrocusesandwall-flowers in the cottage gardens, and white cocks crowing in the quiethamlet.Whentheygotbackintheafternoontothecottage,theyfoundatelegramforJim.He let the Lillys see it—"Meet you for awalk on your return journeyLois."At once Tannywanted to know all about Lois. Loiswas a nice girl,well-to-domiddle-class, but also an actress, and shewoulddo anything Jimwanted."Imustgetawiretohertomeetmetomorrow,"hesaid."WhereshallIsay?"Lillyproduced themap,and theydecidedon timeandstationatwhichLoiscoming out of London, should meet Jim. Then the happy pair could walkalongtheThamesvalley,spendinganightperhapsatMarlowe,orsomesuchplace.Offwent Jim and Lilly oncemore to the postoffice. Theywere quite goodfriends.Havingsoinhospitablyfixedthehourofdeparture,Lillywantedtobe

nice.Arrivedatthepostoffice,theyfounditshut:half-dayclosingforthelittleshop."Well,"saidLilly."We'llgotothestation."They proceeded to the station—found the station-master—were conducteddown to the signal-box.Lillynaturallyhungback frompeople,but Jimwashob-nobwiththestation-masterandthesignalman,quiteofficer-and-my-menkind of thing. Lilly sat out on the steps of the signal-box, rather ashamed,whilethelongtelegramwasshoutedoverthetelephonetothejunctiontown—first the young lady andher address, then themessage "MeetmeX. station3:40tomorrowwalkbackgreatpleasureJim."Anyhowthatwasdone.Theywenthometotea.Aftertea,astheeveningfell,Lilly suggesteda little stroll in thewoods,whileTannyprepared thedinner.Jimagreed,andtheysetout.Thetwomenwanderedthroughthetreesinthedusk,tilltheycametoabankonthefartheredgeofthewood.Theretheysatdown.And thereLilly saidwhathehad to say. "Asamatterof fact,"he said, "it'snothingbutloveandself-sacrificewhichmakesyoufeelyourselflosinglife.""You're wrong. Only love brings it back—and wine. If I drink a bottle ofBurgundy I feelmyself restoredat themiddle—righthere! I feel theenergybackagain.AndifIcanfallinlove—Butit'sbecomingsodamnedhard—""What,tofallinlove?"askedLilly."Yes.""Thenwhynotleaveofftrying!Whatdoyouwanttopokeyourselfandprodyourselfintolove,for?""BecauseI'mDEADwithoutit.I'mdead.I'mdying.""Onlybecauseyouforceyourself.Ifyoudropworkingyourselfup—""Ishalldie.IonlylivewhenIcanfallinlove.OtherwiseI'mdyingbyinches.Why, man, you don't know what it was like. I used to get the most grandfeelings—likeagreatrushofforce,orlight—agreatrush—righthere,asI'vesaid,atthesolarplexus.Anditwouldcomeanytime—anywhere—nomatterwhereIwas.AndthenIwasallright."Allrightforwhat?—formakinglove?""Yes,man,Iwas.""Andnowyou aren't?—Oh,well, leave love alone, as any twopennydoctorwouldtellyou.""No,you'reoffitthere.It'snothingtechnical.TechnicallyIcanmakeloveasmuchasyou like. It'snothingadoctorhasanysay in. It'swhatI feel inside

me. I feel the life going. I know it's going. I never get those inrushes now,unless Idrinka jolly lot, or if Ipossiblycould fall in love.Technically, I'mpotentallright—oh,yes!""Youshouldleaveyourselfandyourinrushesalone.""Butyoucan't.It'sasortofache.""Thenyoushouldstiffenyourbackbone.It'syourbackbonethatmatters.Youshouldn'twant to abandon yourself.You shouldn'twant to fling yourself allloose into awoman's lap. You should stand by yourself and learn to be byyourself. Why don't you be more like the Japanese you talk about? Quiet,alooflittledevils.Theydon'tbotheraboutbeingloved.Theykeepthemselvestaut in their own selves—there, at the bottomof the spine—the devil's ownpowerthey'vegotthere."Jimmusedabit."Thinktheyhave?"helaughed.Itseemedcomictohim."Sure!Lookatthem.Whycan'tyougatheryourselfthere?""Atthetail?""Yes.Holdyourselffirmthere."Jimbrokeintoacackleofa laugh,androse.Thetwowent throughthedarkwoodsbacktothecottage.Jimstaggeredandstumbledlikeadrunkenman:orworse, likeamanwith locomotorataxia:as ifhehadnopower inhis lowerlimbs."Walkthere—!"saidLilly,findinghimthesmoothestbitofthedarkpath.ButJimstumbledandshambled,inastateofnauseousweakrelaxation.However,theyreachedthecottage:andfoodandbeer—andTanny,piquedwithcuriositytoknowwhatthemenhadbeensayingprivatelytoeachother.Afterdinnertheysatoncemoretalkingroundthefire.Lilly sat in a small chair facing the fire, the other two in the armchairs oneithersidethehearth."Howniceitwillbeforyou,walkingwithLoistowardsLondontomorrow,"gushedTannysentimentally."GoodGod!"saidLilly."Whythedickensdoesn'thewalkbyhimself,withoutwantingawomanalwaysthere,toholdhishand.""Don'tbesospiteful,"saidTanny."YOUseethatyouhaveawomanalwaysthere,toholdYOURhand.""Myhanddoesn'tneedholding,"snappedLilly."Doesn't it! More than most men's! But you're so beastly ungrateful andmannish. Because I hold you safe enough all the time you like to pretend

you'redoingitallyourself.""All right. Don't drag yourself in," said Lilly, detesting his wife at thatmoment. "Anyhow," and he turned to Jim, "it's time you'd done slobberingyourselfoveralotoflittlewomen,oneaftertheother.""Whyshouldn'tI,ifIlikeit?"saidJim."Yes,whynot?"saidTanny."Becauseitmakesafoolofyou.Lookatyou,stumblingandstaggeringwithnouseinyourlegs.I'dbeashamedifIwereyou.""Wouldyou?"saidJim."I would. And it's nothing but your wanting to be loved which does it. Amaudlincryingtobeloved,whichmakesyourkneesallgorickety.""Thinkthat'sit?"saidJim."Whatelseisit.Youhaven'tbeenhereaday,butyoumusttelegraphforsomefemale tobe ready toholdyourhand themomentyougoaway.Andbeforeshe letsgo,you'llbewiring foranother.YOUWANTTOBELOVED,youwanttobeloved—amanofyouryears.It'sdisgusting—""Idon'tseeit.Ibelieveinlove—"saidJim,watchingandgrinningoddly."Bah,love!Messing,that'swhatitis.Itwouldn'tmatterifitdidyounoharm.Butwhenyoustaggerandstumbledownaroad,outofsheersloppyrelaxationofyourwill—-"AtthispointJimsuddenlysprangfromhischairatLilly,andgavehimtwoorthreehardblowswithhisfists,uponthefrontofthebody.Thenhesatdowninhisownchairagain,sayingsheepishly:"IknewIshouldhavetodoit,ifhesaidanymore."Lilly sat motionless as a statue, his face like paper. One of the blows hadcaughthimratherlow,sothathewasalmostwindedandcouldnotbreathe.Hesatrigid,paralysedasawindedmanis.Buthewouldn'tletitbeseen.Withallhiswill he preventedhimself fromgasping.Only throughhis parted lips hedrewtinygasps,controlled,nothingrevealedtotheothertwo.Hehatedthembothfartoomuch.For someminutes therewasdead silence,whilstLilly silentlyandviciouslyfought for his breath. Tanny opened her eyes wide in a sort of pleasedbewilderment, and Jim turned his face aside, and hung his clasped handsbetweenhisknees."There'sagreatsilence,suddenly!"saidTanny."What is there to say?" ejaculated Lilly rapidly, with a spoonful of breathwhich he managed to compress and control into speech. Then he sat

motionlessagain, concernedwith thebusinessofgettingbackhiswind, andnotlettingtheothertwosee.Jimjerkedinhischair,andlookedround."Itisn'tthatIdon'tliketheman,"hesaid,inarathersmallvoice."ButIknewifhewentonIshouldhavetodoit."To Lilly, rigid and physically preoccupied, there sounded a sort of self-consciousness inJim'svoice,as if thewhole thinghadbeensemi-deliberate.Hedetectedthesortofmaudlindeliberatenesswhichgoeswithhysterics,andhewascolder,moreicythanever.Tanny lookedatLilly,puzzled,bewildered,but still ratherpleased, as if shedemandedananswer.Nonebeingforthcoming,shesaid:"Ofcourse,youmustn'texpecttosayallthosethingswithoutrousingaman."StillLillydidnotanswer.Jimglancedathim,thenlookedatTanny."Itisn'tthatIdon'tlikehim,"hesaid,slowly."IlikehimbetterthananymanI'veeverknown,Ibelieve."Heclaspedhishandsandturnedasidehisface."Judas!"flashedthroughLilly'smind.AgainTannylookedforherhusband'sanswer."Yes,Rawdon,"shesaid."Youcan'tsaythethingsyoudowithouttheirhavinganeffect.Youreallyaskforit,youknow.""It'snomatter."Lillysqueezedthewordsoutcoldly."Hewantedtodoit,andhedidit."Adeadsilenceensuednow.Tannylookedfrommantoman."Icouldfeelitcomingonme,"saidJim."Ofcourse!"saidTanny."Rawdondoesn'tknowthethingshesays."Shewaspleasedthathehadhadtopayforthem,foronce.It takes aman a long time to get his breath back, after a sharp blow in thewind. Lilly was managing by degrees. The others no doubt attributed hissilence todeepor fierce thoughts. Itwasnothingof thekind,merelyacoldstruggle togethiswindback,without letting themknowhewas struggling:andasheer,stock-stiffhatredofthepairofthem."Iliketheman,"saidJim."NeverlikedamanmorethanIlikehim."Hespokeasifwithdifficulty."Theman"stucksafelyinLilly'sears."Oh,well,"hemanagedtosay."It'snothing.I'vedonemytalkingandhadananswer,foronce.""Yes,Rawdy,you'vehadananswer,foronce.Usuallyyoudon'tgetananswer,

youknow—andthat'swhyyougosofar—inthe thingsyousay.Nowyou'llknowhowyoumakepeoplefeel.""Quite!"saidLilly."Idon'tfeelanything.Idon'tmindwhathesays,"saidJim."Yes,butheoughttoknowthethingsheDOESsay,"saidTanny."Hegoeson,without considering the person he's talking to. This time it's come back onhim.Hemustn'tsaysuchpersonalthings,ifhe'snotgoingtoriskananswer.""Idon'tmindwhathesays.Idon'tmindabit,"saidJim."Nordo Imind," saidLilly indifferently. "I saywhat I feel—Youdoasyoufeel—There'sanendofit."A sheepish sort of silence followed this speech. Itwas broken by a suddenlaughfromTanny."The things that happen to us!" she said, laughing rather shrilly. "Suddenly,likeathunderbolt,we'reallstruckintosilence!""Rumgame,eh!"saidJim,grinning."Isn't it funny! Isn't life too funny!"She looked again at her husband. "But,Rawdy,youmustadmititwasyourownfault."Lilly'sstifffacedidnotchange."WhyFAULT!"hesaid,lookingathercoldly."Whatistheretotalkabout?""Usuallythere'ssomuch,"shesaidsarcastically.A few phrases dribbled out of the silence. In vain Jim, tried to get Lilly tothaw,andinvainTannygaveherdigsatherhusband.Lilly'sstiff,inscrutablefacedidnotchange,hewaspoliteandaloof.Sotheyallwenttobed.In the morning, the walk was to take place, as arranged, Lilly and TannyaccompanyingJimtothethirdstationacrosscountry.Themorningwaslovely,thecountrybeautiful.Lillylikedthecountrysideandenjoyedthewalk.Butahardnessinsidehimselfneverrelaxed.Jimtalkedalittleagainaboutthefutureof the world, and a higher state of Christlikeness in man. But Lilly onlylaughed.ThenTannymanagedtogetaheadwithJim,stickingtohissideandtalkingsympatheticpersonalities.ButLilly,feelingitfromafar,ranafterthemandcaughtthemup.Theyweresilent."Whatwastheinterestingtopic?"hesaidcuttingly."Nothingatall!"saidTanny,nettled."Whymustyouinterfere?""BecauseIintendto,"saidLilly.And the two others fell apart, as if severedwith a knife. Jimwalked rathersheepishly,asifcutout.

So theycameat lastpast thecanals to thewayside station: andat last Jim'straincame.Theyallsaidgoodbye.JimandTannywerebothwaitingforLillytoshowsomesignofrealreconciliation.Butnonecame.Hewascheerfulandaloof."Goodbye,"hesaidtoJim."HopeLoiswillbethereallright.Thirdstationon.Goodbye!Goodbye!""You'llcometoRackham?"saidJim,leaningoutofthetrain."Weshouldloveto,"calledTanny,aftertherecedingtrain."Allright,"saidLilly,non-committal.ButheandhiswifeneversawJimagain.Lillynever intended toseehim:adevilsatinthelittleman'sbreast."Youshouldn'tplayatlittleJesus,comingsoneartopeople,wantingtohelpthem,"wasTanny'slastword.

CHAPTERIX.LOW-WATERMARK

Tannywent away toNorway to visit her people, for the first time for threeyears.Lillydidnotgo:hedidnotwantto.HecametoLondonandsettledinaroom over Covent Garden market. The roomwas high up, a fair size, andstoodatthecornerofoneofthestreetsandthemarketitself,lookingdownonthestallsand thecartsand thearcade.Lillywouldclimboutof thewindowand sit for hours watching the behaviour of the great draught-horses whichbrought themountainsofboxesandvegetables.Funnyhalf-humancreaturesthey seemed, somassive and fleshy, yet soCockney. Therewas onewhichcouldnotbeardonkeys,andwhichusedtostretchoutitsgreatteethlikesomemassive serpent after every poor diminutive ass that came with a coster'sbarrow.Anothergreathorsecouldnotendurestanding. Itwouldshake itselfandgivelittlestarts,andbackintotheheapsofcarrotsandbroccoli,whilstthedriverwentintoafrenzyofrage.Therewasalwayssomethingtowatch.Oneminuteitwastwogreatloadsofemptycrates,which inpassinghadgotentangled,andreeled, leaning to falldisastrously.Thenthedriverscursedandsworeanddismountedandstaredattheirjeopardisedloads:tillathinfellowwaspersuadedtoscrambleuptheairymountainsofcages, likeamonkey.Andheactuallymanagedtoput themtorights.Greatsighofreliefwhenthevansrockedoutofthemarket.Again there was a particular page-boy in buttons, with a round and perkybehind,whonimblycarrieda tea-trayfromsomewhere tosomewhere,underthearchesbesidethemarket.Thegreatbrawnyporterswouldteasehim,and

hewouldstoptogivethemcheek.Oneafternoonagiantlungedafterhim:theboydartedgracefullyamongtheheapsofvegetables,stillbearingalofthistea-tray, like some young blue-buttoned acolyte fleeing before a false god. Thegiant rolledafterhim—whenalas, the acolyteof the tea-tray slippedamongthevegetables, anddowncame the tray.Then tears, and a roar of unfeelingmirthfromthegiants.Lillyfelttheyweregoingtomakeituptohim.Anotherafternoonayoungswellsaunteredpersistentlyamongthevegetables,andLilly,seatedinhishighlittlebalcony,wonderedwhy.Butat last,a taxi,andaveryexpensivefemale,inasortofsilverbrocadegownandagreatfurshawlandospreysinherbonnet.Evidentlyanassignation.Yetwhatcouldbemore conspicuous than this elegant pair, picking their way through thecabbage-leaves?And then,onecoldgreyafternoon inearlyApril, aman inablackovercoatandabowlerhat,walkinguncertainly.Lillyhadrisenandwasjustretiringoutof thechill,dampair.For some reasonhe lingered towatch the figure.Theman was walking east. He stepped rather insecurely off the pavement, andwavered across the setts between the wheels of the standing vans. Andsuddenlyhewent down.Lilly couldnot seehimon theground, but he sawsomevan-mengoforward,andhesawoneofthempickuptheman'shat."I'dbettergodown,"saidLillytohimself.Sohebeganrunningdownthefourlongflightsofstonestairs,pastthemanydoorsof themultifariousbusinesspremises,andout into themarket.A littlecrowdhadgathered,andalargepolicemanwasjustrowingintothecentreofthe interest.Lilly,alwaysahovereron theedgeofpubliccommotions,hungnowhesitatingontheoutskirtsofthecrowd."Whatisit?"hesaid,toarathersniffymessengerboy."Drunk," said the messenger boy: except that, in unblushing cockney, hepronouncedit"Drank."Lillyhungfurtherbackontheedgeofthelittlecrowd."Comeonhere.Whered'youwant togo?"heheard thehearty tonesof thepoliceman."I'mallright.I'mallright,"camethetestydrunkenanswer."Allright,areyer!Allright,andthensome,—comeon,getonyourpins.""I'mallright!I'mallright."ThevoicemadeLillypeerbetweenthepeople.Andsittingonthegranitesetts,beinghauledupbyaburlypoliceman,hesawouracquaintanceAaron,verypaleinthefaceandalittledishevelled."Likemetotuckthesheetsroundyou,shouldn'tyou?Fancyyourselfsnugin

bed,don'tyou?Youwon'tbelieveyou'reright inthewayoftraffic,willyounow, in Covent Garden Market? Come on, we'll see to you." And thepolicemanhoistedthebitterandunwillingAaron.Lilly was quickly at the centre of the affair, unobtrusive like a shadow,differentfromtheotherpeople."Help him up to my room, will you?" he said to the constable. "Friend ofmine."Thelargeconstablelookeddownonthebare-headedwispy,unobtrusiveLillywithgood-humouredsuspicionandincredulity.Lillycouldnothaveborneitifthepolicemanhadutteredanyofthiscockneysuspicion,sohewatchedhim.There was a great gulf between the public official and the odd, quiet littleindividual—yetLillyhadhisway."Whichroom?"saidthepoliceman,dubious.Lillypointedquicklyround.ThenhesaidtoAaron:"Wereyoucomingtoseeme,Sisson?You'llcomein,won'tyou?"Aaron nodded rather stupidly and testily.His eyes looked angry. Somebodystuckhishatonhisheadforhim,andmadehimlookafool.Lillytookitoffagain, and carried it for him. He turned and the crowd eased. He watchedAaronsharply,andsawthatitwaswithdifficultyhecouldwalk.Sohecaughthimby the armon the other side from the policeman, and they crossed theroadtothepavement."Notsomuchofthissortofthingthesedays,"saidthepoliceman."Notsomuchopportunity,"saidLilly."More than therewas, though.Coming back to the old days, like.Workinground,bitbybit."Theyhadarrivedatthestairs.Aaronstumbledup."Steadynow!Steadydoesit!"saidthepoliceman,steeringhischarge.TherewasacuriousbreachofdistancebetweenLillyandtheconstable.At lastLilly opened his own door.The roomwas pleasant. The fire burnedwarm, the piano stood open, the sofawas untidywith cushions and papers.Booksandpaperscovered thebigwritingdesk.Beyond thescreenmadebythebookshelvesand thepianowere twobeds,withwashstandbyoneof thelargewindows,theonethroughwhichLillyhadclimbed.Thepolicemanlookedroundcuriously."Morecosyherethaninthelock-up,sir!"hesaid.Lillylaughed.Hewashastilyclearingthesofa."Sitonthesofa,Sisson,"hesaid.

Thepolicemanloweredhischarge,witha—"Rightweare,then!"Lilly felt in his pocket, and gave the policeman half a crown. But he waswatchingAaron,whosatstupidlyonthesofa,verypaleandsemi-conscious."Doyoufeelill,Sisson?"hesaidsharply.Aaronlookedbackathimwithheavyeyes,andshookhisheadslightly."Ibelieveyouare,"saidLilly,takinghishand."Mightbeabito'thisflu,youknow,"saidthepoliceman."Yes,"saidLilly."Whereisthereadoctor?"headded,onreflection."The nearest?" said the policeman.And he told him. "Leave amessage foryou,Sir?"Lillywrotehisaddressonacard,thenchangedhismind."No,I'llrunroundmyselfifnecessary,"hesaid.Andthepolicemandeparted."You'llgo tobed,won'tyou?" saidLilly toAaron,when thedoorwas shut.Aaronshookhisheadsulkily."IwouldifIwereyou.Youcanstayheretillyou'reallright.I'malone,soitdoesn'tmatter."ButAaronhadrelapsedintosemi-consciousness.Lillyputthebigkettleonthegasstove,thelittlekettleonthefire.Thenhehoveredinfrontofthestupefiedman.Hefeltuneasy.AgainhetookAaron'shandandfeltthepulse."I'msureyouaren'twell.Youmustgotobed,"hesaid.Andhekneeledandunfastenedhisvisitor'sboots.Meanwhilethekettlebegantoboil,heputahot-waterbottleintothebed."Letusgetyourovercoatoff,"he said to the stupefiedman. "Comealong."Andwith coaxing andpulling andpushinghegot off the overcoat and coatandwaistcoat.At lastAaronwasundressed and in bed.Lilly brought him tea.With a dimkindofobediencehe took thecupandwoulddrink.He lookedatLillywithheavyeyes."Igavein,Igaveintoher,elseIshouldha'beenallright,"hesaid."Towhom?"saidLilly."Igaveintoher—andafterwardsIcried,thinkingofLottieandthechildren.Ifeltmyheartbreak,youknow.Andthat'swhatdidit.IshouldhavebeenallrightifIhadn'tgivenintoher—"

"Towhom?"saidLilly."Josephine. I felt, theminute Iwas loving her, I'd donemyself.And I had.Everythingcamebackonme.IfIhadn'tgivenintoher,Ishouldha'keptallright.""Don'tbothernow.Getwarmandstill—""Ifeltit—Ifeltitgo,insideme,theminuteIgaveintoher.It'sperhapskilledme.""No, not it. Never mind, be still. Be still, and you'll be all right in themorning.""It's my own fault, for giving in to her. If I'd kept myself back, my liverwouldn'thavebrokeninsideme,andIshouldn'thavebeensick.AndIknew—""Nevermindnow.Haveyoudrunkyourtea?Liedown.Liedown,andgotosleep."LillypushedAarondowninthebed,andcoveredhimover.Thenhethrusthishandsunderthebedclothesandfelthisfeet—stillcold.Hearrangedthewaterbottle.Thenheputanothercoveronthebed.Aaron lay still, rather grey and peaked-looking, in a stillness that was nothealthy.ForsometimeLillywentaboutstealthily,glancingathispatientfromtimetotime.Thenhesatdowntoread.Hewasrousedaftera timebyamoaningof troubledbreathingandafretfulstirringinthebed.Hewentacross.Aaron'seyeswereopen,anddarklooking."Havealittlehotmilk,"saidLilly.Aaronshookhisheadfaintly,notnoticing."AlittleBovril?"Thesamefaintshake.Then Lilly wrote a note for the doctor, went into the office on the samelanding,andgotaclerk,whowouldbeleavinginafewminutes,tocallwiththenote.WhenhecamebackhefoundAaronstillwatching."Areyouherebyyourself?"askedthesickman."Yes.Mywife'sgonetoNorway.""Forgood?""No," laughedLilly. "For a couple ofmonths or so. She'll come back here:unlessshejoinsmeinSwitzerlandorsomewhere."Aaronwasstillforawhile."You'venotgonewithher,"hesaidatlength.

"Toseeherpeople?No,Idon't thinktheywantmeverybadly—andIdidn'twant very badly to go.Why should I? It's better for married people to beseparatedsometimes.""Ay!"saidAaron,watchingtheothermanwithfever-darkenedeyes."I hatemarried peoplewho are two in one—stuck together like two jujubelozenges,"saidLilly."Mean'all.Ihate'emmyself,"saidAaron."Everybodyoughttostandbythemselves,inthefirstplace—menandwomenaswell.Theycancometogether,inthesecondplace,iftheylike.Butnothingisanygoodunlesseachonestandsalone,intrinsically.""I'mwithyouthere,"saidAaron."IfI'dkep'myself tomyselfIshouldn'tbebadnow—thoughI'mnotverybad.Is'llbeallrightinthemorning.ButIdidmyself inwhen Iwentwithanotherwoman. I feltmyselfgo—as if thebilebrokeinsideme,andIwassick.""Josephineseducedyou?"laughedLilly."Ay, right enough," replied Aaron grimly. "She won't be coming here, willshe?""NotunlessIaskher.""Youwon'taskher,though?""No,notifyoudon'twanther.""Idon't."The fever made Aaron naive and communicative, unlike himself. And heknewhewasbeingunlikehimself,heknewthathewasnotinpropercontrolofhimself,sohewasunhappy,uneasy."I'llstopherethenightthen,ifyoudon'tmind,"hesaid."You'llhaveto,"saidLilly."I'vesentfor thedoctor. Ibelieveyou'vegot theflu.""ThinkIhave?"saidAaronfrightened."Don'tbescared,"laughedLilly.Therewasa longpause.Lilly stoodat thewindow lookingat thedarkeningmarket,beneaththestreet-lamps."Is'llhavetogotothehospital,ifIhave,"cameAaron'svoice."No,ifit'sonlygoingtobeaweekorafortnight'sbusiness,youcanstophere.I'venothingtodo,"saidLilly."There's no occasion for you to saddle yourself with me," said Aarondejectedly.

"You can go to your hospital if you like—or back to your lodging—if youwishto,"saidLilly."Youcanmakeupyourmindwhenyouseehowyouareinthemorning.""Nousegoingbacktomylodgings,"saidAaron."I'llsendatelegramtoyourwifeifyoulike,"saidLilly.Aaronwassilent,deadsilent,forsometime."Nay,"hesaidatlength,inadecidedvoice."NotifIdieforit."Lilly remained still, and the other man lapsed into a sort of semi-sleep,motionless and abandoned.Thedarkness had fallenoverLondon, and awaybelowthelampswerewhite.Lilly lit the green-shaded reading lamp over the desk. Then he stood andlookedatAaron,wholaystill,lookingsick.Ratherbeautifulthebonesofthecountenance:but the skull too small for suchaheavy jawand rather coarsemouth. Aaron half-opened his eyes, and writhed feverishly, as if his limbscouldnotbeintherightplace.Lillymendedthefire,andsatdowntowrite.Then he got up andwent downstairs to unfasten the street door, so that thedoctorcouldwalkup.Thebusinesspeoplehadgonefromtheirvariousholes,allthelowerpartofthetallhousewasindarkness.Lillywaitedandwaited.Heboiledaneggandmadehimselftoast.Aaronsaidhemighteatthesame.Lillycookedanothereggandtookittothesickman.Aaronlookedatitandpusheditawaywithnausea.Hewouldhavesometea.SoLillygavehimtea."Notmuchfunforyou,doingthisforsomebodywhoisnothingtoyou,"saidAaron."I shouldn't if you were unsympathetic to me," said Lilly. "As it is, it'shappenedso,andsowe'llletbe.""Whattimeisit?""Nearlyeighto'clock.""Oh,myLord,theopera."AndAarongothalfoutofbed.Butashesatonthebedsideheknewhecouldnotsafelygettohisfeet.Heremainedapictureofdejection."Perhapsweoughttoletthemknow,"saidLilly.ButAaron,blankwithstupidmisery,sathuddledthereonthebedsidewithoutanswering."Illrunroundwithanote,"saidLilly."Isupposeothershavehadflu,besidesyou.Liedown!"ButAaronstupidlyanddejectedlysathuddledonthesideofthebed,wearing

oldflannelpyjamasofLilly's,rathersmallforhim.Hefelttoosicktomove."Liedown!Liedown!"saidLilly."AndkeepstillwhileI'mgone.Ishan'tbemorethantenminutes.""Idon'tcareifIdie,"saidAaron.Lillylaughed."You'realongwayfromdying,"saidhe,"oryouwouldn'tsayit."ButAarononlylookedupathimwithqueer,far-off,haggardeyes,somethinglikeacriminalwhoisjustbeingexecuted."Liedown!"saidLilly,pushinghimgentlyintothebed."Youwon'timproveyourselfsittingthere,anyhow."Aaronlaydown,turnedaway,andwasquitestill.Lillyquietlyleft theroomonhiserrand.Thedoctordidnotcomeuntil teno'clock:andwornoutwithworkwhenhedidcome."Isn'ttherealiftinthisestablishment?"hesaid,ashegropedhiswayupthestonestairs.Lillyhadheardhim,andrundowntomeethim.The doctor poked the thermometer underAaron's tongue and felt the pulse.Thenheaskedafewquestions:listenedtotheheartandbreathing."Yes,it'stheflu,"hesaidcurtly."Nothingtodobuttokeepwarminbedandnotmove,andtakeplentyofmilkandliquidnourishment.I'llcomeroundinthemorningandgiveyouaninjection.Lungsareallrightsofar.""HowlongshallIhavetobeinbed?"saidAaron."Oh—depends.Aweekatleast."Aaronwatched him sullenly—and hated him. Lilly laughed to himself. Thesickmanwaslikeadogthatisillbutwhichgrowlsfromadeepcorner,andwillbiteifyouputyourhandin.Hewasinastateofblackdepression.Lillysettledhimdownforthenight,andhimselfwenttobed.Aaronsquirmedwith heavy, pained limbs, the night through, and slept and had bad dreams.Lilly got up to give him drinks. The din in the market was terrific beforedawn,andAaronsufferedbitterly.In the morning he was worse. The doctor gave him injections againstpneumonia."Youwouldn'tlikemetowiretoyourwife?"saidLilly."No,"saidAaronabruptly."Youcansendmetothehospital.I'mnothingbutapieceofcarrion.""Carrion!"saidLilly."Why?"

"Iknowit.Ifeellikeit.""Oh,that'sonlythesortofnauseatedfeelingyougetwithflu.""I'm only fit to be thrown underground, and made an end of. I can't standmyself—"Hehadaghastly,greylookofself-repulsion."It'sthegermthatmakesyoufeellikethat,"saidLilly."Itpoisonsthesystemforatime.Butyou'llworkitoff."At evening he was no better, the fever was still high. Yet there were nocomplications—exceptthattheheartwasirregular."TheonethingIwonder,"saidLilly,"iswhetheryouhadn'tbetterbemovedoutofthenoiseofthemarket.It'sfearfulforyouintheearlymorning.""Itmakesnodifferencetome,"saidAaron.Thenext dayhewas a littleworse, if anything.Thedoctor knew therewasnothingtobedone.Ateveninghegavethepatientacalomelpill.Itwasratherstrong,andAaronhadabadtime.Hisburning,parched,poisonedinsidewastwistedandtorn.Meanwhilecartsbanged,portersshouted,allthehellofthemarketwentonoutside,awaydownonthecobblesetts.Butthistimethetwomendidnothear."You'llfeelbetternow,"saidLilly,"aftertheoperation.""It'sdonemeharm,"criedAaronfretfully."Sendmetothehospital,oryou'llrepentit.Getridofmeintime.""Nay,"saidLilly."Yougetbetter.Damnit,you'reonlyoneamongamillion."AgainoverAaron'sfacewenttheghastlygrimaceofself-repulsion."Mysoul'sgonerotten,"hesaid."No,"saidLilly."Onlytoxinintheblood."Next day the patient seemedworse, and the heartmore irregular.He restedbadly.So far,Lillyhadgot a fairnight's rest.NowAaronwasnot sleeping,andheseemedtostruggleinthebed."Keepyourcourageup,man,"saidthedoctorsharply."Yougiveway."Aaronlookedathimblackly,anddidnotanswer.InthenightLillywasuptimeaftertime.Aaronwouldslipdownonhisback,andgosemi-conscious.Andthenhewouldawake,asifdrowning,strugglingtomove,mentally shouting aloud, yetmakingno sound for somemoments,mentallyshoutinginfrenzy,butunabletostirormakeasound.Whenatlasthegotsomesortofphysicalcontrolhecried:"Liftmeup!Liftmeup!"Lillyhurriedandliftedhimup,andhesatpantingwithasobbingmotion,his

eyes gloomy and terrified,more than ever like a criminalwho is just beingexecuted.Hedrankbrandy,andwaslaiddownonhisside."Don't let me lie on my back," he said, terrified. "No, I won't," said Lilly.Aaron frowned curiously on his nurse. "Mind you don't let me," he said,exactingandreallyterrified."No,Iwon'tletyou."AndnowLillywascontinuallycrossingoverandpullingAaronontohisside,wheneverhefoundhimslippeddownonhisback.Inthemorningthedoctorwaspuzzled.Probablyitwasthetoxininthebloodwhich poisoned the heart. There was no pneumonia. And yet Aaron wasclearlygrowingworse.Thedoctor agreed to send inanurse for thecomingnight."What's thematterwithyou,man!"hesaidsharply tohispatient."Yougiveway!Yougiveway!Can'tyoupullyourselftogether?"But Aaron only became more gloomily withheld, retracting from life. AndLillybegantobereallytroubled.Hegotafriendtositwiththepatientintheafternoon,whilsthehimselfwentoutandarrangedtosleepinAaron'sroom,athislodging.Thenextmorning,whenhecamein,hefoundthepatient lyingasever, inasortofheapinthebed.Nursehadhadtolifthimupandholdhimupagain.AndnowAaron lay inasortofsemi-stuporof fear, frustratedanger,miseryandself-repulsion:asortofinterlockeddepression.The doctor frowned when he came. He talked with the nurse, and wroteanotherprescription.ThenhedrewLillyawaytothedoor."What's thematterwith thefellow?"hesaid."Can'tyourousehisspirit?Heseems to be sulking himself out of life. He'll drop out quite suddenly, youknow,ifhegoesonlikethis.Can'tyourousehimup?""I think itdepresseshimpartly thathisbowelswon'twork. It frightenshim.He'sneverbeenillinhislifebefore,"saidLilly."Hisbowelswon'tworkifheletsallhisspiritgo,likeananimaldyingofthesulks," said the doctor impatiently. "Hemight go off quite suddenly—deadbeforeyoucanturnround—"Lillywasproperlytroubled.Yethedidnotquiteknowwhattodo.Itwasearlyafternoon, and the sunwas shining into the room.Therewere daffodils andanemones ina jar,and freeziasandviolets.Downbelow in themarketweretwostallsofgoldenandblueflowers,gay."Theflowersare lovely in thespringsunshine,"saidLilly."IwishIwere inthecountry,don'tyou?Assoonasyouarebetterwe'llgo.It'sbeenaterrible

cold, wet spring. But now it's going to be nice. Do you like being in thecountry?""Yes,"saidAaron.Hewasthinkingofhisgarden.Helovedit.Neverinhislifehadhebeenawayfromagardenbefore."Makehasteandgetbetter,andwe'llgo.""Where?"saidAaron."Hampshire.OrBerkshire.Orperhapsyou'dliketogohome?Wouldyou?"Aaronlaystill,anddidnotanswer."Perhaps you want to, and you don't want to," said Lilly. "You can pleaseyourself,anyhow."Therewasnogettinganythingdefiniteoutofthesickman—hissoulseemedstuck,asifitwouldnotmove.SuddenlyLillyroseandwenttothedressing-table."I'mgoingtorubyouwithoil,"hesaid."I'mgoingtorubyouasmothersdotheirbabieswhosebowelsdon'twork."Aaron frowned slightly asheglanced at thedark, self-possessed faceof thelittleman."What'sthegoodofthat?"hesaidirritably."I'dratherbeleftalone.""Thenyouwon'tbe."Quicklyheuncovered theblond lowerbodyofhispatient,andbegan to rubthe abdomenwith oil, using a slow, rhythmic, circulatingmotion, a sort ofmassage. For a long time he rubbed finely and steadily, thenwent over thewholeof the lowerbody,mindless, as if in a sort of incantation.He rubbedeveryspeckof theman's lowerbody—theabdomen, thebuttocks, the thighsandknees,downtothefeet,rubbeditallwarmandglowingwithcamphoratedoil,everybitofit,chafingthetoesswiftly,tillhewasalmostexhausted.ThenAaron was covered up again, and Lilly sat down in fatigue to look at hispatient.Hesawachange.Thesparkhadcomeback into thesickeyes,and thefainttraceofasmile,faintlyluminous,intotheface.Aaronwasregaininghimself.ButLillysaidnothing.Hewatchedhispatientfallintoapropersleep.Andhesatandwatchedhimsleep.Andhethoughttohimself:"IwonderwhyIdo it. Iwonderwhy Ibotherwithhim.... Jimought tohave taughtmemylesson. As soon as this man's really better he'll punch me in the wind,metaphorically if not actually, for having interfered with him. And Tannywouldsay,hewasquiterighttodoit.ShesaysIwantpoweroverthem.What

ifIdo?Theydon'tcarehowmuchpowerthemobhasoverthem,thenation,Lloyd George and Northcliffe and the police and money. They'll yieldthemselvesuptothatsortofpowerquicklyenough,andimmolatethemselvesprobonopublicobythemillion.Andwhat's thebonumpublicumbutamobpower?Why can't they submit to a bit of healthy individual authority?Thefoolwoulddie,withoutme:justasthatfoolJimwilldieinhystericsoneday.Whydoeshelastsolong!"Tanny'sthesame.Shedoesnothingreallybutresistme:myauthority,ormyinfluence, or just ME. At the bottom of her heart she just blindly andpersistentlyopposesme.Godknowswhat it is sheopposes: justmemyself.ShethinksIwanthertosubmittome.SoIdo,inameasurenaturaltoourtwoselves. Somewhere, she ought to submit to me. But they all prefer to kickagainstthepricks.NotthatTHEYgetmanypricks.Igetthem.Damnthemall,why don't I leave them alone? They only grin and feel triumphant whenthey'veinsultedoneandpunchedoneinthewind."ThisAaronwilldo just thesame. I likehim,andheought to likeme.Andhe'llbeanotherJim:heWILLlikeme,ifhecanknockthewindoutofme.Alot of little Stavrogins coming up towhisper affectionately, and biting one'sear."ButanyhowIcansoonsee the lastof thischap:andhimthe lastofall therest. I'll be damned for ever if I see their Jims and Roberts and Julias andScottsanymore.Letthemdanceroundtheirinsipidhell-broth.Thintackitis."There's a whole world besides this little gang of Europeans. Except, dearGod,thatthey'veexterminatedallthepeoplesworthknowing.Ican'tdowithfolk who teem by the billion, like the Chinese and Japs and orientalsaltogether. Only vermin teem by the billion. Higher types breed slower. Iwould have loved the Aztecs and the Red Indians. I KNOW they hold theelement in lifewhich I am looking for—they had living pride.Not like theflea-bitten Asiatics—even niggers are better than Asiatics, though they arewallowers—the American races—and the South Sea Islanders—theMarquesans, theMaori blood.Thatwas the true blood. Itwasn't frightened.All therestarecraven—Europeans,Asiatics,Africans—everyoneathisownindividual quick craven and cringing: only conceited in themass, themob.HowIhatethem:themass-bullies,theindividualJudases."Well, ifonewillbeaJesushemustexpecthisJudas.That'swhyAbrahamLincoln gets shot. A Jesusmakes a Judas inevitable. Aman should remainhimself,nottrytospreadhimselfoverhumanity.Heshouldpivothimselfonhisownpride."IsupposereallyIoughttohavepackedthisAaronofftothehospital.InsteadofwhichhereamIrubbinghimwithoiltorubthelifeintohim.AndIKNOW

he'llbiteme, likeawarmedsnake, themomentherecovers.AndTannywillsay'Quiteright,too,'Ishouldn'thavebeensointimate.No,Ishouldhaveleftittomechanicaldoctorsandnurses."SoIshould.Everythingtoitsown.AndAaronbelongstothislittlesystem,and Jim iswaiting to be psychoanalysed, andTanny iswaiting for her ownglorification."All right, Aaron. Last time I break my bread for anybody, this is. So getbetter,myflautist,sothatIcangoaway."ItwaseasyfortheRedIndiansandtheOtherstotaketheirhookintodeath.Theymighthavestayedabitlongertohelponetodefythewhitemasses."I'llmakesometea—"Lillyrosesoftlyandwentacrosstothefire.Hehadtocrossalandingtoasortoflittlelavatory,withasinkandatap,forwater.Theclerkspeepedoutathimfromanadjoiningofficeandnodded.Henodded,anddisappearedfromtheirsightasquicklyaspossible,withhiskettle.Hisdarkeyeswerequick,hisdarkhairwas untidy, therewas something silent andwithheld about him.Peoplecouldneverapproachhimquiteordinarily.Heputonthekettle,andquietlysetcupsandplatesonatray.Theroomwascleanandcosyandpleasant.Hedidthecleaninghimself,andwasasefficientand inobtrusive a housewife as any woman.While the kettle boiled, he satdarning the socks which he had taken off Aaron's feet when the flautistarrived, andwhichhehadwashed.Hepreferred that nooutsider should seehimdoing these things.Yethepreferredalso todo themhimself, so thatheshouldbeindependentofoutsideaid.His face was dark and hollow, he seemed frail, sitting there in the Londonafternoondarningtheblackwoollensocks.Hisfullbrowwasknittedslightly,therewasatension.Atthesametime,therewasanindomitablestillnessabouthim,as itwere in theatmosphereabouthim.Hishands, thoughsmall,werenotverythin.Hebitoffthewoolashefinishedhisdarn.AshewasmakingtheteahesawAaronrouseupinbed."I'vebeentosleep.Ifeelbetter,"saidthepatient,turningroundtolookwhattheothermanwasdoing.Andthesightofthewatersteaminginajetfromtheteapotseemedattractive."Yes,"saidLilly."You'vesleptforagoodtwohours.""IbelieveIhave,"saidAaron."Wouldyoulikealittletea?""Ay—andabitoftoast.""You'renotsupposedtohavesolidfood.Letmetakeyourtemperature."

Thetemperaturewasdowntoahundred,andLilly,inspiteofthedoctor,gaveAaron a piece of toast with his tea, enjoining him not to mention it to thenurse.Intheeveningthetwomentalked."Youdoeverythingforyourself,then?"saidAaron."Yes,Ipreferit.""Youlikelivingallalone?""Idon'tknowaboutthat.Ineverhavelivedalone.TannyandIhavebeenverymuchaloneinvariouscountries:butthat'stwo,notone.""Youmissherthen?""Yes,ofcourse.Imissedherhorriblyinthecottage,whenshe'dfirstgone.Ifeltmyheartwasbroken.Buthere,wherewe'veneverbeentogether,Idon'tnoticeitsomuch.""She'llcomeback,"saidAaron."Yes,she'llcomeback.ButI'drathermeetherabroadthanhere—andgetonadifferentfooting.""Why?""Oh, I don't know. There's something with marriage altogether, I think.Egoismeadeux—""What'sthatmean?""Egoisme a deux? Two people, one egoism. Marriage is a self-consciousegoisticstate,itseemstome.""You'vegotnochildren?"saidAaron."No.Tannywantschildrenbadly.Idon't.I'mthankfulwehavenone.""Why?""I can't quite say. I think of them as a burden. Besides, there ARE suchmillionsandbillionsofchildrenintheworld.Andweknowwellenoughwhatsortofmillionsandbillionsofpeoplethey'llgrowupinto.Idon'twanttoaddmyquotatothemass—it'sagainstmyinstinct—""Ay!"laughedAaron,withacurtacquiescence."Tanny's furious. But then, when a woman has got children, she thinks theworldwagsonlyforthemandher.Nothingelse.Thewholeworldwagsforthesakeofthechildren—andtheirsacredmother.""Ay,that'sDAMNEDtrue,"saidAaron."Andmyself,I'msickofthechildrenstunt.Childrenareallright,solongas

youjusttakethemforwhattheyare:youngimmaturethingslikekittensandhalf-growndogs,nuisances,sometimesverycharming.ButI'llbehangedifIcanseeanythinghighandholyaboutchildren.Ishouldbesorry,too,itwouldbesobadforthechildren.Youngbrats,tiresomeandamusinginturns.""Whentheydon'tgivethemselvesairs,"saidAaron."Yes, indeed. Which they do half the time. Sacred children, and sacredmotherhood,I'mabsolutelyfedstiffbyit.That'swhyI'mthankfulIhavenochildren.Tannycan'tcomeitovermethere.""It's a fact.When awoman's got her children, byGod, she's a bitch in themanger.Youcanstarvewhileshesitsonthehay.It'susefultokeepherpupswarm.""Yes.""Why,youknow,"Aaronturnedexcitedlyinthebed,"theylookonamanasifhe was nothing but an instrument to get and rear children. If you haveanythingtodowithawoman,shethinksit'sbecauseyouwanttogetchildrenby her. And I'm damned if it is. I want my own pleasure, or nothing: andchildrenbedamned.""Ah,women—THEYmustbeloved,atanyprice!"saidLilly."Andifyoujustdon'twanttolovethem—andtellthemso—whatacrime.""Acrime!"saidAaron."Theymakeacriminalofyou.Themandtheirchildrenbe cursed. Ismy life givenme for nothing but to get children, andwork tobring them up? See them all in hell first. They'd better die while they'rechildren,ifchildhood'sallthatimportant.""Iquiteagree,"saidLilly."Ifchildhoodismoreimportantthanmanhood,thenwhylivetobeamanatall?Whynotremainaninfant?""Be damned and blasted towomen and all their importances," criedAaron."Theywanttogetyouunder,andchildrenistheirchiefweapon.""Menhavegottostanduptothefactthatmanhoodismorethanchildhood—andthenforcewomentoadmitit,"saidLilly."Buttherottenwhiners,they'reallgrovellingbeforeababy'snapkinandawoman'spetticoat.""It'safact,"saidAaron.ButheglancedatLillyoddly,asifsuspiciously.AndLillycaughtthelook.Buthecontinued:"And if they think you try to stand on your legs andwalkwith the feet ofmanhood,why,thereisn'tabloomingfatherandloveramongthembutwilldohisbesttogetyoudownandsuffocateyou—eitherwithababy'snapkinorawoman'spetticoat."Lilly'slipswerecurling;hewasdarkandbitter."Ay,itislikethat,"saidAaron,rathersubduedly.

"Theman's spirithasgoneoutof theworld.Mencan'tmovean inchunlesstheycangrovelhumblyattheendofthejourney.""No,"saidAaron,watchingwithkeen,half-amusedeyes."That'swhymarriagewantsreadjusting—orextending—togetmenontotheirown legs oncemore, and to give them the adventure again. Butmenwon'tsticktogetherandfightforit.Becauseonceawomanhasclimbedupwithherchildren,she'llfindplentyofgrovellersreadytosupportherandsuffocateanydefiant spirit. And women will sacrifice eleven men, fathers, husbands,brothersandlovers,foronebaby—orforherownfemaleself-conceit—""Shewillthat,"saidAaron."And can you find twomen to stick together,without feeling criminal, andwithoutcringing,andwithoutbetrayingoneanother?Youcan't.Oneissuretogofawningroundsomefemale,thentheybothenjoygivingeachotheraway,anddoinganewgrovelbeforeawomanagain.""Ay,"saidAaron.AfterwhichLillywassilent.

CHAPTERX.THEWARAGAIN

"Oneisafool,"saidLilly,"tobelachrymose.Thethingtodoistogetamoveon."Aaronlookedupwithaglimpseofasmile.Thetwomenweresittingbeforethe fire at the end of a cold,wetApril day:Aaron convalescent, somewhatchastenedinappearance."Ay,"hesaidrathersourly."AmovebacktoGuilfordStreet.""Oh,Imeanttotellyou,"saidLilly."IwasreadinganoldBadenhistory.Theymadealawin1528—notalaw,butaregulation—that:ifamanforsakeshiswifeandchildren,asnowsooftenhappens,thesaidwifeandchildrenareatoncetobedispatchedafterhim.Ithoughtthatwouldpleaseyou.Doesit?""Yes,"saidAaronbriefly."Theywouldhavearrivedthenextday,likeaforwardedletter.""Ishouldhavehadtogetaconsiderablemoveon,atthatrate,"grinnedAaron."Oh,no.Youmightquite like themhere."ButLillysaw thewhite frownofdeterminedrevulsionontheconvalescent'sface."Wouldn'tyou?"heasked.Aaronshookhishead.

"No," he said.And it was obvious he objected to the topic. "What are yougoingtodoaboutyourmoveon?""Me!"saidLilly."I'mgoingtosailawaynextweek—orsteamdirtilyawayonatrampcalledtheMaudAllenWing.""Whereto?""Malta.""Wherefrom?""London Dock. I fixed up my passage this morning for ten pounds. I amcook'sassistant,signedon."Aaronlookedathimwithalittleadmiration."Youcantakeasuddenjump,can'tyou?"hesaid."Thedifficultyistorefrainfromjumping:overboardoranywhere."Aaronsmokedhispipeslowly."AndwhatgoodwillMaltadoyou?"heasked,envious."Heavenknows.IshallcrosstoSyracuse,andmoveupItaly.""Soundsasifyouwereamillionaire.""I'vegotthirty-fivepoundsinalltheworld.Butsomethingwillcomealong.""I'vegotmorethanthat,"saidAaron."Goodforyou,"repliedLilly.Heroseandwenttothecupboard,takingoutabowlandabasketofpotatoes.Hesatdownagain,paringthepotatoes.HisbusyactivityannoyedAaron."But what's the good of going to Malta? Shall YOU be any different inyourself,inanotherplace?You'llbethesamethereasyouarehere.""HowamIhere?""Why, you're all the time grinding yourself against something inside you.You'reneverfree.You'renevercontent.Youneverstopchafing."Lillydippedhispotatointothewater,andcutouttheeyescarefully.Thenhecutitintwo,anddroppeditinthecleanwaterofthesecondbowl.Hehadnotexpectedthiscriticism."PerhapsIdon't,"saidhe."Thenwhat'stheuseofgoingsomewhereelse?Youwon'tchangeyourself.""Imayintheend,"saidLilly."You'llbeyourself,whetherit'sMaltaorLondon,"saidAaron."There'sadoomforme,"laughedLilly.Thewateronthefirewasboiling.He

roseand threw in salt, thendropped in thepotatoeswith littleplops. "Theretherearelotsofmes.I'mnotonlyjustoneproposition.Anewplacebringsoutanewthinginaman.Otherwiseyou'dhavestayedinyouroldplacewithyourfamily.""Themaninthemiddleofyoudoesn'tchange,"saidAaron."Doyoufinditso?"saidLilly."Ay.Everytime.""Thenwhat'stobedone?""Nothing, as far as I can see. You get as much amusement out of life aspossible,andthere'stheendofit.""Allrightthen,I'llgettheamusement.""Ay,allright then,"saidAaron."But there isn'tanythingwonderfulabout it.Youtalkasifyouweredoingsomethingspecial.Youaren't.You'renomorethanamanwhodropsintoapubforadrink, tolivenhimselfupabit.Onlyyou give it a lot of names, and make out as if you were looking for thephilosopher'sstone,orsomethinglikethat.Whenyou'reonlykillingtimeliketherestoffolks,beforetimekillsyou."Lillydidnotanswer.Itwasnotyetseveno'clock,buttheskywasdark.Aaronsatinthefirelight.Eventhesaucepanonthefirewassilent.Darkness,silence,thefirelightintheupperroom,andthetwomentogether."It isn't quite true," saidLilly, leaning on themantelpiece and staring downintothefire."Whereisn'tit?Youtalk,andyoumakeamanbelieveyou'vegotsomethinghehasn't got?Butwhere is it,when it comes to?What haveyougot,morethanmeorJimBricknell!Onlyabiggerchoiceofwords,itseemstome."Lillywasmotionlessandinscrutablelikeashadow."Doesit,Aaron!"hesaid,inacolorlessvoice."Yes.Whatelseistheretoit?"Aaronsoundedtesty."Why," said Lilly at last, "there's something. I agree, it's truewhat you sayaboutme.Butthere'sabitofsomethingelse.There'sjustabitofsomethinginme,Ithink,whichISN'Tamanrunningintoapubforadrink—""Andwhat—?"The question fell into the twilight like a drop ofwater falling down a deepshaftintoawell."I think a man may come into possession of his own soul at last—as theBuddhiststeach—butwithoutceasingtolove,oreventohate.Oneloves,onehates—butsomewherebeyonditall,oneunderstands,andpossessesone'ssoul

inpatienceandinpeace—""Yes,"saidAaronslowly,"whileyouonlystandandtalkabout it.Butwhenyou'vegotnochancetotalkaboutit—andwhenyou'vegottolive—youdon'tpossess your soul, neither in patience nor in peace, but any devil that likespossessesyouanddoeswhatitlikeswithyou,whileyoufridgeyourselfandfrayyourselfoutlikeawornrag.""Idon'tcare,"saidLilly,"I'mlearningtopossessmysoul inpatienceandinpeace, and I know it. And it isn't a negative Nirvana either. And if Tannypossesses her own soul in patience and peace as well—and if in this weunderstand each other at last—then there we are, together and apart at thesame time, and free of each other, and eternally inseparable. I have myNirvana—andIhaveitalltomyself.Butmorethanthat.ItcoincideswithherNirvana.""Ah,yes,"saidAaron."ButIdon'tunderstandallthatword-splitting.""I do, though. You learn to be quite alone, and possess your own soul inisolation—andat the same time, tobeperfectlyWITHsomeoneelse—that'sallIask.""Sortofsitonamountaintop,backtobackwithsomebodyelse,likeacoupleofidols.""No—becauseitisn'tacaseofsitting—oracaseofbacktoback.It'swhatyougettoafteralotoffightingandalotofsensualfulfilment.Anditneverdoesawaywiththefightingandwiththesensualpassion.Itflowersontopofthem,anditwouldneverflowersaveontopofthem.""Whatwouldn't?""Thepossessingone'sownsoul—andthebeingtogetherwithsomeoneelseinsilence,beyondspeech.""Andyou'vegotthem?""I'vegotaBIToftherealquietnessinsideme.""Sohasadogonamat.""SoIbelieve,too.""Oramaninapub.""WhichIdon'tbelieve.""Youpreferthedog?""Maybe."Therewassilenceforafewmoments."AndI'mthemaninthepub,"saidAaron.

"Youaren'tthedogonthemat,anyhow.""Andyou'retheidolonthemountaintop,worshippingyourself.""Youtalktomelikeawoman,Aaron.""HowdoyoutalktoME,doyouthink?""HowdoI?""Arethepotatoesdone?"Lilly turned quickly aside, and switched on the electric light. Everythingchanged.Aaron sat still before the fire, irritated.Lillywent about preparingthesupper.The roomwaspleasant atnight.Two tall, dark screenshid the twobeds. Infront, the pianowas litteredwithmusic, the desk litteredwith papers. Lillywentoutontothelanding,andsetthechopstogrillonthegasstove.Hastilyheputasmall tableon thehearth-rug,spread itwithablue-and-whitecloth,setplatesandglasses.Aarondidnotmove. Itwasnothisnature toconcernhimselfwithdomesticmatters—andLillydiditbestalone.The two men had an almost uncanny understanding of one another—likebrothers.Theycamefromthesamedistrict,fromthesameclass.Eachmighthave been born into the other's circumstance. Like brothers, there was aprofoundhostilitybetweenthem.Buthostilityisnotantipathy.Lilly'sskilfulhousewiferyalwaysirritatedAaron:itwassoself-sufficient.Butmost irritatingofallwas the littleman'sunconsciousassumptionofpriority.Lilly was actually unaware that he assumed this quiet predominance overothers.Hemashedthepotatoes,heheatedtheplates,hewarmedtheredwine,he whisked eggs into the milk pudding, and served his visitor like ahousemaid.Butnoneofthisdetractedfromthesilentassurancewithwhichheborehimself,andwithwhichheseemedtodomineeroverhisacquaintance.At last themealwas ready.Lillydrew the curtains, switchedoff the centrallight,put thegreen-shadedelectric lamponthetable,andthetwomendrewuptothemeal.Itwasgoodfood,wellcookedandhot.CertainlyLilly'shandswerenolongerclean:butitwascleandirt,ashesaid.Aaronsatinthelowarm-chairattable.Sohisfacewasbelow,inthefulllight.Lillysathighonasmallchair,sothathisfacewasinthegreenshadow.Aaronwas handsome, and always had that peculiar well-dressed look of his type.Lillywasindifferenttohisownappearance,andhiscollarwasarag.So the twomenate in silence.Theyhadbeen together alone for a fortnightonly:butitwaslikeasmalleternity.Aaronwaswellnow—onlyhesufferedfromthedepressionandthesortoffearthatfollowsinfluenza."When are you going?" he asked irritably, looking up at Lilly, whose face

hoveredinthatgreenshadowabove,andworriedhim."Onedaynextweek.They'llsendmeatelegram.NotlaterthanThursday.""You'relookingforwardtogoing?"Thequestionwashalfbitter."Yes.Iwanttogetanewtuneoutofmyself.""Hadenoughofthis?""Yes."AflushofangercameonAaron'sface."You'reeasilyon,andeasilyoff,"hesaid,ratherinsulting."AmI?"saidLilly."Whatmakesyouthinkso?""Circumstances,"repliedAaronsourly.Towhichtherewasnoanswer.Thehostclearedawaytheplates,andputthepuddingonthetable.HepushedthebowltoAaron."IsupposeIshallneverseeyouagain,onceyou'vegone,"saidAaron."It'syourchoice.Iwillleaveyouanaddress."Afterthis,thepuddingwaseateninsilence."Besides,Aaron,"saidLilly,drinkinghislastsipofwine,"whatdoyoucarewhetheryouseemeagainornot?Whatdoyoucarewhetheryouseeanybodyagainornot?Youwant tobeamused.Andnowyou're irritatedbecauseyouthinkIamnotgoingtoamuseyouanymore:andyoudon'tknowwhoisgoingto amuse you. I admit it's a dilemma. But it's a hedonistic dilemma of thecommonestsort.""I don't know hedonistic. And supposing I am as you say—are you anydifferent?""No, I'm not very different. But I always persuade myself there's a bit ofdifference.DoyouknowwhatJosephineFordconfessedtome?She'shadherlovers enough. 'There isn't any such thing as love,Lilly,' she said. 'Men aresimply afraid to be alone. That is absolutely all there is in it: fear of beingalone.'""Whatbythat?"saidAaron."Youagree?""Yes,onthewhole.""SodoI—onthewhole.AndthenIaskedherwhataboutwoman.Andthenshesaidwithawomanitwasn'tfear,itwasjustboredom.Awomanislikeaviolinist: any fiddle, any instrument rather than empty hands and no tunegoing."

"Yes—whatIsaidbefore:gettingasmuchamusementoutoflifeaspossible,"saidAaron."Youamuseme—andI'llamuseyou.""Yes—justaboutthat.""Allright,Aaron,"saidLilly."I'mnotgoingtoamuseyou,ortrytoamuseyouanymore.""Goingtotrysomebodyelse;andMalta.""Malta,anyhow.""Oh,andsomebodyelse—inthenextfiveminutes.""Yes—thatalso.""Goodbyeandgoodlucktoyou.""Goodbyeandgoodlucktoyou,Aaron."Withwhich Lillywent aside towash the dishes.Aaron sat alone under thezoneoflight,turningoverascoreofPelleas.ThoughthenoiseofLondonwasaroundthem,itwasfarbelow,andintheroomwasadeepsilence.Eachofthemenseemedinvestedinhisownsilence.Aaronsuddenlytookhisflute,andbegantryinglittlepassagesfromtheoperaonhisknee.Hehadnotplayedsincehis illness.Thenoisecameouta littletremulous,butlowandsweet.Lillycameforwardwithaplateandaclothinhishand."Aaron'srodisputtingforthagain,"hesaid,smiling."What?"saidAaron,lookingup."IsaidAaron'srodisputtingforthagain.""Whatrod?""Yourflute,forthemoment.""It'sgottoputforthmybreadandbutter.""Isthatallthebudsit'sgoingtohave?""Whatelse!""Nay—that'sforyoutoshow.WhatflowersdoyouimaginecameoutoftherodofMoses'sbrother?""Scarletrunners,Ishouldthinkifhe'dgottoliveonthem.""Scarletenough,I'llbet."Aaron turned unnoticing back to hismusic.Lilly finished thewiping of thedishes,thentookabookandsatontheothersideofthetable.

"It's all one to you, then," said Aaron suddenly, "whether we ever see oneanotheragain?""Notabit,"saidLilly,lookingupoverhisspectacles."Iverymuchwishtheremightbesomethingthatheldustogether.""Thenifyouwishit,whyisn'tthere?""Youmightwishyourflutetoputoutscarlet-runnerflowersatthejoints.""Ay—Imight.Anditwouldbeallthesame."Themomentofsilencethatfollowedwasextraordinaryinitshostility."Oh,weshallrunacrossoneanotheragainsometime,"saidAaron."Sure,"saidLilly."More than that: I'llwriteyouanaddress thatwillalwaysfindme.AndwhenyouwriteIwillansweryou."Hetookabitofpaperandscribbledanaddress.Aaronfoldeditandputitintohiswaistcoatpocket.ItwasanItalianaddress."ButhowcanIliveinItaly?"hesaid."Youcanshiftabout.I'mtiedtoajob.""You—withyourbuddingrod,yourflute—andyourcharm—youcanalwaysdoasyoulike.""Mywhat?""Yourfluteandyourcharm.""Whatcharm?""Justyourown.Don'tpretendyoudon'tknowyou'vegotit.Idon'treallylikecharmmyself;toomuchofatrickaboutit.Butwhetherornot,you'vegotit.""It'snewstome.""Notit.""Fact,itis.""Ha!Somebodywillalwaystakeafancytoyou.Andyoucanliveonthat,aswellasonanythingelse.""Whydoyoualwaysspeaksodespisingly?""Whyshouldn'tI?""Haveyouanyrighttodespiseanotherman?""Whendiditgobyrights?""No,notwithyou.""Youanswermelikeawoman,Aaron."Againtherewasaspaceofsilence.AndagainitwasAaronwhoatlastbrokeit.

"We'reindifferentpositions,youandme,"hesaid."How?""Youcanlivebyyourwriting—butI'vegottohaveajob.""Isthatall?"saidLilly."Ay.Andplenty.You'vegottheadvantageofme.""Quite,"saidLilly."Butwhy?Iwasadirty-nosedlittleboywhenyouwereaclean-nosed little boy.And I alwayshadmorepatchesonmybreeches thanyou:neatpatches, too,mypoormother!Sowhat's thegoodof talkingaboutadvantages?Youhadthestart.Andatthisverymomentyoucouldbuymeup,lock,stock,andbarrel.Sodon'tfeelharddoneby.It'salie.""You'vegotyourfreedom.""ImakeitandItakeit.""Circumstancesmakeitforyou.""Asyoulike.""Youdon'tdoamanjustice,"saidAaron."Doesamancare?""Hemight.""Thenhe'snoman.""Thanksagain,oldfellow.""Welcome,"saidLilly,grimacing.AgainAaronlookedathim,baffled,almostwithhatred.Lillygrimacedattheblankwallopposite,andseemedtoruminate.Thenhewentbacktohisbook.AndnosoonerhadheforgottenAaron,readingthefantasiesofacertainLeoFrobenius,thanAaronmuststrideinagain."Youcan'tsaythereisn'tadifferencebetweenyourpositionandmine,"hesaidpertinently.Lillylookeddarklyoverhisspectacles."No,byGod,"hesaid."Ishouldbeinapoorwayotherwise.""You can't say you haven't the advantage—your JOB gives you theadvantage.""Allright.Thenleaveitoutwithmyjob,andleavemealone.""That'syourwayofdodgingit.""MydearAaron,Iagreewithyouperfectly.Thereisnodifferencebetweenus,savethefictitiousadvantagegiventomebymyjob.Saveformyjob—whichistowritelies—AaronandIaretwoidenticallittlemeninoneandthesame

littleboat.Shallweleaveitatthat,now?""Yes,"saidAaron."That'saboutit.""Let us shake hands on it—and go to bed, my dear chap. You are justrecoveringfrominfluenza,andlookpalerthanIlike.""Youmeanyouwanttoberidofme,"saidAaron."Yes,Idomeanthat,"saidLilly."Ay,"saidAaron.AndafterafewminutesmorestaringatthescoreofPelleas,herose,putthescoreawayonthepiano,laidhisflutebesideit,andretiredbehindthescreen.Insilence, thestrangedimnoiseofLondonsoundingfrombelow,Lillyreadon about the Kabyles. His soul had the faculty of divesting itself of themoment, and seeking further, deeper interests. These old Africans! AndAtlantis!Strange, strangewisdomof theKabyles!Old,olddarkAfrica, andtheworldbeforetheflood!HowjealousAaronseemed!ThechildofajealousGod.AjealousGod!Couldanyracebeanythingbutdespicable,withsuchanantecedent?Butno,persistentasajealousGodhimself,Aaronreappearedinhispyjamas,andseatedhimselfinhischair."Whatisthedifferencethenbetweenyouandme,Lilly?"hesaid."Haven'tweshakenhandsonit—adifferenceofjobs.""Youdon'tbelievethat,though,doyou?""Nay,nowIreckonyou'retrespassing.""WhyamI?Iknowyoudon'tbelieveit.""WhatdoIbelievethen?"saidLilly."Youbelieveyouknowsomethingbetterthanme—andthatyouaresomethingbetterthanme.Don'tyou?""DoYOUbelieveit?""What?""ThatIAMsomethingbetterthanyou,andthatIKNOWsomethingbetter?""No,becauseIdon'tseeit,"saidAaron."Thenifyoudon'tseeit,itisn'tthere.Sogotobedandsleepthesleepofthejustandtheconvalescent.Iamnottobebadgeredanymore.""AmIbadgeringyou?"saidAaron."Indeedyouare.""SoI'minthewrongagain?"

"Oncemore,mydear.""You'reaGod-Almightyinyourway,youknow.""So long as I'm not in anybody else'sway—Anyhow, you'd bemuch bettersleeping the sleepof the just.And I'mgoingout for aminuteor two.Don'tcatchcoldtherewithnothingon—"Iwanttocatchthepost,"headded,rising.Aaron lookedupathimquickly.Butalmostbefore therewas time tospeak,Lillyhadslippedintohishatandcoat,seizedhisletters,andgone.Itwasarainynight.LillyturneddownKingStreettowalktoCharingCross.Helikedbeingoutofdoors.HelikedtoposthislettersatCharingCrosspostoffice.HedidnotwanttotalktoAaronanymore.Hewasgladtobealone.HewalkedquicklydownVilliersStreettotheriver,toseeitflowingblacklytowardsthesea.Ithadanendlessfascinationforhim:neverfailedtosoothehimandgivehimasenseofliberty.Helikedthenight,thedarkrain,theriver,andeventhetraffic.Heenjoyedthesenseoffrictionhegotfromthestreamingofpeoplewhomeantnothing tohim. Itwas likea fox slippingalert amongunsuspectingcattle.Whenhegotback,hesawinthedistancethelightsofataxistandingoutsidethebuildingwherehelived,andheardathumpingandhallooing.Hehurriedforward.ItwasamancalledHerbertson."Oh,why, there you are!" exclaimedHerbertson, asLilly drewnear. "Can Icomeupandhaveachat?""I'vegotthatmanwho'shadflu.Ishouldthinkheisgonetobed.""Oh!"Thedisappointmentwasplain."Well, lookhereI'll justcomeupforacoupleofminutes."HelaidhishandonLilly'sarm."Iheardyouweregoingaway.Whereareyougoing?""Malta.""Malta!Oh,IknowMaltaverywell.Wellnow,it'llbeallrightifIcomeupfora minute? I'm not going to see much more of you, apparently." He turnedquicklytothetaxi."Whatisitontheclock?"Thetaxiwaspaid,thetwomenwentupstairs.Aaronwasinbed,buthecalledasLillyenteredtheroom."Hullo!" said Lilly. "Not asleep? Captain Herbertson has come in for aminute.""Hope I shan't disturb you," saidCaptainHerbertson, laying down his stickandgloves,andhiscap.Hewasinuniform.Hewasoneofthefewsurviving

officersoftheGuards,amanofaboutforty-five,good-looking,gettingratherstout. He settled himself in the chair where Aaron had sat, hitching up histrousers.Thegold identityplate,with itsgoldchain, fellconspicuouslyoverhiswrist."Been to 'Rosemary,'"he said. "Rottenplay,youknow—butpasses the timeawfullywell.Oh,Iquiteenjoyedit."LillyofferedhimSauterne—theonlythinginthehouse."Oh,yes!Howawfullynice!Yes, thanks, I shall love it.Can Ihave itwithsoda?Thanks!Doyouknow,I thinkthat's theverybestdrinkinthetropics:sweetwhitewine,with soda?Yes—well!—Well—now,why are you goingaway?""Forachange,"saidLilly."You'requiteright,oneneedsachangenowthedamnedthingisallover.AssoonasIgetoutofkhakiIshallbeoff.Malta!Yes!I'vebeeninMaltaseveraltimes.IthinkVallettaisquiteenjoyable,particularlyinwinter,withtheopera.Oh—er—how's your wife? All right? Yes!—glad to see her people again.Bound to be—Oh, by theway, Imet JimBricknell. Sends you amessagehopingyou'llgodownandstay—downatCaptainBingham'splaceinSurrey,you know. Awfully queer lot down there. Not my sort, no. You won't godown?No,Ishouldn't.Nottherightsortofpeople."Herbertsonrattledaway,ratherspasmodic.Hehadbeenthroughtheveryfronthellofthewar—andlikeeverymanwhohad,hehadthewaratthebackofhismind,likeanobsession.Butinthemeantime,heskirmished."Yes.IwasonguardonedaywhentheQueengaveoneofhertea-partiestotheblind.Awful affair.But the children are awfullynice children.PrinceofWalesawfullynice,almosttoonice.PrinceHenrysmartboy,too—oh,asmartboy.QueenMary poured the tea, and I handed round bread and butter. ShetoldmeImadeaverygoodwaiter.Isaid,Thankyou,Madam.ButIlikethechildren.VerydifferentfromtheBattenbergs.Oh!—"hewrinkledhisnose."Ican'tstandtheBattenbergs.""MountBattens,"saidLilly."Yes!Awfulmistake, changing the royal name. TheywereGuelfs,why notremain it?Why,I'll tellyouwhatBattenbergdid.Hewas in theGuards, too—"Thetalkflowedon:aboutroyaltyandtheGuards,BuckinghamPalaceandSt.James."Rather a nice story aboutQueenVictoria.Mannamed Joyce, somethingorother,oftenusedtodineatthePalace.Andhewasanawfullygoodimitator—really clever, you know.Used to imitate theQueen. 'Mr. Joyce,' she said, 'I

hearyourimitationisveryamusing.Willyoudoitforusnow,andletusseewhatitislike?''Oh,no,Madam!I'mafraidIcouldn'tdoitnow.I'mafraidI'mnot in thehumour.'Butshewouldhavehimdoit.Anditwasreallyawfullyfunny.Hehadtodoit.Youknowwhathedid.Heusedtotakeatable-napkin,andput it onwith one corner over his forehead, and the rest hangingdownbehind,likeherveilthing.Andthenhesentforthekettle-lid.Healwayshadthekettle-lid,forthatlittlecrownofhers.Andthenheimpersonatedher.Buthewas awfully good—so clever. 'Mr. Joyce,' she said. 'We are not amused.Pleaseleavetheroom.'Yes,thatisexactlywhatshesaid:'WEarenotamused—pleaseleavetheroom.'IliketheWE,don'tyou?Andheamanofsixtyorso.However, he left the room and for a fortnight or so hewasn't invited—Wasn'tshewonderful—QueenVictoria?"Andso,bylighttransitions,tothePrinceofWalesatthefront,andthusintothetrenches.AndthenHerbertsonwasonthesubjecthewasobsessedby.Hehadcome,unconsciously,forthisandthisonly,totalkwartoLilly:oratLilly.For the latter listened and watched, and said nothing. As a man at nighthelplessly takesa taxi to findsomewoman,someprostitute,Herbertsonhadalmostunthinkinglygot intoa taxiandcomebatteringat thedoor inCoventGarden, only to talk war to Lilly, whom he knew very little. But it was adrivinginstinct—tocomeandgetitoffhischest.Andonandonhetalked,overhiswineandsoda.Hewasnotconceited—hewasnotshowingoff—farfromit.Itwasthesamethinghereinthisofficerasit was with the privates, and the same with this Englishman as with aFrenchmanoraGermanoranItalian.Lillyhadsatinacowshedlisteningtoayouthinthenorthcountry:hehadsatonthecorn-strawthattheoxenhadbeentreadingout,inCalabria,underthemoon:hehadsatinafarm-kitchenwithaGermanprisoner:andevery time itwas thesame thing, thesamehot,blind,anguishedvoiceofamanwhohasseentoomuch,experiencedtoomuch,anddoesn'tknowwheretoturn.Noneoftheglamourofreturnedheroes,noneofthe romance ofwar: only a hot, blind,mesmerised voice, going on and on,mesmerisedbyavisionthatthesoulcannotbear.In this officer, of course, therewas a lightness and an appearance of brightdiffidenceandhumour.Butunderneathitallwasthesameasinthecommonmen of all the combatant nations: the hot, seared burn of unbearableexperience,which did not heal nor cool, andwhose irritationwas not to berelieved. The experience gradually cooled on top: but only with a surfacecrust.Thesouldidnotheal,didnotrecover."I used tobe awfully frightened," laughedHerbertson. "Nowyou say,Lilly,you'dneverhavestoodit.Butyouwould.You'renervous—anditwasjustthenervousonesthatdidstandit.Whennearlyallourofficersweregone,wehadamancomeout—amancalledMargeritson,fromIndia—bigmerchantpeople

outthere.Theyallsaidhewasnogood—notabitofgood—nervouschap.Nogoodatall.ButwhenyouhadtogetoutofthetrenchandgofortheGermanshewas perfect—perfect—It all came to him then, at the crisis, and hewasperfect."Some things frighten oneman, and some another.Now shellswould neverfrightenme.ButIcouldn'tstandbombs.Youcouldtellthedifferencebetweenour machines and the Germans. Ours was a steady noise—drrrrrrrr!—buttheir'swasheavy,drrrrRURUrrrrRURU!—Myword,thatgotonmynerves...."NoIwasneverhit.ThenearestthingwaswhenIwasknockeddownbyanexplodingshell—severaltimesthat—youknow.Whenyoushoutlikemadforthementocomeanddigyouout,underall theearth.Andmyword,youdofeelfrightenedthen."HerbertsonlaughedwithatwinklingmotiontoLilly.Butbetweenhisbrowstherewasatensionlikemadness."Andafunnythingyouknow—howyoudon'tnoticethings.In—letmesee—1916,theGermangunswerealotbetterthanours.Ourswereold,andwhenthey'reoldyoucan'ttellwherethey'llhit:whetherthey'llgobeyondthemark,or whether they'll fall short.Well, this day our guns were firing short, andkillingourownmen.We'dhadtheordertocharge,andwererunningforward,andIsuddenlyfelthotwaterspurtingonmyneck—"Heputhishandtotheback of his neck and glanced round apprehensively. "It was a chap calledInnes—Oh,anawfullydecentsort—peoplewereintheArgentine.He'dbeencallingout tomeaswewererunning,andIwasjustanswering.WhenIfeltthishotwateronmyneckandsawhimrunningpastmewithnohead—he'dgotnohead,andhewent runningpastme. Idon'tknowhowfar,buta longway....Blood,youknow—Yes—well—"Oh,IhatedChelsea—IloathedChelsea—Chelseawaspurgatorytome.IhadacorporalcalledWallace—hewasafinechap—oh,hewasafinechap—sixfoot two—and about twenty-four years old. He was my stand-back. Oh, IhatedChelsea, andparades, anddrills.Youknow,when it'sdrill, andyou'regivingorders,youforgetwhatorderyou'vejustgiven—infrontofthePalacethere the crowd don't notice—but it'sAWFUL for you.And you know youdaren'tlookroundtoseewhatthemenaredoing.ButWallacewassplendid.He was just behind me, and I'd hear him, quite quiet you know, 'It's rightwheel,sir.'Alwaysperfect,alwaysperfect—yes—well...."You know you don't get killed if you don't think you will. Now I neverthought I should get killed.And I never knew amanget killed if he hadn'tbeenthinkinghewould.IsaidtoWallaceI'dratherbeouthere,at thefront,thanatChelsea.IhatedChelsea—Ican't tellyouhowmuch. 'Ohno,sir!'hesaid.'I'dratherbeatChelseathanhere.I'dratherbeatChelsea.Thereisn'thelllikethisatChelsea.'We'dhadordersthatweweretogobacktotherealcampthenext day. 'Nevermind,Wallace,' I said. 'We shall beout of this hell-on-

earthtomorrow.'Andhetookmyhand.Weweren'tmuchforshowingfeelingoranythingintheguards.Buthetookmyhand.Andweclimbedouttocharge—Poor fellow,hewaskilled—"Herbertsondroppedhishead, and for somemomentsseemedtogounconscious,asifstruck.Thenheliftedhisface,andwentoninthesameanimatedchattyfashion:"Yousee,hehadapresentiment.I'msurehehadapresentiment.Noneofthemengotkilledunlesstheyhadapresentiment—likethat,youknow...."Herbertson nodded keenly at Lilly, with his sharp, twinkling, yet obsessedeyes.Lillywonderedwhyhemadethepresentimentresponsibleforthedeath—whichheobviouslydid—andnotviceversa.Herbertsonimpliedeverytime,that you'd never get killed if you could keep yourself from having apresentiment. Perhaps therewas something in it. Perhaps the soul issues itsownticketofdeath,whenitcanstandnomore.Surelylifecontrolslife:andnotaccident."It'sa funny thingwhatshockwilldo.Wehadasergeantandheshouted tome. Both his feet were off—both his feet, clean at the ankle. I gave himmorphia.Youknowofficersaren'tallowedtousetheneedle—mightgivetheman blood poisoning. You give those tabloids. They say they act in a fewminutes, but they DON'T. It's a quarter of an hour. And nothing is moredemoralisingthanwhenyouhaveaman,wounded,youknow,andcryingout.Well, thisman Igavehim themorphiabeforehegotover thestunning,youknow.Sohedidn't feel thepain.Well, theycarriedhim in. Ialwaysused toliketolookaftermymen.SoIwentnextmorningandIfoundhehadn'tbeenremoved to the Clearing Station. I got hold of the doctor and I said, 'Lookhere!Whyhasn't thismanbeen taken to theClearingStation?' Iused togetexcited. But after some years they'd got used to me. 'Don't get excited,Herbertson, the man's dying.' 'But,' I said, 'he's just been talking to me asstrongasyouare.'Andhehad—he'dtalkasstrongandwellasyouorme,thengoquietforabit.IsaidIgavehimthemorphiabeforehecameroundfromthestunning.Sohe'dfeltnothing.Butintwohourshewasdead.Thedoctorsaysthat the shock does it like that sometimes. You can do nothing for them.Nothingvital is injured—andyet the life isbroken in them.Nothingcanbedone—funnything—Mustbesomethinginthebrain—""It'sobviouslynotthebrain,"saidLilly."It'sdeeperthanthebrain.""Deeper,"saidHerbertson,nodding."Funnythingwherelifeis.Wehadalieutenant.Youknowweallburiedourowndead.Well,helookedasifhewasasleep.Mostofthechapslookedlikethat."Herbertsonclosedhiseyesandlaidhisfaceaside,likeamanasleepanddeadpeacefully."Youveryrarelyseeamandeadwithanyotherlookonhisface—youknowtheotherlook.—"Andheclenchedhisteethwithasudden,momentaneous,ghastlydistortion.—"Well,you'dneverhaveknownthischap

wasdead.Hehadawoundhere—inthebackofthehead—andabitofbloodonhishand—andnothingelse,nothing.Well, I saidwe'dgivehimadecentburial.Helaytherewaiting—andthey'dwrappedhiminafilthyblanket—youknow.Well,Isaidheshouldhaveaproperblanket.He'dbeendeadlyingthereadayandahalfyouknow.SoIwentandgotablanket,abeautifulblanket,outofhisprivatekit—hispeoplewereScotch,well-knownfamily—andIgotthepins,youknow,readytopinhimupproperly,fortheScotsGuardstoburyhim.AndIthoughthe'dbestiff,yousee.ButwhenItookhimbythearms,tolifthimon,hesatup.Itgavemeanawfulshock.'Whyhe'salive!'Isaid.Buttheysaidhewasdead.Icouldn'tbelieveit.Itgavemeanawfulshock.Hewasasflexibleasyouorme,andlookedasifhewasasleep.Youcouldn'tbelievehewasdead.Butwepinnedhimupinhisblanket.Itwasanawfulshocktome.Icouldn'tbelieveamancouldbelikethatafterhe'dbeendeadtwodays...."TheGermanswerewonderfulwiththemachineguns—it'sawickedthing,amachinegun.Buttheycouldn'ttouchuswiththebayonet.Everytimethemencameback theyhadbayonetpractice,and theygotawfullygood.Youknowwhenyou thrust at theGermans—so—ifyoumisshim,youbringyour riflebacksharp,witharoundswing,sothatthebuttcomesupandhitsupunderthejaw.It'sonemovement,followingonwiththestab,yousee,ifyoumisshim.Itwas tooquickfor them—Butbayonetchargewasworst,youknow.Becauseyourmancriesoutwhenyoucatchhim,whenyougethim,youknow.That'swhatdoesyou...."No,ohno,thiswasnowarlikeotherwars.Allthemachineryofit.No,youcouldn'tstandit,butforthemen.Themenarewonderful,youknow.They'llbewipedout....No,it'syourmenwhokeepyougoing,ifyou'reanofficer....Butthere'llneverbeanotherwarlikethis.BecausetheGermansaretheonlypeoplewho couldmake awar like this—and I don't think they'll ever do itagain,doyou?"Oh, they were wonderful, the Germans. They were amazing. It wasincredible,whattheyinventedanddid.Wehadtolearnfromthem,inthefirsttwoyears.Buttheyweretoomethodical.That'swhytheylost thewar.Theyweretoomethodical.They'dfiretheirgunseverytenminutes—regular.Thinkofit.Ofcourseweknewwhentorun,andwhentoliedown.Yougotsothatyouknewalmostexactlywhatthey'ddo—ifyou'dbeenoutlongenough.Andthenyoucouldtimewhatyouwantedtodoyourselves."Theywerealotmorenervousthanwewere,atthelast.Theysentupenoughlightatnightfromtheirtrenches—youknow,thosethingsthatburstintheairlike electric light—wehadnoneof that todo—theydid it all forus—lit upeverything.Theyweremorenervousthanwewere...."It was nearly two o'clock when Herbertson left. Lilly, depressed, remainedbeforethefire.Aarongotoutofbedandcameuneasilytothefire.

"Itgivesmethebellyache,thatdamnedwar,"hesaid."Soitdoesme,"saidLilly."Allunreal.""Realenoughforthosethathadtogothroughit.""No, least of all for them," saidLilly sullenly. "Not as real as a baddream.Whythehelldon'ttheywakeupandrealiseit!""That'safact,"saidAaron."They'rehypnotisedbyit.""Andtheywanttohypnotiseme.AndIwon'tbehypnotised.Thewarwasalieandisalieandwillgoonbeingalietillsomebodybustsit.""Itwasafact—youcan'tbustthat.Youcan'tbustthefactthatithappened.""Yesyoucan.Itneverhappened.Itneverhappenedtome.Nomorethanmydreamshappen.Mydreamsdon'thappen:theyonlyseem.""Butthewardidhappen,rightenough,"smiledAaronpalely."No, itdidn't.Not tomeor toanyman, inhisownself. It tookplace in theautomaticsphere,likedreamsdo.ButtheACTUALMANineverymanwasjustabsent—asleep—ordrugged—inert—dream-logged.That'sit.""Youtell'emso,"saidAaron."Ido.Butit'snogood.Becausetheywon'twakeupnoweven—perhapsnever.They'llallkillthemselvesintheirsleep.""Theywouldn'tbeanybetteriftheydidwakeupandbethemselves—thatis,supposing they are asleep, which I can't see. They are what they are—andthey'reallalike—andneververydifferentfromwhattheyarenow."LillystaredatAaronwithblackeyes."DoyoubelieveinthemlessthanIdo,Aaron?"heaskedslowly."Idon'tevenwanttobelieveinthem.""Butinyourself?"Lillywasalmostwistful—andAaronuneasy."Idon'tknowthatI'veanymorerighttobelieveinmyself thaninthem,"hereplied.Lillywatchedandpondered."No," he said. "That's not true—IKNEW thewarwas false: humanly quitefalse. I always knew it was false. The Germans were false, we were false,everybodywasfalse.""Andnotyou?"askedAaronshrewishly."Therewasawakeful,self-possessedbitofmewhichknewthatthewarandall that horrible movement was false for me. And so I wasn't going to bedragged in. The Germans could have shot my mother or me or what theyliked: Iwouldn't have joined theWAR. Iwould like to killmy enemy.Butbecomeabitof thathugeobscenemachine theycalled thewar, that Inever

would, no, not if I died ten deaths and had eleven mothers violated. But Iwouldliketokillmyenemy:Oh,yes,morethanoneenemy.Butnotasaunitinavastobscenemechanism.Thatnever:no,never."PoorLillywastooearnestandvehement.Aaronmadeafinenose.Itseemedtohimlikealotofwordsandabitofwrigglingoutofahole."Well,"hesaid,"you'vegotmenandnations,andyou'vegotthemachinesofwar—sohowareyougoingtogetoutofit?LeagueofNations?""Damnallleagues.Damnallmassesandgroups,anyhow.AllIwantistogetMYSELFoutoftheirhorribleheap:togetoutoftheswarm.Theswarmtomeisnightmareandnullity—horriblehelplesswrithinginadream.Iwanttogetmyselfawake,outofitall—allthatmass-consciousness,allthatmass-activity—it's themosthorriblenightmare tome.Noman is awakeandhimself.Nomanwhowasawakeandinpossessionofhimselfwouldusepoisongases:noman.Hisownawakeselfwouldscornsuchathing.It'sonlywhentheghastlymob-sleep,thedreamhelplessnessofthemass-psycheovercomeshim,thathebecomescompletelybaseandobscene.""Ha—well,"saidAaron."It'sthewide-awakeonesthatinventthepoisongas,anduseit.Whereshouldwebewithoutit?"Lillystarted,wentstiffandhostile."Doyoumean that,Aaron?"he said, looking intoAaron's facewith ahard,inflexiblelook.Aaronturnedasidehalfsheepishly."That'showitlooksonthefaceofit,isn'tit?"hesaid."Lookhere,myfriend,it'stoolateforyoutobetalkingtomeaboutthefaceofthings.Ifthat'showyoufeel,putyourthingsonandfollowHerbertson.Yes—gooutofmyroom.Idon'tputupwiththefaceofthingshere."Aaronlookedathimincoldamazement."It'lldotomorrowmorning,won'tit?"heaskedrathermocking."Yes,"saidLillycoldly."Butpleasegotomorrowmorning.""Oh,I'llgoallright,"saidAaron."Everybody'sgottoagreewithyou—that'syourprice."ButLillydidnotanswer.Aaronturnedintobed,hissatiricalsmileunderhisnose.Somewhatsurprised,however,atthissuddenturnofaffairs.Ashewasjustgoingtosleep,dismissingthematter,Lillycameoncemoretohisbedside,andsaid,inahardvoice:"I'mNOTgoing to pretend to have friends on the face of things.No, and Idon'thavefriendswhodon'tfundamentallyagreewithme.Afriendmeansone

whoisatonewithmeinmattersoflifeanddeath.Andifyou'reatonewithallthe rest, thenyou'reTHEIRfriend,notmine.Sobe their friend.Andpleaseleavemeinthemorning.Youowemenothing,youhavenothingmoretodowithme.IhavehadenoughofthesefriendshipswhereIpaythepiperandthemobcallsthetune."Letme tell you,moreover, your heroicHerbertsons lost usmore than evertheywon.Abraveantisadamnedcowardlyindividual.YourheroicofficersareasadsightAFTERWARDS,whentheycomehome.Bah,yourHerbertson!Theonly justification forwar iswhatwe learn from it.Andwhathave theylearnt?—Why did so many of them have presentiments, as he called it?Because theycould feel inside them, therewasnothing tocomeafter.Therewas no life-courage: only death-courage. Nothing beyond this hell—onlydeathorlove—languishing—""Whatcouldtheyhaveseen,anyhow?"saidAaron."It'snotwhatyousee,actually.It'sthekindofspirityoukeepinsideyou:thelifespirit.WhenWallacehadpresentiments,Herbertson,beingofficer,shouldhavesaid: 'Noneofthat,Wallace.YouandI,we'vegottoliveandmakelifesmoke.'—Instead of which he let Wallace be killed and his own heart bebroken.Alwaysthedeath-choice—Andwewon't,wesimplywillnotfacetheworld as we've made it, and our own souls as we find them, and take theresponsibility.We'llnevergetanywheretillwestandupmantomanandfaceEVERYTHINGout,andbreaktheoldforms,butneverletourownprideandcourageoflifebebroken."Lilly brokeoff, andwent silently to bed.Aaron turnedover to sleep, ratherresentingthesoundofsomanywords.Whatdifferencediditmake,anyhow?In themorning, however, when he saw the otherman's pale, closed, ratherhaughty face, he realised that something had happened.Lillywas courteousand even affable: but with a curious cold space between him and Aaron.Breakfastpassed,andAaronknewthathemustleave.TherewassomethinginLilly's bearing which just showed him the door. In some surprise andconfusion,andinsomeanger,notunmingledwithhumorousirony,heputhisthings inhis bag.Heput onhis hat and coat.Lillywas seated rather stifflywriting."Well,"saidAaron."Isupposeweshallmeetagain.""Oh,sureto,"saidLilly,risingfromhischair."Wearesuretorunacrossoneanother.""Whenareyougoing?"askedAaron."Inafewdays'time.""Oh,well,I'llruninandseeyoubeforeyougo,shallI?"

"Yes,do."Lillyescortedhisguesttothetopofthestairs,shookhands,andthenreturnedintohisownroom,closingthedooronhimself.Aarondidnot findhis friendathomewhenhecalled.He took it ratherasaslapintheface.ButthenheknewquitewellthatLillyhadmadeacertaincallonhis,Aaron'ssoul:acallwhichhe,Aaron,didnotatallintendtoobey.Ifinreturn the soul-caller chose to shut his street-door in the face of theworld-friend—well, let it bequits.Hewasnot surewhetherhe felt superior tohisunworldlyenemyornot.Heratherthoughthedid.

CHAPTERXI.MOREPILLAROFSALT

Theoperaseasonended,AaronwasinvitedbyCyrilScotttojoinagroupofmusical people in a village by the sea. He accepted, and spent a pleasantmonth. It pleased the young men musically-inclined and bohemian byprofession to patronise the flautist, whom they declared marvellous.Bohemianswithwell-to-do parents, they could already afford to squander alittlespasmodicandself-gratifyingpatronage.AndAarondidnotmindbeingpatronised.Hehadnothingelsetodo.But the party broke up early in September. The flautistwas detained a fewdays at a country house, for the amusement of the guests. Then he left forLondon.In London he found himself at a loose end. A certain fretful dislike of thepatronage of indifferent young men, younger than himself, and a certaindistaste for regularwork in the orchestramade him look round.Hewantedsomething else. He wanted to disappear again. Qualms and emotionsconcerning his abandoned family overcame him.The early, delicate autumnaffectedhim.HetookatraintotheMidlands.Andagain,justafterdark,hestrolledwithhislittlebagacrossthefieldwhichlay at the end of his garden. It had beenmown, and the grass was alreadygrowinglong.Hestoodandlookedatthelineofbackwindows,lightedoncemore.He smelled the scentsof autumn,phlox andmoist oldvegetation andcorninsheaf.Anostalgiawhichwashalfatleastrevulsionaffectedhim.Theplace,thehome,atoncefascinatedandrevoltedhim.Sitting inhisshed,hescrutinisedhisgardencarefully, in thestarlight.Thereweretworowsofbeans,ratherdisshevelled.Nearathandthemarrowplantssprawledfromtheiroldbed.Hecoulddetecttheperfumeofafewcarnations.He wondered who it was had planted the garden, during his long absence.Anyhow,thereitwas,plantedandfruitedandwaningintoautumn.

Theblindwasnotdrawn.Itwaseighto'clock.Thechildrenweregoingtobed.Aaron waited in his shed, his bowels stirred with violent but only half-admittedemotions.Therewashiswife,slimandgraceful,holdingalittlemugto the baby's mouth. And the baby was drinking. She looked lonely. Wildemotions attacked his heart. There was going to be a wild and emotionalreconciliation.Wasthere?Itseemedlikesomethingfearfulandimminent.Apassionaroseinhim,acravingfortheviolentemotionalreconciliation.Hewaitedimpatientlyforthechildrentobegonetobed,gnawedwithrestlessdesire.He heard the clock strike nine, then half-past, from the village behind. Thechildrenwould be asleep.Hiswifewas sitting sewing some little frock.Hewentlingeringdownthegardenpath,stoopingtoliftthefallencarnations,tosee how theywere.Thereweremany flowers, but small.He broke one off,thenthrewitaway.Thegoldenrodwasout.Eveninthelittlelawntherewereasters,asofold.Hiswifestartedtolisten,hearinghisstep.Hewasfilledwithaviolentconflictof tenderness, likeasickness.Hehesitated, tappingat thedoor,andentered.Hiswifestartedtoherfeet,atbay."Whathaveyoucomefor!"washerinvoluntaryejaculation.Buthe,withthefamiliaroddjerkofhisheadtowardsthegarden,askedwithafaintsmile:"Whoplantedthegarden?"Andhefelthimselfdroppinginto the twangof thevernacular,whichhehaddiscarded.Lottieonlystoodandstaredathim,objectively.Shedidnotthinktoanswer.Hetookhishatoff,andputitonthedresser.Againthefamiliaractmaddenedher."What have you come for?" she cried again, with a voice full of hate. Orperhapsitwasfearanddoubtandevenhopeaswell.Heheardonlyhate.Thistimeheturnedtolookather.Theolddaggerwasdrawninher."Iwonder,"hesaid,"myself."Then she recovered herself, andwith trembling hand picked up her sewingagain. But she still stood at bay, beyond the table. She said nothing. He,feelingtired,satdownonthechairnearestthedoor.Buthereachedforhishat,andkeptitonhisknee.She,asshestoodthereunnaturally,wentonwithhersewing. There was silence for some time. Curious sensations and emotionswentthroughtheman'sframeseemingtodestroyhim.Theywerelikeelectricshocks,whichhe felt sheemittedagainsthim.Andanold sicknesscame in

him again.He had forgotten it. Itwas the sickness of the unrecognised andincomprehensiblestrainbetweenhimandher.Afteratimesheputdownhersewing,andsatagaininherchair."Do you know how vilely you've treated me?" she said, staring across thespaceathim.Heavertedhisface.Yetheanswered,notwithoutirony."Isupposeso.""Andwhy?"shecried."Ishouldliketoknowwhy."Hedidnotanswer.Thewaysherushedinmadehimgovague."Justify yourself. Say why you've been so vile to me. Say what you hadagainstme,"shedemanded."What IHADagainst her," hemused to himself: and hewondered that sheusedthepasttense.Hemadenoanswer."Accuseme,"sheinsisted."SaywhatI'vedonetomakeyoutreatmelikethis.Sayit.YoumustTHINKithardenough.""Nay,"hesaid."Idon'tthinkit."This speech,bywhichhemerelymeant thathedidnot trouble to formulateanyinjurieshehadagainsther,puzzledher."Don't come pretending you love me, NOW. It's too late," she said withcontempt.Yetperhapsalsohope."YoumightwaittillIstartpretending,"hesaid.Thisenragedher."Youvilecreature!"sheexclaimed."Go!Whathaveyoucomefor?""TolookatYOU,"hesaidsarcastically.Aftera fewminutesshebegan tocry, sobbingviolently intoherapron.Andagainhisbowelsstirredandboiled."Whathave I done!Whathave I done! I don't knowwhat I'vedone that heshould be like this tome," she sobbed, into her apron. Itwas childish, andperhaps true.At least itwas truefromthechildishpartofhernature.Hesatgloomyanduneasy.Shetooktheapronfromhertear-stainedface,andlookedathim.Itwastrue,inhermomentsof rousedexposureshewasabeautifulwoman—abeautifulwoman.Atthismoment,withherflushed,tear-stained,wilfuldistress,shewasbeautiful."Tellme,"shechallenged."Tellme!TellmewhatI'vedone.Tellmewhatyouhaveagainstme.Tellme."

Watchinglikealynx,shesawthepuzzled,hurtlookinhisface.Tellingisn'tsoeasy—especially when the trouble goes too deep for consciouscomprehension.Hecouldn't tellwhathehadagainsther.Andhehadnottheslightest intentionofdoingwhatshewouldhave likedhimtodo,starting topileupdetailedgrievances.Heknewthedetailedgrievanceswerenothinginthemselves."YouCAN'T,"shecriedvindictively."YouCAN'T.YouCAN'Tfindanythingrealtobringagainstme,thoughyou'dliketo.You'dliketobeabletoaccusemeofsomething,butyouCAN'T,becauseyouknowthereisn'tanything."She watched him, watched. And he sat in the chair near the door, withoutmoving."You'reunnatural,that'swhatyouare,"shecried."You'reunnatural.You'renotaman.Youhaven'tgotaman'sfeelings.You'renasty,andcold,andunnatural.Andyou'reacoward.You'reacoward.Yourunawayfromme,withouttellingmewhatyou'vegotagainstme.""Whenyou'vehadenough,yougoawayandyoudon'tcarewhatyoudo,"hesaid,epigrammatic.Shepausedamoment."Enoughofwhat?"shesaid."Whathaveyouhadenoughof?Ofmeandyourchildren?It'sanicemanlythingtosay.Haven'tIlovedyou?Haven'tIlovedyou for twelve years, andworked and slaved for you and tried to keep youright?Heavenknowswhereyou'dhavebeenbutforme,evilasyouareatthebottom.You're evil, that's what it is—andweak.You're tooweak to love awoman and give herwhat shewants: tooweak.Unmanly and cowardly, herunsaway.""Nowonder,"hesaid."No,"shecried."ItISnowonder,withanaturelikeyours:weakandunnaturalandevil.ItISnowonder."She became quiet—and then started to cry again, into her apron. Aaronwaited.Hefeltphysicallyweak."Andwhoknowswhatyou'vebeendoingallthesemonths?"shewept."Whoknows all the vile things you've been doing? And you're the father of mychildren—thefatherofmy littlegirls—andwhoknowswhatvile thingshe'sguiltyof,allthesemonths?""I shouldn't letmy imagination runawaywithme,"heanswered. "I'vebeenplayingthefluteintheorchestraofoneofthetheatresinLondon.""Ha!"shecried. "It'smore than that.Don't think I'mgoing tobelieveyou. Iknowyou,withyoursmooth-soundinglies.You'realiar,asyouknow.AndI

knowyou'vebeendoingotherthingsbesidesplayafluteinanorchestra.You!—asifIdon'tknowyou.Andthencomingcrawlingbacktomewithyourliesandyourpretense.Don'tthinkI'mtakenin.""Ishouldbesorry,"hesaid."Coming crawling back tome, and expecting to be forgiven," shewent on."But no—I don't forgive—and I can't forgive—never—not as long as I liveshallIforgivewhatyou'vedonetome.""Youcanwaittillyou'reasked,anyhow,"hesaid."Andyoucanwait,"shesaid."Andyoushallwait."Shetookuphersewing,andstitchedsteadily,asifcalmly.Anyoneglancinginwouldhaveimaginedaquiet domestic hearth at that moment. He, too, feeling physically weak,remainedsilent,feelinghissoulabsentfromthescene.Againshesuddenlyburstintotears,weepingbitterly."Andthechildren,"shesobbed,rockingherselfwithgriefandchagrin."WhathaveIbeenabletosaytothechildren—whathaveIbeenabletotellthem?""WhatHAVEyoutoldthem?"heaskedcoldly."I told themyou'dgone away towork," she sobbed, layingherheadonherarmson the table."Whatelsecould I tell them?Icouldn't tell themtheviletruthabout their father. Icouldn't tellTHEMhowevilyouare."Shesobbedandmoaned.Hewonderedwhatexactlytheviletruthwouldhavebeen,hadshestartedtotellit.Andhebegantofeel,coldlyandcynically,thatamongallherdistresstherewasa luxuriating in theviolentemotionsof thescene inhand,and thesituationaltogether.Thenagainshebecamequiet,andpickeduphersewing.Shestitchedquietly,wistfully,forsometime.Thenshelookedupathim—alonglookofreproach,andsombreaccusation,andwifelytenderness.Heturnedhisfaceaside."Youknowyou'vebeenwrongtome,don'tyou?"shesaid,halfwistfully,halfmenacing.Hefeltherwistfulnessandhermenacetearinghiminhisbowelsandloins."Youdoknow,don'tyou?"sheinsisted,stillwiththewistfulappeal,andtheveiledthreat."Youdo,oryouwouldanswer,"shesaid."You'vestillgotenoughthat'srightinyou,foryoutoknow."Shewaited.Hesatstill,asifdrawnbyhotwires.Thensheslippedacrosstohim,putherarmsroundhim,sankonherkneesathisside,andsankherfaceagainsthisthigh.

"Sayyouknowhowwrongyouare.Sayyouknowhowcruelyou'vebeentome,"shepleaded.Butunderherfemalepleadingandappealhefelttheironofherthreat."YouDOknowit,"shemurmured,lookingupintohisfaceasshecrouchedbyhisknee."YouDOknowit.Icanseeinyoureyesthatyouknowit.Andwhyhaveyoucomebacktome,ifyoudon'tknowit!Whyhaveyoucomebacktome?Tellme!"Herarmsgavehimasharp,compulsorylittleclutchroundthewaist. "Tell me! Tell me!" shemurmured, with all her appeal liquid in herthroat.Buthim, ithalfovercame,andat the same time,horrified.Hehadacertainhorrorofher.Thestrange liquidsoundofherappealseemedtohimlike theswayingofaserpentwhichmesmerisesthefated,fluttering,helplessbird.Sheclaspedherarmsroundhim,shedrewhimtoher,shehalfrousedhispassion.Atthesametimeshecoldlyhorrifiedandrepelledhim.Hehadnotthefaintestfeeling,atthemoment,ofhisownwrong.Butshewantedtowinhisownself-betrayaloutofhim.Hecouldseehimselfas thefascinatedvictim,falling tothiscajoling,awfulwoman,thewifeofhisbosom.Butaswell,hehadasouloutside himself, which looked on thewhole scenewith cold revulsion, andwhichwasasunchangeableastime."No,"hesaid."Idon'tfeelwrong.""YouDO!"shesaid,givinghimasharp,admonitoryclutch."YouDO.Onlyyou'resilly,andobstinate,babyishandsillyandobstinate.Anobstinatelittleboy—youDOfeelwrong.AndyouAREwrong.Andyou'vegottosayit."Butquietlyhedisengagedhimself andgot tohis feet, his facepale and set,obstinateasshesaid.Heputhishaton,andtookhis littlebag.Shewatchedhimcuriously,stillcrouchingbyhischair."I'llgo,"hesaid,puttinghishandonthelatch.Suddenlyshesprangtoherfeetandclutchedhimbytheshirt-neck,herhandinsidehissoftcollar,halfstranglinghim."Youvillain,"shesaid,andherfacewastransfiguredwithpassionashehadneverseenitbefore,horrible."Youvillain!"shesaidthickly."Whathaveyoucomeherefor?"Hissoulwentblackashelookedather.Hebrokeherhandawayfromhisshirtcollar, bursting the stud-holes. She recoiled in silence. And in one black,unconsciousmovementhewasgone,downthegardenandoverthefenceandacrossthecountry,swallowedinablackunconsciousness.She,realising,sankuponthehearth-rugandlaytherecurleduponherself.Shewas defeated.But she, too,would never yield. She lay quitemotionless forsometime.Thenshegotup, feeling thedraughton thefloor.Sheclosed the

door, anddrewdown theblind.Then she lookedatherwrist,whichhehadgripped,andwhichpainedher.Thenshewenttothemirrorandlookedforalongtimeatherwhite,strained,determinedface.Comelife,comedeath,she,toowouldneveryield.Andsherealisednowthathewouldneveryield.Shewasfaintwithweariness,andwouldbegladtogettobedandsleep.Aaronmeanwhilehadwalkedacrossthecountryandwaslookingforaplacetorest.Hefoundacornfieldwithahalf-builtstack,andsheavesinstook.Tento one some trampwould have found the stack. He threw a dozen sheavestogether and lay down, looking at the stars in the September sky. He, too,wouldneveryield.Theillusionoflovewasgoneforever.Lovewasabattleinwhicheachparty strove for themasteryof theother's soul.So far,manhadyieldedthemasterytowoman.Nowhewasfightingforitbackagain.Andtoolate,forthewomanwouldneveryield.Butwhetherwomanyieldedornot,hewouldkeepthemasteryofhisownsoulandconscienceandactions.Hewouldneveryieldhimselfuptoherjudgmentagain.Hewouldholdhimselfforeverbeyondherjurisdiction.Henceforth,lifesingle,notlifedouble.He looked at the sky, and thanked theuniverse for theblessednessof beingaloneintheuniverse.Tobealone,tobeoneself,nottobedrivenorviolatedinto something which is not oneself, surely it is better than anything. HethoughtofLottie,andknewhowmuchmoretrulyherselfshewaswhenshewasalone,withnoman todistorther.Andhewas thankful for thedivisionbetweenthem.Suchscenesasthelastweretoohorribleandunreal.As for futureunions, toosoon to thinkabout it.Let therebecleanandpuredivisionfirst,perfectedsingleness.Thatistheonlywaytofinal,livingunison:throughsheer,finishedsingleness.

CHAPTERXII.NOVARA

Havingnojobfortheautumn,AaronfidgettedinLondon.Heplayedatsomeconcerts and some private shows. He was one of an odd quartette, forexample,whichwent toplay toLadyArtemisHooper,when she lay inbedafter her famous escapade of falling through the window of her taxi-cab.Aaronhadthatcuriousknack,whichbelongstosomepeople,ofgettingintothe swimwithout knowing hewas doing it. LadyArtemis thought his flutelovely,andhadhimagaintoplayforher.Aaronlookedatherandsheathim.She,asshereclinedthereinbedinasortofhalf-light,wellmade-up,smokingher cigarettes and talking in a rather raucous voice, making her slightlyraspingwittycomments to theothermen in theroom—ofcourse therewere

othermen,theaudience—wasashocktotheflautist.Thiswasthebrideofthemoment!Curioushowraucoushervoicesoundedoutofthecigarettesmoke.Yethelikedher—therecklessnoteofthemodern,socialfreebooter.Inhimselfwasatouchofthesamequality."Doyouloveplaying?"sheaskedhim."Yes," he said,with that shadowof ironywhich seemed like a smile onhisface."Liveforit,sotospeak,"shesaid."Imakemylivingbyit,"hesaid."But that's not really howyou take it?" she said.He eyedher.Shewatchedhimoverhercigarette.Itwasapersonalmoment."Idon'tthinkaboutit,"hesaid."I'msureyoudon't.Youwouldn'tbesogoodifyoudid.You'reawfullylucky,youknow,tobeabletopouryourselfdownyourflute.""YouthinkIgodowneasy?"helaughed."Ah!" she replied, flicking her cigarette broadcast. "That's the point. Whatshould you say, Jimmy?" she turned to one of the men. He screwed hiseyeglassnervouslyandstiffenedhimselftolookather."I—I shouldn't like to say, off-hand," came the small-voiced, self-consciousanswer.AndJimmybridledhimselfandglancedatAaron."Doyoufinditatightsqueeze,then?"shesaid,turningtoAarononcemore."No,Ican'tsaythat,"heanswered."Whatofmegoesdowngoesdowneasyenough.It'swhatdoesn'tgodown.""Andhowmuchisthat?"sheasked,eyinghim."Agoodbit,maybe,"hesaid."Slopsover,sotospeak,"sheretortedsarcastically."Andwhichdoyouenjoymore,tricklingdownyourfluteorsloppingoverontothelapofMotherEarth—ofMiss,moreprobably!""Depends,"hesaid.Havinggothimafewstepstoofaruponthepersonalground,shelefthimtogetoffbyhimself.SohefoundLondongotonhisnerves.Hefeltitrubbedhimthewrongway.Hewas flattered, of course, by his own success—and felt at the same timeirritatedby it.This stateofmindwasbynomeansacceptable.Whereverhewashe liked tobegiven, tacitly, the firstplace—oraplaceamong the first.Amongthemusicalpeoplehefrequented,hefoundhimselfonacallowkind

ofequalitywitheverybody,eventhestarsandaristocrats,atonemoment,andabackstairsoutsiderthenext.Itwasalljustasthemomentdemanded.Therewasacertainexcitementinslitheringupanddownthesocialscale,oneminutechatting in a personal tete-a-tetewith themost famous, or notorious, of thesocietybeauties:andthenextwalkingintherain,withhisfluteinabag,tohisgrubby lodging in Bloomsbury. Only the excitement roused all the savagesarcasm that lay at the bottom of his soul, and which burned there like anunhealthybile.Thereforehedeterminedtoclearout—todisappear.HehadaletterfromLilly,fromNovara.Lillywasdriftingabout.AaronwrotetoNovara,andaskedifheshould come to Italy, having nomoney to speak of. "Come if youwant to.Bringyourflute.Andifyou'venomoney,putonagoodsuitofclothesandabig black hat, and play outside the best cafe in any Italian town, and you'llcollectenoughtogetonwith."Itwasasportingchance.Aaronpackedhisbagandgotapassport,andwrotetoLillytosayhewouldjoinhim,asinvited,atSirWilliamFranks'.HehopedLilly'sanswerwouldarrivebeforeheleftLondon.Butitdidn't.ThereforebeholdourheroalightingatNovara,twohourslate,onawet,darkevening.HehopedLillywouldbethere:butnobody.Withsomeslightdismayhe faced the big, crowded station. The stream of people carried himautomaticallythroughthebarrier,aporterhavingseizedhisbag,andvolleyedvariousunintelligiblequestionsathim.Aaronunderstoodnotoneword.Sohejustwanderedaftertheblueblouseoftheporter.Theporterdeposited thebagon thestepsof thestationfront, firedoffmorequestionsandgesticulatedintothehalf-illuminatedspaceofdarknessoutsidethestation.Aarondecided itmeantacab, sohenoddedandsaid"Yes."Buttherewerenocabs.Sooncemore theblue-blousedporter slung thebigbagand the little bag on the strap over his shoulder, and they plunged into thenight,towardssomelightsandasortoftheatreplace.Onecarriagestoodthereintherain—yes,anditwasfree."Keb?Yes—orright—sir.Whe'to?Whereyougo?SirWilliamFranks?Yes,Iknow.Longwaygo—golongway.SirWilliamFranks."The cabman spattered his few words of English. Aaron gave the porter anEnglishshilling.Theporterletthecoinlieinthemiddleofhispalm,asif itwerealivebeetle,anddartedtothelightofthecarriagetoexaminethebeast,exclaiming volubly. The cabman, wild with interest, peered down from theboxintothepalmoftheporter,andcarriedonanimpassioneddialogue.Aaronstoodwithonefootonthestep."Whatyougive—he?Onefranc?"askedthedriver.

"Ashilling,"saidAaron."Onesheeling.Yes.Iknowthat.OnesheelingEnglish"—andthedriverwentoffintoimpassionedexclamationsinTorinese.Theporter,stillmutteringandholdinghishandasifthecoinmightstinghim,filteredaway."Orright. He know—sheeling—orright. English moneys, eh? Yes, he know.Yougetup,sir."And awaywentAaron, under the hood of the carriage, clattering down thewidedarknessofNovara,overabridgeapparently,pasthugerain-wetstatues,andthroughmorerainy,half-litstreets.Theystoppedatlastoutsideasortofparkwallwithtreesabove.Thebiggateswerejustbeyond."SirWilliam Franks—there." In amixture of Italian and English the drivertoldAarontogetdownandringthebellontheright.Aarongotdownandinthedarknesswasabletoreadthenameontheplate."Howmuch?"saidAarontothedriver."Tenfranc,"saidthefatdriver.But it was his turn now to screw down and scrutinise the pink ten-shillingnote.Hewaveditinhishand."Notgood,eh?Notgoodmoneys?""Yes," said Aaron, rather indignantly. "Good English money. Ten shillings.Betterthantenfrancs,agooddeal.Better—better—""Good—you say? Ten sheeling—" The driver muttered and muttered, as ifdissatisfied.Butasamatteroffacthestowedthenoteinhiswaistcoatpocketwithconsiderablesatisfaction,lookedatAaroncuriously,anddroveaway.Aaron stood there in the dark outside the big gates, and wished himselfsomewhereelse.However,herangthebell.Therewasahugebarkingofdogsontheotherside.Presentlyalightswitchedon,andawoman,followedbyaman,appearedcautiously,inthehalf-openeddoorway."SirWilliamFranks?"saidAaron."Si,signore."And Aaron stepped with his two bags inside the gate. Huge dogs jumpedround.He stood in thedarknessunder the trees at the foot of thepark.Thewoman fastened the gate—Aaron saw a door—and through an uncurtainedwindowamanwritingatadesk—rather like theclerk inanhoteloffice.Hewasgoingwithhistwobagstotheopendoor,whenthewomanstoppedhim,andbegantalkingtohiminItalian.Itwasevidenthemustnotgoon.Soheputdownthebags.Themanstoodafewyardsaway,watchfully.

Aaronlookeddownatthewomanandtriedtomakeoutsomethingofwhatshewassaying,butcouldnot.Thedogsstillbarkedspasmodically,dropsfellfromthetall,darktreesthatroseoverhead."IsMr.Lillyhere?Mr.Lilly?"heasked."SignorLillee.No,Signore—"And off thewomanwent in Italian.But itwas evidentLillywas not at thehouse. Aaronwishedmore than ever he had not come, but had gone to anhotel.He made out that the woman was asking him for his name—"Meester—?Meester—?"shekeptsaying,withanoteofinterrogation."Sisson.Mr.Sisson,"saidAaron,whowasbecomingimpatient.Andhefounda visiting card to give her. She seemed appeased—said something abouttelephone—andlefthimstanding.The rain had ceased, but big drops were shaken from the dark, high trees.Through the uncurtained window he saw the man at the desk reach thetelephone. There was a long pause. At length the woman came back andmotionedtohimtogoup—upthedrivewhichcurvedanddisappearedunderthedarktrees."Goupthere?"saidAaron,pointing.Thatwasevidentlytheintention.Sohepickeduphisbagsandstrodeforward,fromoutofthecircleofelectriclight,upthecurveddriveinthedarkness.Itwas a steep incline.He saw trees and thegrass slopes.Therewas a tangofsnowintheair.Suddenly,upahead,abrilliantlightswitchedon.Hecontinueduphillthroughthe trees along the path, towards it, and at length, emerged at the foot of agreat flight of steps, abovewhichwas awide glass entrance, and an Italianmanservantinwhitegloveshoveringasifonthebrink.Aaronemerged from thedrive andclimbed the steps.Themanservant camedowntwostepsandtookthelittlebag.ThenheusheredAaronandthebigbagintoalarge,pillaredhall,withthickTurkishcarpetonthefloor,andhandsomeappointments. It was spacious, comfortable and warm; but somewhatpretentious; rather like the imposing hall into which the heroine suddenlyentersonthefilm.Aarondroppedhisheavybag,withrelief,andstoodthere,hatinhand,inhisdamp overcoat in the circle of light, looking vaguely at the yellowmarblepillars, the gilded arches above, the shadowy distances and the great stairs.Thebutlerdisappeared—reappearedinanothermoment—andthroughanopendoorwaycame thehost.SirWilliamwasasmall,cleanoldmanwitha thin,white beard and a courtly deportment,wearing a black velvet dinner jacket

facedwithpurplesilk."Howdoyoudo,Mr.Sisson.YoucomestraightfromEngland?"SirWilliam held out his hand courteously and benevolently, smiling an oldman'ssmileofhospitality."Mr.Lillyhasgoneaway?"saidAaron."Yes.Heleftusseveraldaysago."Aaronhesitated."Youdidn'texpectme,then?""Yes,oh,yes.Yes,oh,yes.Verygladtoseeyou—well,now,comeinandhavesomedinner—"At this moment Lady Franks appeared—short, rather plump, but erect anddefinite,inablacksilkdressandpearlsroundherthroat."Howdoyoudo?Wearejustatdinner,"shesaid."Youhaven'teaten?No—well,then—wouldyoulikeabathnow,or—?"It was evident the Franks had dispensed much hospitality: much of itcharitable.Aaronfeltit."No,"hesaid."I'llwashmyhandsandcomestraightin,shallI?""Yes,perhapsthatwouldbebetter—""I'mafraidIamanuisance.""Notatall—Beppe—"andshegaveinstructionsinItalian.Anotherfootmanappeared,andtookthebigbag.Aarontookthelittleonethistime. They climbed the broad, turning stairs, crossed another handsomelounge, gilt and ormolu and yellow silk chairs and scattered copies of TheGraphicorofCountryLife, then theydisappeared throughadoorway intoamuchnarrowerflightofstairs.Mancansorarelykeep itupall theway, thegrandeur.Twoblackandwhitechamber-maidsappeared.Aaronfoundhimselfinabluesilk bedroom, and a footman unstrapping his bag, which he did not wantunstrapped.NextminutehewasbeckonedandalluredbytheItalianservantsdownthecorridor,andpresentedtothehandsome,spaciousbathroom,whichwas warm and creamy-coloured and glittering with massive silver andmysterious with up-to-date conveniences. There he was left to his owndevices,andfeltlikeasmallboyfindingouthowitworks.Foreventhemereturningonofthetapswasaprobleminsilvermechanics.In spite of all the splendours and the elaborated convenience, he washedhimselfingoodhotwater,andwishedhewerehavingabath,chieflybecauseofthewardrobeofmarvellousTurkishtowels.Thenheclickedhiswayback

tohisbedroom,changedhisshirtandcombedhishairinthebluesilkbedroomwiththeGreuzepicture,andfelta littledimandsuperficialsurprise.Hehadfallen into country house parties before, but never into quite such a plushysenseofriches.Hefeltheoughttohavehisbreathtakenaway.Butalas,thecinemahastakenourbreathawaysooften,investingusinallthesplendoursofthesplendidestAmericanmillionaire,oralltheheroicsandmarvelsoftheSommeor theNorthPole, that life has nownomagnate richer thanwe, noheronobler thanwehavebeen, on the film.Connu!Connu!Everything lifehastoofferisknowntous,couldn'tbeknownbetter,fromthefilm.So Aaron tied his tie in front of a big Venice mirror, and nothing was asurprisetohim.Hefoundafootmanhoveringtoescorthimtothedining-room—a real Italian footman, uneasy becausemilady's dinner was unsettled. Heenteredtherathersmalldining-room,andsawthepeopleattable.Hewastoldvariousnames:bowedtoayoung,slimwomanwithbigblueeyesand dark hair like a photograph, then to a smaller rather colourless youngwomanwithalargenose:thentoastout,rubicund,baldcolonel,andtoatall,thin,Oxford-lookingmajorwithablackpatchoverhiseye—boththesemenin khaki: finally to a good-looking, well-nourished youngman in a dinner-jacket,andhesatdowntohissoup,onhishostess'lefthand.Thecolonelsaton her right, andwas confidential. Little SirWilliam,with his hair and hisbeard white like spun glass, his manner very courteous and animated, thepurple facings of his velvet jacket very impressive, sat at the far end of thetable jestingwith the ladies and showing his teeth in an oldman's smile, alittlebitaffected,butpleasant,wishingeverybodytobehappy.Aaronatehissoup,tryingtocatchup.Milady'sownconfidentialItalianbutler,fidelity itself, hovered quivering near, spiritually helping the newcomer tocatchup.Twonicelittleentreedishes,speciallypreparedforAarontotaketheplaceofthebygonefishandvolau-ventsoftheproperdinner,testifiedtothecourtesyandcharityofhishostess.Well, eating rapidly, he hadmore or less caught up by the time the sweetscame.Soheswallowedaglassofwineandlookedround.Hishostesswithherpearls,andherdiamondstarinhergreyhair,wasspeakingofLillyandthenofmusictohim."Ihearyouareamusician.That'swhat I shouldhavebeen if Ihadhadmyway.""Whatinstrument?"askedAaron."Oh, thepiano.Yours is the flute,Mr.Lillysays. I think the flutecanbesoattractive.ButIfeel,ofcourseyouhavemorerangewiththepiano.Ilovethepiano—andorchestra."At thatmoment, the colonel andhostess-dutiesdistractedher.But she came

back in snatches. She was a woman who reminded him a little of QueenVictoria;soassuredinherownroom,alargepartofherattentionalwaysgivento the successful issue of her duties, the remainder at the disposal of herguests.Itwasanold-fashioned,notunpleasantfeeling:likeretrospect.Butshehad beautiful, big, smooth emeralds and sapphires on her fingers. Money!What a curious thing it is!Aaron noticed the deference of all the guests attable:atouchofobsequiousness:beforethemoney!Andthehostandhostessacceptedthedeference,nay,expectedit,astheirdue.YetbothSirWilliamandLady Franks knew that it was only money and success. They had both acertainafterthought,knowingdimly that thegamewasbutagame,and thatthey were the helpless leaders in the game. They had a certain basicordinarinesswhichpreventedtheirmakinganygreathits,andwhichkeptthemdisillusionedallthewhile.Theyrememberedtheirpoorandinsignificantdays."And I hear youwere playing in the orchestra atCoventGarden.We camebackfromLondonlastweek.IenjoyedBeecham'soperassomuch.""Whichdoyoulikebest?"saidAaron."Oh,theRussian.IthinkIvan.Itissuchfinemusic.""IfindIvanartificial.""Doyou?Oh,Idon'tthinkso.No,Idon'tthinkyoucansaythat."Aaronwonderedatherassurance.Sheseemedtoputhimjustatinybitinhisplace,eveninanopiniononmusic.Moneygaveherthatright,too.Curious—theonlyauthorityleft.Andhedeferredtoheropinion:thatis,tohermoney.He did it almost deliberately.Yes—what did he believe in, besidesmoney?Whatdoesanyman?Helookedattheblackpatchoverthemajor'seye.Whathadhegivenhiseyefor?—thenation'smoney.Well,andverynecessary,too;otherwisewemightbewherethewretchedAustriansare.Insteadofwhich—howsmoothhishostess'sapphires!"OfcourseImyselfpreferMoussorgsky,"saidAaron."Ithinkheisagreaterartist.Butperhapsitisjustpersonalpreference.""Yes.Borisiswonderful.Oh,someofthescenesinBoris!""And even more Kovantchina," said Aaron. "I wish we could go back tomelody pure and simple. Yet I find Kovantchina, which is all mass musicpractically,givesmemoresatisfactionthananyotheropera.""Doyoureally?Ishouldn'tsayso:oh,no—butyoucan'tmeanthatyouwouldlikeallmusictogobacktomelodypureandsimple!Justaflute—justapipe!Oh,Mr.Sisson,youarebigotedforyourinstrument.IjustLIVEinharmony—chords,chords!"Shestruckimaginarychordsonthewhitedamask,andhersapphires swam blue. But at the same time she was watching to see if SirWilliamhadstillgotbesidehisplatethewhitemedicinecachetwhichhemust

swallow at every meal. Because if so, she must remind him to swallow it.However,atthatverymoment,heputitonhistongue.SothatshecouldturnherattentionagaintoAaronandtheimaginarychordonthewhitedamask;thething she just lived in. But the rubicund bald colonel, more rubicund afterwine,mostrubicundnowtheMarsalawasgoing,snatchedherattentionwithaburly homage to her femininity, and shared his fearwith herwith a boyishgallantry.When thewomenhad gone up, SirWilliam camenear and put his hand onAaron'sshoulder.Itwasevidentthecharmwasbeginningtowork.SirWilliamwasa self-mademan, andnot in the least a snob.He liked the fundamentalordinarinessinAaron,thecommonnessofthecommonman."Wellnow,Mr.Sisson,weareverygladtoseeyou!Veryglad,indeed.IcountMr.Lillyoneofthemostinterestingmenithaseverbeenmygoodfortunetoknow.Andsoforyourownsake,andforMr.Lilly'ssake,weareverygladtosee you. Arthur, my boy, give Mr. Sisson some Marsala—and take someyourself.""Thankyou,Sir,"saidthewell-nourishedyoungmaninniceeveningclothes."You'lltakeanotherglassyourself,Sir?""Yes,Iwill,Iwill.IwilldrinkaglasswithMr.Sisson.Major,whereareyouwanderingoffto?Comeandtakeaglasswithus,myboy.""Thanks,SirWilliam,"drawledtheyoungmajorwiththeblackpatch."Now,Colonel—Ihopeyouareingoodhealthandspirits.""Neverbetter,SirWilliam,neverbetter.""I'mverygladtohearit;verygladindeed.TrymyMarsala—Ithinkitisquitegood.Portisbeyondusforthemoment—forthemoment—"Andtheoldmansippedhisbrownwine,andsmiledagain.Hemadequiteahandsomepicture:buthewasfrail."Andwhereareyoubound,Mr.Sisson?TowardsRome?""IcametomeetLilly,"saidAaron."Ah!ButLillyhasfledoverthebordersbythistime.Neverwassuchamanforcrossingfrontiers.Wonderfulperson,tobeabletodoit.""Wherehashegone?"saidAaron."I think to Geneva for themoment. But he certainly talked of Venice. Youyourselfhavenodefinitegoal?""No.""Ah!YouhavenotcometoItalytopracticeyourart?""IshallHAVEtopracticeit:orelse—no,Ihaven'tcomeforthat."

"Ah,youwillHAVEtopracticeit.Ah,yes!Weareallunderthenecessitytoeat.AndyouhaveafamilyinEngland?AmInotright?""Quite.I'vegotafamilydependingonme.""Yes,thenyoumustpracticeyourart:youmustpracticeyourart.Well—shallwejointheladies?Coffeewillnodoubtbeserved.""Willyoutakemyarm,Sir?"saidthewell-nourishedArthur."Thankyou,thankyou,"theoldmanmotionedhimaway.So theywent upstairs towhere the threewomenwere sitting in the libraryroundthefire,chatteringnotveryinterested.TheentryofSirWilliamatoncemadeastir.Thegirlinwhite,withthebiggishnose,flutteredroundhim.ShewasArthur'swife. The girl in soft blue spread herself on the couch: she was the youngMajor'swife, and shehad a blue band roundher hair.TheColonel hoveredstoutandfidgettyroundLadyFranksandtheliqueurstand.HeandtheMajorwerebothinkhaki—belongingtotheserviceondutyinItalystill.Coffeeappeared—andSirWilliamdoledoutcremedementhe.Therewasnoconversation—onlytediouswords.Thelittlepartywasjustcommonplaceanddull—boring.YetSirWilliam,theself-mademan,wasastudy.Andtheyoung,Oxford-like Major, with his English diffidence and his one dark, pensive,baffledeyewasonlywaitingtobeearnest,poordevil.ThegirlinwhitehadbeenasortofcompaniontoLadyFranks,sothatArthurwasmoreorlessason-in-law.Inthiscapacity,heacted.Aaronstrayedrounduneasily looking at the books, bought but not read, and at the big picturesabove. It wasArthurwho fetched out the little boxes containing the ordersconferredonSirWilliam forhiswar-work: andperhapsmore, for themanythousandsofpoundshehadspentonhiswar-work.Therewerethreeorders:oneBritish,andquiteimportant,alargesilverstarforthebreast:oneItalian,smaller,andsilverandgold;andonefromtheStateofRuritania,insilverandred-and-greenenamel,smallerthantheothers."Comenow,William,"saidLadyFranks,"youmusttrythemallon.Youmusttrythemallontogether,andletusseehowyoulook."Thelittle,frailoldman,withhisstrangeoldman'sblueeyesandhisoldman'sperpetuallaugh,swelledouthischestandsaid:"What,amItoappearinallmyvanities?"Andhelaughedshortly."Ofcourseyouare.Wewanttoseeyou,"saidthewhitegirl."Indeedwedo!Weshouldn'tmindallappearinginsuchvanities—what,LadyFranks!"boomedtheColonel.

"Ishouldthinknot,"repliedhishostess."Whenamanhashonoursconferredonhim,itshowsapoorspiritifheisn'tproudofthem.""OfcourseIamproudofthem!"saidSirWilliam."Wellthen,comeandhavethempinnedon.Ithinkit'swonderfultohavegotsomuchinonelife-time—wonderful,"saidLadyFranks."Oh,SirWilliamisawonderfulman,"saidtheColonel."Well—wewon'tsaysobeforehim.Butletuslookathiminhisorders."Arthur, always ready on these occasions, had taken the large and shiningBritishstarfromitsbox,anddrewneartoSirWilliam,whostoodswellinghischest,pleased,proud,andalittlewistful."Thisonefirst,Sir,"saidArthur.Sir William stood very still, half tremulous, like a man undergoing anoperation."And it goes just here—the level of the heart. This is where it goes." Andcarefullyhepinned the large, radiatingornamenton theblackvelvetdinner-jacketoftheoldman."Thatisthefirst—andverybecoming,"saidLadyFranks."Oh, very becoming!Very becoming!" said the tallwife of theMajor—shewasahandsomeyoungwomanofthetall,frailtype."Do you think so, my dear?" said the old man, with his eternal smile: thecurioussmileofoldpeoplewhentheyaredead."Not only becoming, Sir," said the Major, bending his tall, slim figureforwards. "But a reassuring sign that a nationknowshow todistinguishhervaluablemen.""Quite!"saidLadyFranks."Ithinkitisaverygreathonourtohavegotit.Thekingwasmostgracious,too—Nowtheother.Thatgoesbesideit—theItalian—"Sir William stood there undergoing the operation of the pinning-on. TheItalian star being somewhat smaller than the British, there was a slightquestionastowhereexactlyitshouldbeplaced.However,Arthurdecidedit:andtheoldmanstoodbeforethecompanywithhistwostarsonhisbreast."AndnowtheRuritanian,"saidLadyFrankseagerly."Thatdoesn'tgoonthesamelevelwiththeothers,LadyFranks,"saidArthur."Thatgoesmuchlowerdown—abouthere.""Areyousure?"saidLadyFranks."Doesn'titgomorehere?""Nono,nono,notatall.Here!Isn'titso,Sybil?""Yes,Ithinkso,"saidSybil.

Old Sir William stood quite silent, his breast prepared, peering over thefacingsofhiscoattoseewherethestarwasgoing.TheColonelwascalledin,andthoughheknewnothingaboutit,heagreedwithArthur,whoapparentlydid know something. So the star was pinned quite low down. SirWilliam,peepingdown,exclaimed:"Well,thatismostcuriousnow!Iwearanorderoverthepitofmystomach!Ithinkthatisverycurious:acuriousplacetowearanorder.""Standup!Standupand letus look!"saidLadyFranks."Therenow, isn't ithandsome?And isn't it a great deal of honour for oneman?Could he haveexpected so much, in one life-time? I call it wonderful. Come and look atyourself,dear"—andsheledhimtoamirror."What'smore,allthoroughlydeserved,"saidArthur."Ishouldthinkso,"saidtheColonel,fidgetting."Ah,yes,nobodyhasdeservedthembetter,"cooedSybil."Noronmorehumaneandgenerousgrounds,"saidtheMajor,sottovoce."Theefforttosavelife,indeed,"returnedtheMajor'syoungwife:"splendid!"SirWilliamstoodnaivelybeforethemirrorandlookedathisthreestarsonhisblackvelvetdinner-jacket."Almost directly over the pit ofmy stomach," he said. "I hope that is not adecorationformygreedyAPPETITE."Andhelaughedattheyoungwomen."Iassureyouitisinposition,Sir,"saidArthur."Absolutelycorrect.Iwillreaditouttoyoulater.""Aren'tyousatisfied?Aren'tyouaproudman!Isn'titwonderful?"saidLadyFranks. "Why, what more could a man want from life? He could neverEXPECTsomuch.""Yes, my dear. I AM a proud man. Three countries have honoured me—"Therewasalittle,breathlesspause."Andnotmorethantheyoughttohavedone,"saidSybil."Well!Well! I shallhavemyhead turned.Letme return tomyownhumbleself.Iamtoomuchinthestarsatthemoment."SirWilliamturnedtoArthurtohavehisdecorationsremoved.Aaron,standinginthebackground,feltthewholescenestrange,childish,alittletouching.AndLadyFrankswassoobviously trying toconsoleherhusband: toconsole thefrail,excitableoldmanwithhishonours.Butwhyconsolehim?Didheneedconsolation?Anddidshe?Itwasevidentthatonlythehard-moneywomaninherputanypriceonthedecorations.Aaroncameforwardandexaminedtheorders,oneaftertheother.Justmetal

playthingsofcuriousshinysilverandgiltandenamel.HeavytheBritishone—butonlylikesomeheavybuckle,apieceofmetalmerelywhenoneturneditover.SomebodydroppedtheItaliancross,andtherewasamomentofhorror.But the lumpofmetal tooknohurt.Queer to see the things stowed in theirboxes again. Aaron had always imagined these mysterious decorations asshiningbynatureonthebreastsofheroes.Pinned-onpiecesofmetalwereaconsiderablecome-down.The orders were put away, the party sat round the fire in the comfortablelibrary,themensippingmorecremedementhe,sincenothingelseoffered,andthe couple of hours in front promising the tedium of small-talk of tediouspeoplewhohadreallynothingtosayandnoparticularoriginalityinsayingit.Aaron,however,hadreckonedwithouthishost.SirWilliamsatuprightinhischair,withallthedeterminationofafrailoldmanwhoinsistsonbeinglevelwith the young. The new guest sat in a lower chair, smoking, that curiousglimmeronhisfacewhichmadehimsoattractive,andwhichonlymeantthathewaslookingonthewholescenefromtheoutside,asitwere,frombeyondafence.SirWilliamcamealmostdirectlytotheattack."Andso,Mr.Sisson,youhavenodefinitepurposeincomingtoItaly?""No,none,"saidAaron."IwantedtojoinLilly.""Butwhenyouhadjoinedhim—?""Oh,nothing—stayhereatime,inthiscountry,ifIcouldearnmykeep.""Ah!—earnyourkeep?Soyouhopetoearnyourkeephere?MayIaskhow?""Bymyflute.""Italyisapoorcountry.""Idon'twantmuch.""Youhaveafamilytoprovidefor.""Theyareprovidedfor—foracoupleofyears.""Oh,indeed!Isthatso?"TheoldmangotoutofAaronthedetailedaccountofhiscircumstances—howhehadleftsomuchmoneytobepaidovertohiswife,andhadreceivedonlyasmallamountforhimself."IseeyouarelikeLilly—youtrusttoProvidence,"saidSirWilliam."Providenceorfate,"saidAaron."Lilly calls it Providence," said Sir William. "For my own part, I alwaysadviseProvidenceplusabankingaccount.IhaveeverybeliefinProvidence,plusabankingaccount.ProvidenceandnobankingaccountIhaveobservedtobealmostinvariablyfatal.LillyandIhavearguedit.Hebelievesincastinghis

breaduponthewaters.Isincerelyhopehewon'thavetocasthimselfafterhisbread, one of these days. Providence with a banking account. Believe inProvidence once you have secured enough to live on. I should consider itdisastrous to believe in Providence BEFORE. One can never be SURE ofProvidence.""Whatcanyoubesureof,then?"saidAaron."Well,inmoderation,Icanbelieveinalittlehardcash,andinmyownabilitytoearnalittlehardcash.""PerhapsLillybelievesinhisownability,too.""No.Notso.Becausehewillneverdirectlyworktoearnmoney.Heworks—andworksquitewell,Iamtold:butonlyas thespiritmoveshim,andneverwithanyeyetothemarket.NowIcallthatTEMPTINGProvidence,myself.Thespiritmaymovehim inquiteanoppositedirection to themarket—thenwhereisLilly?Ihaveputittohimmorethanonce.""The spirit generally doesmove him dead against themarket," said Aaron."Buthemanagestoscrapealong.""Inastateofjeopardy:all thetimeinastateofjeopardy,"saidtheoldman."Hiswholeexistence,andthatofhiswife,iscompletelyprecarious.Ifound,inmyyouth,thespiritmovedmetovariousthingswhichwouldhaveleftmeandmywifestarving.SoIrealisedintime,thiswasnogood.Itookmyspiritinhand, therefore,andmadehimpull thecartwhichmankind is riding in. Iharnessed him to thework of productive labour.And so he broughtmemyreward.""Yes,"saidAaron."Buteverymanaccordingtohisbelief.""I don't see," said SirWilliam, "how aman canBELIEVE in a Providenceunlesshe sets himself definitely to theworkof earninghis dailybread, andmaking provision for future needs. That's what Providence means to me—making provision for oneself and one's family. Now, Mr. Lilly—and youyourself—yousayyoubelieveinaProvidencethatdoesNOTcompelyoutoearnyourdailybread, andmakeprovision. I confessmyself I cannot see it:andLillyhasneverbeenabletoconvinceme.""Idon'tbelieveinakind-heartedProvidence,"saidAaron,"andIdon'tbelieveLilly does.But I believe in chance. I believe, if I gomyownway,withouttying my nose to a job, chance will always throw something in my way:enoughtogetalongwith.""Butonwhatdoyoubasesuchaveryunwarrantablebelief?""Ijustfeellikethat.""Andifyouareeverquitewithoutsuccess—andnothingtofallbackon?"

"Icanworkatsomething.""Incaseofillness,forexample?""Icangotoahospital—ordie.""Dearme!However,youaremorelogicalthanLilly.HeseemstobelievethathehastheInvisible—callitProvidenceifyouwill—onhisside,andthatthisInvisiblewill never leave him in the lurch, or let him down, so long as hestickstohisownsideofthebargain,andNEVERworksforhisownends.Idon'tquiteseehowheworks.Certainlyheseemstomeamanwhosquandersa great deal of talent unworthily.Yet for some reason or other he calls thistrue, genuine activity, and has a contempt for actual work bywhich amanmakesprovisionforhisyearsandforhisfamily.Intheend,hewillhavetofallbackoncharity.ButwhenIsayso,hedeniesit,andsaysthatintheendwe,themenwhoworkandmakeprovision,willhavetofallbackonhim.Well,allIcansayis,thatSOFARheisinfargreaterdangerofhavingtofallbackonme,thanIonhim."Theoldmansatbackinhischairwithalittlelaughoftriumph.ButitsmotealmostdevilishlyonAaron'sears,andforthefirsttimeinhislifehefeltthatthereexistedanecessityfortakingsides."Idon'tsupposehewilldomuchfallingback,"hesaid."Well,heisyoungyet.Youarebothyoung.Youaresquanderingyouryouth.Iamanoldman,andIseetheend.""Whatend,SirWilliam?""Charity—andpoverty—andsomenotverycongenial 'job,' asyoucall it, toput bread in your mouth. No, no, I would not like to trust myself to yourProvidence, or to your Chance. Though I admit your Chance is a sounderproposition than Lilly's Providence. You speculate with your life and yourtalent.Iadmitthenaturewhichisabornspeculator.Afterall,withyourflute,youwillspeculateinotherpeople'stasteforluxury,asamanmayspeculateintheatres or trains de luxe.You are the speculator.Thatmaybe yourwayofwisdom.ButLillydoesnotevenspeculate.Icannotseehispoint.Icannotseehis point. I cannot see his point. Yet I have the greatest admiration for hismentality."Theoldmanhadfiredupduringthisconversation—andall theothers in theroomhadgonesilent.LadyFrankswaspalpablyuneasy.Shealoneknewhowfrailtheoldmanwas—frailerbyfarthanhisyears.Shealoneknewwhatfearof his own age,what fear of death haunted him now: fear of his own non-existence. His own old age was an agony to him; worse than an agony, ahorror. He wanted to be young—to live, to live. And he was old, he wasbreaking up. The glistening youth of Aaron, the impetuousness of Lilly

fascinated him. And both these men seemed calmly to contradict his ownwealthandhonours.LadyFranks tried to turnoff theconversation to the tricklesofnormalchit-chat.TheColonelwashorriblybored—sowere all thewomen—Arthurwasindifferent.OnlytheyoungMajorwasimplicated,troubledinhisearnestandphilosophicspirit."WhatIcan'tsee,"hesaid,"istheplacethatothershaveinyourscheme.""Isisn'tascheme,"saidAaron."Wellthen,yourwayoflife.Isn'titprettyselfish,tomarryawomanandthenexpect her to live on very little indeed, and that always precarious, justbecause you happen to believe in Providence or in Chance: which I thinkworse?What Idon't see iswhereothers come in.Whatwould theworldbelikeifeverybodylivedthatway?""Otherpeoplecanpleasethemselves,"saidAaron."No,theycan't—becauseyoutakefirstchoice,itseemstome.Supposingyourwife—orLilly'swife—asksforsecurityandforprovision,asSirWilliamsays.Surelyshehasarighttoit.""IfI'venoright to itmyself—andIHAVEnoright to it, ifIdon'twant it—thenwhatrighthasshe?""Everyright,Ishouldsay.Allthemoresinceyouareimprovident.""Then shemustmanage her rights for herself. It's no good her foisting herrightsontome.""Isn'tthatpureselfishness?""Itmaybe.IshallsendmywifemoneyaslongasI'vemoneytosend.""Andsupposingyouhavenone?""ThenIcan'tsendit—andshemustlookoutforherself.""Icallthatalmostcriminalselfishness.""Ican'thelpit."TheconversationwiththeyoungMajorbrokeoff."ItiscertainlyagoodthingforsocietythatmenlikeyouandMr.Lillyarenotcommon,"saidSirWilliam,laughing."Becomingcommonereveryday,you'llfind,"interjaculatedtheColonel."Indeed!Indeed!Well.Mayweaskyouanotherquestion,Mr.Sisson?Ihopeyoudon'tobjecttoourcatechism?""No.Noryourjudgmentafterwards,"saidAaron,grinning.

"Thenuponwhatgroundsdidyouabandonyourfamily?Iknowitisatendersubject.ButLillyspokeofittous,andasfarIcouldsee....""Therewerenogrounds,"saidAaron."No,thereweren'tIjustleftthem.""Merecaprice?""Ifit'sacapricetobebegotten—andacapricetobeborn—andacapricetodie—thenthatwasacaprice,foritwasthesame.""Likebirthordeath?Idon'tfollow.""Ithappenedtome:asbirthhappenedtomeonce—anddeathwillhappen.Itwasa sortofdeath, too:or a sortofbirth.But asundeniableas either.Andwithoutanymoregrounds."Theold,tremulousman,andtheyoungmanwerewatchingoneanother."Anaturalevent,"saidSirWilliam."Anaturalevent,"saidAaron."Notthatyoulovedanyotherwoman?""Godsavemefromit.""Youjustleftoffloving?""Noteventhat.Iwentaway.""Whatfrom?""Fromitall.""Fromthewomaninparticular?""Oh,yes.Yes.Yes,that.""Andyoucouldn'tgoback?"Aaronshookhishead."Yetyoucangivenoreasons?""Notanyreasons thatwouldbeanygood. Itwasn'taquestionof reasons. Itwasaquestionofherandmeandwhatmustbe.Whatmakesachildbebornoutofitsmothertothepainandtroubleofbothofthem?Idon'tknow.""Butthatisanaturalprocess.""Soisthis—ornothing.""No,"interposedtheMajor."Becausebirthisauniversalprocess—andyoursisaspecific,almostuniqueevent.""Well,uniqueornot,itsocameabout.Ididn'teverleaveofflovingher—notasfarasIknow.IleftherasIshallleavetheearthwhenIdie—becauseithastobe."

"DoyouknowwhatIthinkitis,Mr.Sisson?"putinLadyFranks."Ithinkyouarejust inawickedstateofmind: just that.Mr.Lilly, too.Andyoumustbeverycareful,orsomegreatmisfortunewillhappentoyou.""Itmay,"saidAaron."Anditwill,markmyword,itwill.""Youalmostwishitmight,asajudgmentonme,"smiledAaron."Oh,no, indeed.Ishouldonlybetoosorry.ButIfeel itwill,unlessyouarecareful.""I'llbecareful,then.""Yes,andyoucan'tbetoocareful.""Youmakemefrightened.""I would like to make you very frightened indeed, so that you went backhumblytoyourwifeandfamily.""ItwouldHAVEtobeabigfrightthen,Iassureyou.""Ah,youarereallyheartless.Itmakesmeangry."Sheturnedangrilyaside."Well,well!Well,well!Life!Life!Youngmenareanewthingtome!"saidSirWilliam,shakinghishead."Well,well!Whatdoyousaytowhiskeyandsoda,Colonel?""Why,delighted,SirWilliam,"saidtheColonel,bouncingup."Anight-cap,andthenweretire,"saidLadyFranks.Aaron sat thinking. He knew SirWilliam liked him: and that Lady Franksdidn't.OnedayhemighthavetoseekhelpfromSirWilliam.Sohehadbetterplacatemilady.Wrinkling the fine, halfmischievous smile on his face, andtradingonhischarm,heturnedtohishostess."Youwouldn'tmind,LadyFranks, if I said nasty things aboutmywife andfoundalotoffaultwithher.WhatmakesyouangryisthatIknowitisnotabitmoreherfaultthanmine,thatwecomeapart.Itcan'tbehelped.""Oh,yes,indeed.Idisapproveofyourwayoflookingatthingsaltogether.Itseemstomealtogethercoldandunmanlyandinhuman.Thankgoodnessmyexperienceofamanhasbeendifferent.""Wecan'tallbealike,canwe?AndifIdon'tchoosetoletyouseemecrying,thatdoesn'tproveI'veneverhadabadhalfhour,doesit?I'vehadmany—ay,andamany.""ThenwhyareyousoWRONG,sowronginyourbehaviour?""IsupposeI'vegottohavemyboutout:andwhenit'sout,Icanalter."

"ThenIhopeyou'vealmosthadyourboutout,"shesaid."SodoI,"saidhe,withahalf-repentant,half-depressedlookonhisattractiveface.Thecornersofhismouthgrimacedslightlyunderhismoustache."ThebestthingyoucandoistogostraightbacktoEngland,andtoher.""PerhapsI'dbetteraskherifshewantsme,first,"hesaiddrily."Yes,youmightdothat,too."AndLadyFranksfeltshewasquitegettingonwith herwork of reform, and the restoring ofwoman to her natural throne.Bestnotgotoofast,either."Saywhen,"shoutedtheColonel,whowasmanipulatingthesyphon."When,"saidAaron.Themenstooduptotheirdrinks."Willyoubeleavinginthemorning,Mr.Sisson?"askedLadyFranks."May I stay till Monday morning?" said Aaron. They were at Saturdayevening."Certainly.Andyouwilltakebreakfastinyourroom:wealldo.Atwhattime?Halfpasteight?""Thankyouverymuch.""Thenathalfpasteightthemanwillbringitin.Goodnight."Oncemoreinhisbluesilkbedroom,Aarongrimacedtohimselfandstoodinthemiddleoftheroomgrimacing.Hishostess'admonitionswerelikevitriolinhis ears. He looked out of the window. Through the darkness of trees, thelightsofacitybelow.Italy!Theairwascoldwithsnow.Hecamebackintohissoft,warmroom.Luxuriousitwas.Andluxuriousthedeep,warmbed.Hewasstillasleepwhenthemancamenoiselesslyinwiththetray:anditwasmorning.Aaronwokeandsatup.Hefeltthatthedeep,warmbed,andthesoft,warm room had made him sleep too well: robbed him of his night, like anarcotic.Hepreferredtobemoreuncomfortableandmoreawareoftheflightofthedarkhours.Itseemednumbing.Thefootmaninhisgreyhouse-jacketwasneatandItalianandsympathising.Hegavegood-morninginItalian—thensoftlyarrangedthelittle tablebythebedside,andputoutthetoastandcoffeeandbutterandboiledeggandhoney,withsilveranddelicatechina.Aaronwatchedthesoft,catlikemotionsoftheman.Thedarkeyesglancedonceat theblondman, leaningonhiselbowonthepillow.Aaron'sfacehad thatwatchful,half-amusedexpression.ThemansaidsomethinginItalian.Aaronshookhishead,laughed,andsaid:"TellmeinEnglish."The man went softly to the window curtains, and motioned them with his

hand."Yes,do,"saidAaron.So theman drew the buff-coloured silk curtains: andAaron, sitting in bed,could see awaybeyond red roofsof a town, and in the furtherheavengreatsnowymountains."TheAlps,"hesaidinsurprise."Gli Alpi—si, signore." The man bowed, gathered up Aaron's clothes, andsilentlyretired.Aaron watched through the window. It was a frosty morning at the end ofSeptember, with a clear bluemorning-sky, Alpine, and the watchful, snow-streaked mountain tops bunched in the distance, as if waiting. There theywere, hovering round, circling, waiting. They reminded him of marvellousstriped sky-panthers circling round a great camp: the red-roofed city.Aaronlooked,andlookedagain.Intheneardistance,underthehouseelm-treetopswereyellowing.Hefelthimselfchanginginsidehisskin.Soheturnedawaytohiscoffeeandeggs.Alittlesilveregg-cupwithacuriouslittlefrillroundit:honeyinafrail,iridescentglassbowl,gold-iridescent:thecharmofdelicateandfinethings.Hesmiledhalfmockinglytohimself.Twoinstincts played in him: the one, an instinct for fine, delicate things: he hadattractivehands; theother,an inclination to throwthedainty little tablewithallitsnicetiesoutofthewindow.Itevokedasortofdevilinhim.Hetookhisbath: themanhadbroughtbackhis things:hedressedandwentdownstairs.Nooneinthelounge:hewentdowntothegroundfloor:nooneinthebighallwithitspillarsofyellowmarbleanditsgoldarches,itsenormous,dark, bluey-red carpet. He stood before the great glass doors. Some redflowersstillwerebloominginthetubs,onthesteps,handsome:andbeautifulchrysanthemums in the wide portico. Beyond, yellow leaves were alreadyfalling on the green grass and the neat drive. Everywhere was silent andempty.He climbed thewide stairs, sat in the long, upper loungewhere thepapers were. He wanted his hat and coat, and did not know where to findthem. The windows looked on to a terraced garden, the hill rising steeplybehindthehouse.Hewantedtogoout.Soheopenedmoredoors,andinalongdrawing-roomcameuponfiveorsixmanservants, all in the grey house-jackets, all clean-shaven, neat, with neatblack hair, allwith dusters or brushes or feather brooms, and all frolicking,chattering, playing like somanymonkeys. Theywere all of the same neat,smallish size. Theywere all laughing. They rolled back a great rug as if itweresomefootballgame,oneflewatthecurtains.AndtheymerelylookedatAaronandwentonchattering,andlaughinganddusting.

Surprised, and feeling that he trespassed, he stood at thewindowamomentlookingout.Thenoisewentonbehindhim.Soheturned,smiling,andaskedforhishat,pointingtohishead.Theyknewatoncewhathewanted.Oneofthe fellows beckoned him away, down to the hall and to the long cupboardplacewherehatsandcoatsandstickswerehung.Therewashishat;heputiton,while themanchatteredtohimpleasantlyandunintelligibly,andopenedforhimthebackdoor,intothegarden.

CHAPTERXIII.WIEESIHNENGEFAELLT

Thefreshmorningaircomesstartlingafteracentralheatedhouse.SoAaronfound it. He felt himself dashing up the steps into the garden like a birddashingoutofatrapwhereithasbeencaught:thatwarmandluxurioushouse.Heavenblessus,wewhowanttosavecivilisation.Wehadbettermakeupourmindswhatofitwewanttosave.Thekernelmaybeallwellandgood.Butthereispreciouslittlekernel,toalotofwoollystuffingandpoisonousrind.The gardens to SirWilliam's placewere not imposing, and still ratherwar-neglected. But the pools of water lay smooth in the bright air, the flowersshowed their colour beside the walks. Many birds dashed about, ratherbewildered, having crossed the Alps in their migration southwards. Aaronnoted with gratification a certain big magnificence, a certain recklesspowerfulnessinthestill-blossoming,harsh-coloured,autumnflowers.Distinctsatisfactionhederivedfromit.Hewanderedupwards,up the succeeding flightsof step; till he came to theupper rough hedge, and saw the wild copse on the hill-crest just above.Passing through a space in the hedge, he climbed the steep last bit of SirWilliam'slane.Itwasalittlevineyard,withsmallvinesandyellowingleaves.Everywhere the place looked neglected—but as if man had just begun totackleitoncemore.Attheverytop,bythewildhedgewherespindle-berrieshungpink,seatswereplaced, and from here the view was very beautiful. The hill dropped steepbeneathhim.A riverwoundon thenear sideof thecity, crossedbyawhitebridge.Thecitylaycloseclustered,ruddyontheplains,glitteringintheclearairwithitsflatroofsanddomesandsquaretowers,strangelynaked-seemingin the clear, clean air. And massive in the further nearness, snow-streakedmountains, the tiger-like Alps. Tigers prowling between the north and thesouth.Andthisbeautifulcitylyingnearestexposed.Thesnow-windbrushedher thismorning like the icywhiskers of a tiger.And clear in the light layNovara,wide, fearless, violentNovara. Beautiful the perfect air, the perfectandunblemishedAlp-sky.Andlikethefirstsouthernflower,Novara.

Aaronsatwatchinginsilence.Onlytheuneasybirdsrustled.Hewatchedthecityandthewindingriver,thebridges,andtheimminentAlps.Hewasonthesouthside.Ontheothersideofthetimebarrier.Hisold,sleepyEnglishnaturewasstartledinitssleep.Hefeltlikeamanwhoknowsitistimetowakeup,andwhodoesn'twanttowakeup,tofacetheresponsibilityofanothersortofday.Toopenhisdarkesteyesandwakeup toanewresponsibility.Wakeupandenter on the responsibility of a new self in himself. Ach, the horror ofresponsibility!Hehadallhislifesleptandshelvedtheburden.Andhewantedto go on sleeping. It was so hateful to have to get a new grip on his ownbowels, a new hard recklessness into his heart, a new and responsibleconsciousnessintohismindandsoul.Hefeltsomefingerprodding,prodding,prodding him awake out of the sleep of pathos and tragedy and spasmodicpassion,andhewriggled,unwilling,oh,mostunwillingtoundertakethenewbusiness.Infactheranawayagain.Hegavealastlookatthetownanditswhite-fangedmountains, anddescended through thegarden, round thewayof thekitchengardenandgarageandstablesandpeckingchickens,backtothehouseagain.In the hall still no one. He went upstairs to the long lounge. There sat therubicund, bald, boy-like Colonel reading the Graphic. Aaron sat downopposite him, and made a feeble attempt at conversation. But the Colonelwasn't having any. Itwas evident he didn't care for the fellow—Mr.Aaron,thatis.Aaronthereforedriedup,andbegantosithimout,withtheaidofTheQueen. Came a servant, however, and said that the Signor Colonello wascalled up from the hospital, on the telephone. The Colonel once departed,Aaron fled again, this time out of the front doors, and down the steep littleparktothegates.Hugedogsandlittledogscameboundingforward.Outofthelodgecamethewomanwiththekeys,smilingverypleasantlythismorning.So,hewasinthestreet. Thewide road led him inevitably to the big bridge,with the violent,physical stone statue-groups. Men and women were moving about, and henoticed for the first time the littleness and the momentaneousness of theItalians in the street. Perhaps it was the wideness of the bridge and thesubsequent big, open boulevard. But there it was: the people seemed little,uprightbrisk figuresmoving inacertain isolation, like tiny figuresonabigstage. And he felt himself moving in the space between. All the northerncosinessgone.Hewassetdownwithaspaceroundhim.Littletramsflitteddowntheboulevardinthebright,sweetlight.Thebarbers'shopswereallbusy,halftheNovareseatthatmomentambushedinlather,fullinthepublicgaze.Ashaveisnothingifnotapublicact,inthesouth.Atthelittleoutdoortablesofthecafesaveryfewdrinkerssatbeforeemptycoffee-

cups.Mostoftheshopswereshut.Itwastoosoonafterthewarforlifetobeflowingveryfast.Thefeelingofemptiness,ofneglect,oflackofsupplieswasevidenteverywhere.Aaronstrolledon,surprisedhimselfathisgallantfeelingofliberty:afeelingofbravadoandalmostswaggeringcarelessnesswhichisItaly'sbestgifttoanEnglishman.Hehadcrossed thedividing line,and thevaluesof life, thoughostensiblyandverballythesame,weredynamicallydifferent.Alas,however,theverbalandtheostensible,theaccursedmechanicalidealgainsdaybydayoverthespontaneouslife-dynamic,sothatItalybecomesasidea-boundandasautomaticasEngland:justabusinessproposition.Coming to the station, he went inside. There he saw a money-changingwindowwhichwasopen,soheplankeddownafive-poundnoteandgottwo-hundred-and-tenlire.Herewasastart.Atabookstallhesawamanbuyabigtimetable with a large railwaymap in it. He immediately bought the same.Thenheretiredtoacornertogethiswhereabouts.Inthemorninghemustmove:where?Helookedonthemap.Themapseemedto offer two alternatives,Milan andGenoa.He choseMilan, because of itsmusical associations and its cathedral. Milano then. Strolling and stillstrolling,hefoundtheboardsannouncingArrivalsandDepartures.Asfarashecouldmakeout,thetrainforMilanleftat9:00inthemorning.So much achieved, he left the big desolating caravanserai of the station.Soldierswere camped in every corner, lying in heaps asleep. In their grey-green uniform, he was surprised at their sturdy limbs and uniformly shortstature.For the first time,hesaw thecock-feathersof theBersaglieri.Thereseemedanewlife-qualityeverywhere.Manyworlds,notoneworld.Butalas,the one world triumphing more and more over the many worlds, the bigoneness swallowing up themany small diversities in its insatiable gnawingappetite, leaving adreary sameness throughout theworld, thatmeans at lastcompletesterility.Aaron,however,wastoonewtothestrangeness,hehadnoeyeforthehorriblesameness thatwas spreading like a diseaseover Italy fromEngland and thenorth.Heplungedintothespaceinfrontofthestation,andtookanew,wideboulevard.Tohissurpriseherantowardsabigandover-animatedstatuethatstoodresolutelywithitsbacktothemagnificentsnow-domesofthewildAlps.Wolvesinthestreetcouldnothavestartledhimmorethanthosemagnificentfierce-gleamingmountains of snow at the street-end, beyond the statue. Hestoodandwondered,andneverthoughttolookwhothegentlemanwas.Thenheturnedrightround,andbegantowalkhome.Luncheon was at one o'clock. It was half-past twelve when he rang at thelodgegates.Heclimbed through the leavesof the littlepark,onaside-path,

rather reluctantly towards thehouse. In thehallLadyFrankswasdiscussingwith Arthur a fat Pekinese who did not seem very well. She was sure theservantsdidnotobeyherordersconcerning thePekinesebitch.Arthur,whowasmorethanindifferent,assuredhertheydid.Butsheseemedtothinkthatthe whole of the male human race was in league against the miserablespecimenofashe-dog.Shealmostcried,thinkingherQueeniemightbysomechancemeetwith,perhaps,aharshwordorlook.Queenieapparentlyfattenedonthesecretdetestationofthemalehumanspecies."I can't bear to think that a dumb creaturemight be ill-treated," she said toAaron."ThankgoodnesstheItaliansarebetterthantheyusedtobe.""Aretheybetterthantheyusedtobe?""Oh,much.Theyhavelearntitfromus."She then enquired if her guest had slept, and if he were rested from hisjourney.Aaron,intowhosefacethefaintsnow-windandthesunhadbroughtaglow, replied that he had slept well and enjoyed the morning, thank you.WhereuponLadyFranksknittedherbrowsandsaidSirWilliamhadhadsuchabadnight.Hehadnotbeenabletosleep,andhadgotupandwalkedabouttheroom.Theleastexcitement,andshedreadedabreak-down.Hemusthaveabsolutecalmandrestfulness."There'soneforyouandyourjawinglastnight,Aaron,myboy!"saidourherotohimself."IthoughtSirWilliamseemedsofulloflifeandenergy,"hesaid,aloud."Ah,didyou!No,heWANTStobe.Buthecan'tdoit.He'sverymuchupsetthismorning.Ihavebeenveryanxiousabouthim.""Iamsorrytohearthat."LadyFranksdepartedtosomeduty.Aaronsatalonebeforethefire.Itwasahugefireplace,likeadarkchambershutinbytall,finely-wroughtirongates.Behind these iron gates of curly iron the logs burned and flickered likeleopardsslumberingandliftingtheirheadswithintheircage.Aaronwonderedwhowas thekeeper of the savage element,who itwas thatwouldopen theirongrilleandthrowonanotherlog,likemeattothelions.Tobesurethefirewasonlytobelookedat:likewildbeastsintheZoo.Forthehousewaswarmfrom roof to floor. Itwas strange to see theblue air of sunlightoutside, theyellow-edgedleavesfallinginthewind,theredflowersshaking.The gong sounded softly through the house. The Colonel came in heartilyfrom the garden, but did not speak toAaron.TheMajor andhiswife camepallid down the stairs. Lady Franks appeared, talking domestic-secretarialbusiness with the wife of Arthur. Arthur, well-nourished and half at home,calleddownthestairs.AndthenSirWilliamdescended,oldandfrailnowin

themorning, shaken:stillheapproachedAaronheartily,andaskedhimhowhe did, and how he had spent his morning. The old man who hadmade afortune: how he expected homage: and how he got it! Homage, like mostthings, is just a convention and a social trick. Aaron found himself payinghomage, too, to the oldmanwho hadmade a fortune. But also, exacting acertaindeferenceinreturn,fromtheoldmanwhohadmadeafortune.Gettingit, too.Onwhatgrounds?Youth,maybe.Butmostly, scorn for fortunes andfortune-making.Didhescornfortunesandfortune-making?Nothe,otherwisewhence this homage for the old man with much money? Aaron, likeeverybodyelse,wasratherparalysedbyamillionsterling,personifiedinoneold man. Paralysed, fascinated, overcome. All those three. Only having nofinal control over his own make-up, he could not drive himself into themoney-making or even into the money-having habit. And he had just witenough to threatenSirWilliam's goldenkingwith his own ivory queen andknightsofwilfullife.AndSirWilliamquaked."Well,andhowhaveyouspentyourmorning?"askedthehost."Iwentfirsttolookatthegarden.""Ah,notmuchtoseenow.Theyhavebeenbeautifulwithflowers,once.Butfortwoandahalfyearsthehousehasbeenahospitalforofficers—andevententsintheparkandgarden—asmanyastwohundredwoundedandsickatatime.Weareonlyjustreturningtocivillife.Andflowersneedtime.Yes—yes—Britishofficers—for twoandahalfyears.Butdidyougoup,now, to thebelvedere?""Tothetop—wherethevinesare?Ineverexpectedthemountains.""Youneverexpectedthemountains?Pray,whynot?Theyarealwaysthere!""ButIwasnevertherebefore.Ineverknewtheywerethere,roundthetown.Ididn'texpectitlikethat.""Ah!Soyoufoundourcityimpressive?""Very!Ah,very!Anewworldtome.IfeelI'vecomeoutofmyself.""Yes, it is a wonderful sight—a wonderful sight— But you have not beenINTOthetown?""Yes. I saw themen being shaved, and all the soldiers at the station: and astatue,andmountainsbehindit.Oh,I'vehadafullmorning.""Afullmorning!Thatisgood,thatisgood!"Theoldmanlookedagainattheyoungerman,andseemedtogetlifefromhim,toliveinhimvicariously."Come,"saidthehostess."Luncheon."Aaronsatagainonhishostess'lefthand.TheColonelwasmoreaffablenowitwasmeal-time.SirWilliamwasagaininagoodhumour,chaffingtheyoung

ladieswithanoldman'sgallantry.ButnowheinsistedondrawingAaronintothe play.AndAaron did notwant to be drawn.He did not one bitwant tochaffergallantrieswiththeyoungwomen.BetweenhimandSirWilliamtherewasacuriousrivalry—unconsciousonbothsides.Theoldknighthaddevotedan energetic, adventurous, almost an artistic nature to the making of hisfortuneandthedevelopingoflaterphilanthropies.Hehadnochildren.Aaronwas devoting a similar nature to anything but fortune-making andphilanthropy. The one held life to be a storing-up of produce and aconservationof energy: the other held life to be a sheer spendingof energyandastoring-upofnothingbutexperience.Theretheywere,inopposition,theoldmanandtheyoung.SirWilliamkeptcallingAaronintothechafferattheother end of the table: and Aaron kept on refusing to join. He hated longdistanceanswers,anyhow.Andinhismoodofthemomenthehatedtheyoungwomen.Hehada conversationwithArthur about statues: concerningwhichAaronknewnothing,andArthurlessthannothing.ThenLadyFranksturnedtheconversation to thesoldiersat thestation,andsaidhowSirWilliamhadequippedrest-hutsfortheItalianprivates,nearthestation:butthatsuchwasthejealousyandspiteoftheItalianRedCross—orsomesuchbody,locally—thatSirWilliam'shutshadbeenleftempty—standingunused—whilethemenhadsleptonthestonefloorofthestation,nightafternight,inicywinter.Therewas evidently much bitter feeling as a result of SirWilliam's philanthropy.Apparentlyeven thehoneyof lavishcharityhad turned togall in the Italianmouth: at least the official mouth. Which gall had been spat back at thecharitable,muchtohispain.Itisintruthadifficultworld,particularlywhenyouhaveanotherracetodealwith.Afterwhichcamethebeef-olives."Oh," said Lady Franks, "I had such a dreadful dream last night, such adreadfuldream. Itupsetmesomuch. Ihavenotbeenable togetover it allday.""Whatwasit?"saidAaron."Tellit,andbreakit.""Why," said his hostess, "I dreamed I was asleep in my room—just as Iactuallywas—and that itwasnight,yetwitha terrible sortof light, like thedeadlightbeforedawn,sothatonecouldsee.AndmymaidGiuseppinacamerunning intomy room, saying: 'Signora! Signora! Si alza! Subito! Signora!Vengonosu!'—andIsaid, 'Chi?Chisonochivengono?Chi?'—'INovaresi!INovaresi vengono su. Vengono qui!'—I got out of bed and went to thewindow. And there they were, in the dead light, rushing up to the house,throughthetrees.Itwassoawful,Ihaven'tbeenabletoforgetitallday.""TellmewhatthewordsareinEnglish,"saidAaron."Why," she said, "get up, get up—the Novaresi, the people of Novara arecoming up—vengono su—they are coming up—the Novara people—work-people.Ican'tforgetit.Itwassoreal,Ican'tbelieveitdidn'tactuallyhappen."

"Ah,"saidAaron."Itwillneverhappen.Iknow, thatwhateveroneforesees,andFEELShashappened,neverhappensinreallife.Itsortofworksitselfoffthroughtheimaginingofit.""Well,itwasalmostmorerealtomethanreallife,"saidhishostess."Thenitwillneverhappeninreallife,"hesaid.Luncheon passed, and coffee. The party began to disperse—LadyFranks toanswermore letters, with the aid ofArthur's wife—some to sleep, some towalk.Aaronescapedoncemorethroughthebiggates.Thistimeheturnedhisbackonthetownandthemountains,andclimbedupthehillintothecountry.Sohewentbetweenthebanksandthebushes,watchingforunknownplantsandshrubs,hearingthebirds,feelingtheinfluenceofanewsoil.Atthetopofthehillhesawoverintovineyards,andanewstrangevalleywithawindingriver,andjumbled,entangledhills.Strangewildcountrysonear thetown.Itseemedtokeepanalmostvirginwildness—yethesawthewhitehousesdottedhereandthere.Just below himwas a peasant house: and on a little loggia in the sun twopeasants in white shirtsleeves and black Sunday suits were sitting drinkingwine, and talking, talking.Peasant youths inblackhats, their sweethearts indarkstuffdresses,wearingnohat,butablacksilkorawhitesilkscarf,passedslowlyalongthelittleroadjustbelowtheridge.NonelookeduptoseeAaronsitting there alone. From some hidden place somebody was playing anaccordion, a jerky sound in the still afternoon. And away beyond lay theunchanging,mysteriousvalley,andtheinfolding,mysterioushillsofItaly.Returningbackagainanotherway,helosthimselfatthefootofthehillinnewand deserted suburb streets—unfinished streets of seemingly unfinishedhouses. Then a sort of boulevard where bourgeois families were taking theSundayafternoonwalk:stoutpapas,stout,pallidmamasinrathercheapblackfur,littlegirlsverymuchdressed,andlongladsinshortsocksandroundsailorcaps, ribbons fluttering. Alien they felt, alien, alien, as a bourgeois crowdalwaysdoes,butparticularlya foreign,Sunday-bestbourgeoiscrowd.Aaronwandered and wandered, finding the tram terminus and trying blank,unfinishedstreetafterstreet.Hehadagreatdisinclinationtoaskhisway.Atlastherecognisedthebankandthelittlestreamofwaterthatranalongthestreetside.Sohewasbackintimefortea.Ahospitalnursewasthere,andtwootherstrangewomen.Arthurplayedthepartofhost.SirWilliamcameinfromawalkwiththedogs,butretiredtohisroomwithouttakingtea.Andsotheeveningfell.Aaronsatinthehallatsomedistancefromthefire,which burned behind its wrought iron gates. Hewas tired nowwith all hisimpressions,anddispirited.He thoughtofhiswifeandchildrenathome:ofthechurch-bells ringingso loudlyacross thefieldbeyondhisgardenend:of

thedark-cladpeopletrailingunevenlyacrossthetwopaths,onetotheleft,onetotheright,forkingtheirwaytowardsthehousesofthetown,tochurchortochapel:mostlytochapel.Atthishourhehimselfwouldbedressedinhisbestclothes,tyinghisbow,readytogoouttothepublichouse.Andhiswifewouldberesentinghisholidaydeparture,whilstshewasleftfastenedtothechildren.Rather tired and dispirited in this alien place, he wondered if he wishedhimselfback.But themomentheactually realisedhimselfathome,and feltthe tension of barrenness which it meant, felt the curious and deadlyoppositionofhiswife'swillagainsthisownnature,thealmostnauseatingachewhichitamountedto,hepulledhimselftogetherandrejoicedagaininhisnewsurroundings.Herwill,herwill,her terrible, implacable,cunningwill!Whatwasthereinthefemalewillsodiabolical,heaskedhimself,thatitcouldpresslike a flat sheet of iron against a man all the time? The female will! Herealisednowthathehadahorrorofit.Itwasflatandinflexibleasasheetofiron.Butalsoitwascunningasasnakethatcouldsingtreacheroussongs.Of two people at a deadlock, he always reminded himself, there is not oneonlywhollyatfault.Bothmustbeatfault.Havingadetachedandlogicalsoul,henever lethimself forget this truth.TakeLottie!Hehad lovedher.Hehadnever lovedanyotherwoman. Ifhehadhadhisotheraffairs—itwasoutofspite or defianceor curiosity.Theymeant nothing.He andLottie had lovedoneanother.Andthelovehaddevelopedalmostatonceintoakindofcombat.Lottiehadbeentheonlychildofheadstrong,well-to-doparents.Healsohadbeentheonlychildofhiswidowedmother.Wellthen,bothheandLottiehadbeenbroughtuptoconsiderthemselvesthefirstinwhatsoevercompanytheyfoundthemselves.Duringtheearlymonthsofthemarriagehehad,ofcourse,continuedthespoilingoftheyoungwife.Butthisneveralteredthefactthat,byhisverynature,heconsideredhimselfasfirstandalmostassingleinanyrelationship.Firstandsinglehefelt,andassuchheborehimself.IthadtakenhimyearstorealisethatLottiealsofeltherselffirstandsingle:underallherwhimsicalness and fretfulnesswas a conviction as firmas steel: that she, aswoman, was the centre of creation, the man was but an adjunct. She, aswoman,andparticularlyasmother,wasthefirstgreatsourceoflifeandbeing,andalsoofculture.Themanwasbuttheinstrumentandthefinisher.Shewasthesourceandthesubstance.Sureenough,Lottiehadneverformulatedthisbeliefinsideherself.Butitwasformulatedforherinthewholeworld.Itisthesubstantialandprofessedbeliefof the whole white world. She did but inevitably represent what the wholeworld around her asserted: the life-centrality of woman. Woman, the life-bearer,thelife-source.Nearly all men agree to the assertion. Practically all men, even whiledemandingtheirselfishrightsassuperiormales,tacitlyagreetothefactofthe

sacred life-bearingpriorityofwoman.Tacitly, theyyield theworship to thatwhichisfemale.Tacitly,theyconspiretoagreethatallthatisproductive,allthatisfineandsensitiveandmostessentiallynoble,iswoman.This, intheirproductive and religious souls, they believe. And however much they mayreactagainstthebelief,loathingtheirwomen,runningtoprostitutes,orbeeroranything, out of reaction against this great and ignominious dogma of thesacred priority of women, still they do but profane the god they worship.Profaningwoman,theystillinverselyworshipher.ButinAaronwasplantedanotherseed.Hedidnotknowit.Hestartedoffonthegoodoldtackofworshippinghiswomanwhilehisheartwashonest,andprofaningherinhisfitsoftemperandrevolt.Buthemadeabadshow.Borninhimwasaspiritwhichcouldnotworshipwoman:no,andwouldnot.Couldnotandwouldnot.Itwasnotinhim.Inearlydays,hetriedtopretenditwasin him. But through his plaintive and homage-rendering love of a younghusband was always, for the woman, discernible the arrogance of self-unyieldingmale.Heneveryieldedhimself:never.Allhismadlovingwasonlyaneffort.Afterwards,hewasasdevilishlyunyieldedasever.And itwasaninstinctinher,thathermanmustyieldtoher,sothatsheshouldenvelophimyielding, inherall-beneficent love.Shewasquitesure thather lovewasall-beneficent.Ofthisnoshadowofdoubt.Shewasquitesurethatthehighesthermancouldeverknoworeverreach,wastobeperfectlyenvelopedinherall-beneficentlove.Thiswasherideaofmarriage.Shehelditnotasanidea,butasaprofoundimpulseandinstinct:aninstinctdevelopedinherbytheageinwhichshelived.Allthatwasdeepestandmostsacredinhefeelingcentredinthisbelief.And he outraged her!Oh, from the first day and the first night, she felt heoutragedher.True,forsometimeshehadbeentakeninbyhismanifestlove.But thoughyou can deceive the consciousmind, you can never deceive thedeep,unconscious instinct.Shecouldneverunderstandwhencearose inher,almost from the first days of marriage with him, her terrible paroxysms ofhatredforhim.Shewasinlovewithhim:ah,heaven,howmaddeninglyshewas in love with him: a certain unseizable beauty that was his, and whichfascinatedherasasnakeabird.Butinrevulsion,howshehatedhim!Howsheabhorredhim!Howshedespisedandshudderedathim!Heseemedahorriblethingtoher.And thenagain,oh,God, theagonyofherdesire forhim.Theagonyofherlong,longdesireforhim.Hewasapassionatelover.Hegaveher,ostensibly,allsheaskedfor.Hewithheldfromhernothing,noexperience,nodegreeofintimacy.Shewashisinitiate,orhehers.And yet, oh, horror for a woman, he withheld everything from her. Hewithheld theverycentreofhimself.Fora longtime,sheneverrealised.She

wasdazedandmaddenedonly.Butasmonthsofmarriedexperiencepassedintoyearsofmarriedtorment,shebegantounderstand.Itwasthat,aftertheirmost tremendous,and, it seemed toher,heaven-rendingpassion—yea,whenfor her every veil seemed rent and a terrible and sacred creative darknesscovered the earth—then—after all this wonder and miracle—in crept apoisonousgreysnakeofdisillusionment,apoisonousgreysnakeofdisillusionthatbithertomadness,sothatshereallywasamadwoman,demented.Why?Why?Henevergavehimself.Henevercametoher,really.Hewithheldhimself.Yes,inthosesupremeandsacredtimeswhichforherwerethewholeculmination of life and being, the ecstasy of unspeakable passionalconjunction,hewasnotreallyhers.Hewaswithheld.Hewithheldthecentralcore of himself, like the devil and hell-fiend hewas.He cheated andmadeplaywithhertremendouspassionalsoul,hersacredsexpassion,mostsacredofall thingsforawoman.All thetime,somecentralpartofhimstoodapartfromher,aside,lookingon.Oh,agonyandhorrorforapassionate,fierce-heartedwoman!Shewholovedhim.Shewholovedhimtomadness.Shewhowouldhavediedforhim.Shewhodiddiewithhim,manyterribleandmagnificentconnubialdeaths,inhisarms,herhusband.Herhusband!Howbitterthewordgrewtoher!Herhusband!andhimneveroncegiven,givenwhollytoher!Herhusband—andinallthefrenziedfinalityofdesire,sheneverfullypossessedhim,notonce.No,notonce.Astimewenton,shelearneditforinevitable.Notonce!Andthen,howshehatedhim!Cheated,foiled,betrayed,forcedtolovehimorto hate him: never able to be at peace near him nor away from him: poorLottie, no wonder she was as a mad woman. She was strictly as a womandemented, after the birth of her second child. For all her instinct, all herimpulse,allherdesire,andaboveall,allherwill,wastopossesshermaninvery fulness once: just once: and once and for all. Once, just once: and itwouldbeonceandforall.Butnever!Never!Notonce!Never!Notforonesinglesolitarysecond!Wasitnotenoughtosendawomanmad!Wasitnotenoughtomakeherdemented!Yes, andmad shewas.Shemadehis life a hell for him.Shebit him to thebonewith her frenzy of rage, chagrin, and agony. She drove himmad, too:mad, so that he beat her:mad so that he longed to kill her.But even in hisgreatest rages it was the same: he never finally lost himself: he remained,somewhereinthecentre,inpossessionofhimself.Shesometimeswishedhewouldkillher:orthatshewouldkillhim.Neithereventhappened.Andneitherofthemunderstoodwhatwashappening.Howshouldthey?Theywere both dazed, horrified, and mortified. He took to leaving her alone as

muchaswaspossible.Butwhenhehadtocomehome,therewasherterriblewill,likeaflat,coldsnakecoiledroundhissoulandsqueezinghimtodeath.Yes, shedidnot relent.Shewasagoodwifeandmother.Allherduties shefulfilled. But shewas not one to yield. Hemust yield. That waswritten ineternal letters,on the iron tabletofherwill.Hemustyield.She thewoman,themother of his children, how should she ever even think to yield? Itwasunthinkable. He, the man, the weak, the false, the treacherous, the half-hearted,itwashewhomustyield.Wasnothersthedivinewillandthedivineright?Ha,shewouldbe less thanwoman if sheevercapitulated,abandonedherdivineresponsibilityaswoman!No,hemustyield.So,hewasunfaithful toher.Pilingreproachafter reproachuponhimself,headdedadulterytohisbrutality.Andthiswasthebeginningoftheend.Shewasmorethanmaddened:buthebegantogrowsilent,unresponsive,asifhedidnothearher.Hewasunfaithfultoher:andoh,insuchalowway.Suchshame,such shame! But he only smiled carelessly now, and asked her what shewanted.Shehadaskedforallshegot.Thathereiterated.Andthatwasallhewoulddo.Terrible was, that she found even his smile of insolent indifference half-beautiful. Oh, bitter chain to bear! But she summoned up all her strangewoman'swill. She fought against his fascination, the fascination he exertedoverher.Withfearfuleffortsofwillshefoughtagainstit,andmasteredit.Andthen, suddenly, horror and agony of it, up it would rush in her again, herunbearabledesireforhim,thelongingforhiscontact,hisqualityofbeauty.Thatwasa crosshard tobear.Yet even that shebore.And schooledherselfintoa fretful,petulantmannerof indifference.Herodd,whimsicalpetulancehidawillwhichhe,andhealone,knewtobestrongerthansteel,strongasadiabolical, cold, grey snake that presses and presses and cannot-relax: nay,cannot relax. She became the same as he. Even in her moments of mostpassionate desire for him, the cold and snake-like tension of herwill neverrelaxed,andthecold,snake-likeeyeofherintentionneverclosed.So,tillitreachedadeadlock.Eachwillwaswoundtense,andsofixed.Fixed!Therewasneitheranyrelaxingoranyincreaseofpressure.Fixed.Hardlikeanumbness,agripthatwassolidifyingandturningtostone.Herealised, somehow, thatat this terriblepassivegameof fixed tensionshewould beat him. Her fixed female soul, her wound-up female will wouldsolidifyintostone—whereashismustbreak.Inhimsomethingmustbreak.Itwas a cold and fataldeadlock,profitless.A life-automatismof fixed tensionthatsuddenly,inhim,didbreak.Hiswillflewlooseinarecoil:arecoilawayfromher.Helefther,asinevitablyasabrokenspringfliesoutfromitshold.Not that hewasbroken.Hewouldnotdoher even that credit.Hehadonly

flownloosefromtheoldcentre-fixture.Hiswillwasstillentireandunabated.Only he did not know: he did not understand.He swungwildly about fromplacetoplace,asifhewerebroken.Then suddenly, on this Sunday evening in the strange country, he realisedsomething about himself. He realised that he had never intended to yieldhimselffullytoherortoanything:thathedidnotintendevertoyieldhimselfupentirelytoherortoanything:thathisverybeingpivotedonthefactofhisisolate self-responsibility, aloneness.His intrinsic and central alonenesswasthe very centre of his being. Break it, and he broke his being. Break thiscentral aloneness, and he broke everything. It was the great temptation, toyieldhimself:anditwasthefinalsacrilege.Anyhow,itwassomethingwhich,fromhisprofoundestsoul,hedidnotintendtodo.Bytheinnermostisolationandsinglenessofhisownsoulhewouldabidethoughtheskiesfellontopofoneanother,andsevenheavenscollapsed.Vaguelyherealised this.Andvaguelyherealised that thishadbeen therootcauseofhisstrifewithLottie:Lottie,theonlypersonwhohadmatteredatallto him in all the world: save perhaps his mother. And his mother had notmattered,no,notone-halfnorone-fifthwhatLottiehadmattered.So itwas:therewas,forhim,onlyhersignificantintheuniverse.Andbetweenhimandhermatterswereastheywere.Hecoldlyandterriblyhatedher,foramoment.Thennomore.Therewasnosolution. Itwasa situationwithouta solution.Butat any rate, itwasnowadefinedsituation.Hecouldrestinpeace.ThoughtssomethinginthismannerranthroughAaron'ssubconsciousmindashe sat still in the strange house. He could not have fired it all off at anylistener,asthesepagesarefiredoffatanychancereader.Neverthelessthereitwas,risentohalfconsciousnessinhim.Allhislifehehadhatedknowingwhathefelt.Hehadwilfully,ifnotconsciously,keptagulfbetweenhispassionalsoul and his open mind. In his mind was pinned up a nice description ofhimself,andadescriptionofLottie,sortofauthenticpassports tobeused inthe conscious world. These authentic passports, self-describing: nose short,mouthnormal,etc.;hehadinsistedthattheyshoulddoallthedutyofthemanhimself.Thisready-madeandverybanalideaofhimselfasareallyquiteniceindividual: eyes blue, nose short, mouth normal, chin normal; this he hadinsistedwasreallyhimself.Itwashisconsciousmask.Nowatlast,afteryearsofstruggle,heseemedsuddenlytohavedroppedhismask on the floor, and broken it.His authentic self-describing passport, hiscomplete and satisfactory idea of himself suddenly became a rag of paper,ridiculous.Whatonearthdid itmatter ifhewasniceornot, ifhischinwasnormalorabnormal.

Hismask, his ideaof himself dropped andwasbroken to bits.Therehe satnow maskless and invisible. That was how he strictly felt: invisible andundefined, rather like Wells' Invisible Man. He had no longer a mask topresent to people: hewas present and invisible: they could not really thinkanythingabouthim,becausetheycouldnotreallyseehim.Whatdidtheyseewhen they looked at him? Lady Franks, for example. He neither knew norcared.Heonlyknewhewas invisible tohimselfandeverybody,and thatallthinkingaboutwhathewas likewasonlya sillygameofMrs.Mackenzie'sDead.Sothere.TheoldAaronSissonwasasifpainfullytransmuted,astheInvisibleManwhenheunderwenthistransmutations.Nowhewasgone,andnolongertobeseen.Hisvisibilitylostforever.Andthenwhat?Sittingthereasaninvisiblepresence,thepreconceivedworldmeltedalsoandwasgone.LadyFranks,SirWilliam,alltheguests,theytalkedand maneuvered with their visible personalities, manipulating the masks ofthemselves. And underneath there was something invisible and dying—something fading,wilting: the essential plasm of themselves: their invisiblebeing.Wellnow,andwhatnext?Havinginsomecuriousmannertumbledfromthetreeofmodernknowledge, and cracked and rolledout from the shell of thepreconceivedideaofhimselflikesomedark,night-lustrouschestnutfromthegreenostensibilityof theburr,he layas itwereexposedbut invisibleon thefloor,knowing,butmakingnoconceptions:knowing,buthavingnoidea.Nowthat he was finally unmasked and exposed, the accepted idea of himselfcracked and rolled aside like a broken chestnut-burr, the mask split andshattered,hewasatlastquietandfree.Hehaddreadedexposure:andbehold,wecannotbeexposed,forweareinvisible.Wecannotbeexposedtothelooksofothers,forourverybeingisnight-lustrousandunseeable.LiketheInvisibleMan,weareonlyrevealedthroughourclothesandourmasks.InhisownpowerfulbutsubconsciousfashionAaronrealized this.Hewasamusician. And hence even his deepest ideas: were notword-ideas, his verythoughts were not composed of words and ideal concepts. They too, histhoughts and his ideas, were dark and invisible, as electric vibrations areinvisiblenomatterhowmanywords theymaypurport. If I, as aword-user,musttranslatehisdeepconsciousvibrationsintofinitewords,thatismyownbusiness.Idobutmakeatranslationoftheman.Hewouldspeakinmusic.Ispeakwithwords.TheinaudiblemusicofhisconscioussoulconveyedhismeaninginhimquiteasclearlyasIconveyitinwords:probablymuchmoreclearly.Butinhisownmodeonly:anditwasinhisownmodeonlyherealisedwhatImustputintowords.Thesewordsaremyownaffair.Hismindwasmusic.

Don't grumble atme then, gentle reader, and swear atme that this damnedfellowwasn'thalfcleverenoughtothinkallthesesmartthings,andrealiseallthese fine-drawn-out subtleties. You are quite right, he wasn't, yet it allresolveditselfinhimasIsay,anditisforyoutoprovethatitdidn't.Inhisnowsilent,masklessstateofwordlesscomprehension,heknewthathehadneverwantedtosurrenderhimselfutterlytoLottie:nortohismother:norto anybody.The last extremeof self-abandon in lovewas for him an act offalsebehaviour.Hisownnatureinsidehimfatedhimnottotakethislastfalsestep,overtheedgeoftheabyssofselflessness.Evenifhewantedto,hecouldnot.Hemightstruggleontheedgeoftheprecipicelikeanassassinstrugglingwithhisownsoul,buthecouldnotconquer.For,accordingtoallthecurrentprejudice and impulse in one direction, he too had believed that the finalachievement,theconsummationofhumanlife,wasthisflingingoneselfovertheprecipice,downthebottomlesspitoflove.Nowherealisedthatlove,evenin its intensest, was only an attribute of the human soul: one of itsincomprehensiblegestures.Andtoflingdownthewholesoulinonegestureoffinalityinlovewasasmuchacriminalsuicideastojumpoffachurch-toweror amountain-peak.Let amangivehimself asmuchashe liked in love, toseven thousand extremities, he must never give himself away. The moregenerousandthemorepassionateasoul,themoreitgivesitself.Butthemoreabsoluteremainsthelaw,thatitshallnevergiveitselfaway.Givethyself,butgivethyselfnotaway.Thatisthelessonwrittenattheendofthelongstrangelaneoflove.Theideefixeoftodayisthateveryindividualshallnotonlygivehimself,butshallachievethelastgloryofgivinghimselfaway.Andsincethistakestwo—you can't even make a present of yourself unless you've got somebody toreceivethepresent;sincethislastextra-divineacttakestwopeopletoperformit,you'vegottotakeintocountnotonlyyourgiverbutyourreceiver.Whoisgoingtobethegiverandwhothereceiver.Why,ofcourse,inourlong-drawn-outChristianday,manisgivenandwomanisrecipient.Manisthegift,womanthereceiver.Thisisthesacramentweliveby;theholyCommunionwelivefor.Thatmangiveshimselftowomaninanutterandsacredabandon,all,all,allhimselfgiven,andtaken.Woman,eternalwoman,sheisthecommunicant.Shereceivesthesacramentalbodyandspiritof theman.Andwhen she's got it, according to her passionate and all-too-sacred desire, completely, when she possesses her man at last finally andultimately,withoutblemishorreservationintheperfectionof thesacrament:then, also, poorwoman, the blood and the body ofwhich she has partakenbecomeinsipidornauseoustoher,sheisdrivenmadbytheendlessmealofthemarriage sacrament, poisoned by the sacred communionwhichwas hergoalandhersoul'sambition.

We have pushed a process into a goal. The aim of any process is not theperpetuationofthatprocess,butthecompletionthereof.Loveisaprocessoftheincomprehensiblehumansoul:lovealsoincomprehensible,butstillonlyaprocess. The process should work to a completion, not to some horror ofintensificationandextremitywhereinthesoulandbodyultimatelyperish.Thecompletionoftheprocessofloveisthearrivalatastateofsimple,pureself-possession,formanandwoman.Onlythat.Whichisn'texcitingenoughforussensationalists.Wepreferabyssesandmaudlinself-abandonandself-sacrifice,thedegenerationintoasortofslimeandmerge.Perhaps,truly,theprocessofloveisneveraccomplished.Butitmovesingreatstages,andattheendofeachstageatruegoal,wherethesoulpossessesitselfinsimpleandgeneroussingleness.Withoutthis,loveisadisease.SoAaron,crossingacertainborder-lineandfindinghimselfalonecompletely,acceptedhislonelinessorsinglenessasafulfilment,astateoffulfilment.ThelongfightwithLottiehaddrivenhimatlasttohimself,sothathewasquietasa thing which has its root deep in life, and has lost its anxiety. As forconsideringthelily,itisnotamatterofconsideration.Thelilytoilsandspinshard enough, in her ownway.Butwithout that strain and that anxietywithwhichwetrytoweaveourselvesalife.Thelilyislife-rooted,life-central.Shecannotworry.Sheislifeitself,alittle,delicatefountainplayingcreatively,foraslongorasshortatimeasmaybe,andunabletobeanxious.Shemaybesador sorry, if the north wind blows. But even then, anxious she cannot be.Whetherherfountainplayorceasetoplay,fromoutthecold,dampearth,shecannotbeanxious.Shemayonlybegladorsorry,andcontinueherway.Sheis perfectly herself, whatever befall! even if frosts cut her off. Happy lily,nevertobesaddledwithanideefixe,nevertobeinthegripofamonomaniaforhappinessorloveorfulfilment.Itisnotlaisseraller.Itislife-rootedness.Itisbeingbyoneself,life-living,likethemuch-mootedlily.Onetoils,onespins,onestrives:justasthelilydoes.Butlikeher,takingone'sownlife-wayamidsteverything, and taking one's own life-way alone. Love too. But there also,takingone'swayalone,happilyaloneinallthewondersofcommunion,sweptupon thewinds, but never swept away fromone's very self.Two eagles inmid-air,maybe, likeWhitman'sDalliance of Eagles. Two eagles inmid-air,grappling, whirling, coming to their intensification of love-oneness there inmid-air.Inmid-airtheloveconsummation.Butallthetimeeachliftedonitsownwings:eachbearing itselfupon itsownwingsateverymomentof themid-airloveconsummation.Thatisthesplendidlove-way................Thepartywas festiveatdinner-time, thewomen in their finestdresses,newflowerson the table, thebestwinegoing. ItwasSundayevening.Aarontoowas dressed—and Lady Franks, in black lace and pearls, was almost gay.

There were quails for dinner. The Colonel was quite happy. An air ofconvivialitygatheredroundthetableduringthecourseofthemeal."Ihope,"saidAaron,"thatweshallhavesomemusictonight.""Iwantsomuchtohearyourflute,"saidhishostess."AndIyourpiano,"hesaid."I am veryweak—very out of practise. I tremble at the thought of playingbeforeamusician.Butyoumustnotbetoocritical.""Oh,"saidAaron,"Iamnotamantobeafraidof.""Well,wewillsee,"saidLadyFranks."ButIamafraidofmusicitself.""Yes,"saidAaron."Ithinkitisrisky.""Risky!Idon'tseethat!Musicrisky?Bach?Beethoven!No,Idon'tagree.Onthe contrary, I think it is most elevating—most morally inspiring. No, Itremblebeforeitbecauseitissowonderfulandelevating.""Ioftenfinditmakesmefeeldiabolical,"saidhe."That is your misfortune, I am sure," said Lady Franks. "Please do takeanother—butperhapsyoudon'tlikemushrooms?"Aaronquitelikedmushrooms,andhelpedhimselftotheentree."But perhaps," said she, "you are too modern. You don't care for Bach orBeethovenorChopin—dearChopin.""IfindthemallquiteasmodernasIam.""Isthatso!Yes.FormyselfIamquiteold-fashioned—thoughIcanappreciateStrauss andStravinskyaswell, some things.Butmyold things—ah, I don'tthink themodernsare so fine.Theyarenot sodeep.Theyhaven't fathomedlifesodeeply."LadyFrankssighedfaintly."Theydon'tcarefordepths,"saidAaron."No,theyhaven'tthecapacity.ButIlikebig,deepmusic.Oh,Iloveorchestra.But my instrument is the piano. I like the great masters, Bach, Beethoven.Theyhavesuchfaith.Youweretalkingoffaith—believingthatthingswouldworkoutwellforyouintheend.Beethoveninspiresthatinme,too.""Hemakesyoufeelthatallwillbewellwithyouatlast?""Yes,hedoes.Hemakesmefeel faith inmyPERSONALdestiny.AndIdofeel that there is something in one's special fate. I feel that Imyself have aspecialkindoffate,thatwillalwayslookafterme.""Andyoucantrusttoit?""Yes,Ican.ItALWAYSturnsoutright.Ithinksomethinghasgonewrong—andthen,italwaysturnsoutright.WhywhenwewereinLondon—whenwe

wereatlunchonemorningitsuddenlystruckme,haven'tIleftmyfurcloaksomewhere?Itwasrathercold,soIhadtakenitwithme,andthenneverputiton.And Ihadn'tbrought ithome. Ihad left it somewhere.Butwhether inataxi, or in a shop, or in a little show of pictures I had been to, I couldn'tremember.ICOULDNOTremember.AndIthoughttomyself:haveIlostmycloak?IwentroundtoeverywhereIcouldthinkof:no-traceofit.ButIdidn'tgive it up. Something promptedme not to give it up: quite distinctly, I feltsomethingtellingmethatIshouldgetitback.SoIcalledatScotlandYardandgavetheinformation.Well,twodayslaterIhadanoticefromScotlandYard,soIwent.Andtherewasmycloak.Ihaditback.Andthathashappenedtomealmosteverytime.Ialmostalwaysgetmythingsback.AndIalwaysfeelthatsomethinglooksafterme,doyouknow:almosttakescareofme.""Butdoyoumeanwhenyoulosethings—orinyourlife?""ImeanwhenI lose things—orwhenIwant togetsomethingIwant—Iamvery nearly ALWAYS successful. And I always feel there is some sort ofhigherpowerwhichdoesitforme.""Findsyourcloakforyou.""Yes.Wasn't it extraordinary? I feltwhen I sawmycloak inScotlandYard:There,IKNEWIshouldrecoveryou.AndIalwaysfeel,asIsay,thatthereissomehigherpowerwhichhelpsme.Doyoufeelthesame?""No,notthatway,worseluck.Ilostabatchofmusicamonthagowhichdidn'tbelong to me—and which I couldn't replace. But I never could recover it:thoughI'msurenobodywantedit.""How very unfortunate!Whereas my fur cloak was just the thing that getsstolenmost.""I wished some power would trace my music: but apparently we aren't allgiftedalikewithguardianangels.""Apparentlynot.AndthatishowIregardit:almostasagift,youknow,thatmyfairygodmothergavemeinmycradle.""Foralwaysrecoveringyourproperty?""Yes—andsucceedinginmyundertakings.""I'mafraidIhadnofairygodmother.""Well—IthinkIhad.AndverygladIamofit.""Why,yes,"saidAaron,lookingathishostess.Sothedinnersailedmerrilyon."ButdoesBeethovenmakeyou feel," saidAaronasanafterthought, "in thesameway—thatyouwillalwaysfindthethingsyouhavelost?"

"Yes—hemakesme feel the same faith: thatwhat I losewillbe returned tome.JustasIfoundmycloak.AndthatifIenterintoanundertaking,itwillbesuccessful.""Andyourlifehasbeenalwayssuccessful?""Yes—almostalways.Wehavesucceededwithalmosteverything.""Why,yes,"saidAaron,lookingatheragain.Butevenso,hecouldseeagooddealofhardwornnessunderhersatisfaction.Shehadhadhersuffering,sureenough.Butnonetheless,shewasinthemainsatisfied.She sat there, agoodhostess, andexpected thehomagedue tohersuccess.Andofcourseshegot it.Aaronhimselfdidhis littleshareofshoe-licking,andswallowedthetasteofboot-polishwithagrimace,knowingwhathewasabout.Thedinnerwoundgailytoanend.Theladiesretired.SirWilliamlefthisseatofhonourattheendofthetableandcameandsatnexttoAaron,summoningtheotherthreementoclusternear."Now,Colonel,"saidthehost,"sendroundthebottle."With a flourish of the elbow and shoulder, the Colonel sent on the port,actuallyport,inthosebleak,post-wardays!"Well,Mr.Sisson,"saidSirWilliam,"wewilldrinktoyourkindProvidence:providing,ofcourse,thatweshallgivenooffencebysodoing.""No, sir; no, sir! The Providence belonged toMr. Lilly.Mr. Sisson put hismoney on kindly fortune, I believe," said Arthur, who rosy and fresh withwine, looked as if hewouldmake amarvelous bonne bouchee for a finely-discriminatingcannibal."Ah, yes, indeed! Amuchmore ingratiating lady to lift our glasses to.Mr.Sisson'skindlyfortune.Fortunagentil-issima!Well,Mr.Sisson,andmayyourLadyFortuneeversmileonyou."SirWilliamliftedhisglasswithanoddlittlesmirk,sometouchofastrange,primoldsatyr lurking inhisoddly inclinedhead.Nay,more thansatyr: thatcurious,ratherterribleirondemonthathasfoughtwiththeworldandwrungwealthfromit,andwhichknowsallaboutit.Thedevilishspiritofironitself,and ironmachines. So, with his strange, old smile showing his teeth ratherterribly, theoldknightgloweredsightlesslyoverhisglassatAaron.Thenhedrank:thestrange,careful,old-man'sgestureindrinking."But,"saidAaron,"ifFortuneisafemale—-""Fortune!Fortune!Why,Fortuneisalady.Whatdoyousay,Major?""She has all the airs of one, SirWilliam," said theMajor, with the wistfulgrimnessofhisageandculture.Andtheyoungfellowstaredlikeacrucified

cyclopsfromhisoneeye:theblackshutterbeingovertheother."Andallthegraces,"cappedSirWilliam,delightedwithhimself."Oh, quite!" said theMajor. "For some, all the airs, and for others, all thegraces.""Faint heart ne'er won fair lady,my boy," said SirWilliam. "Not that yourheartisfaint.Onthecontrary—asweknow,andyourcountryknows.ButwithLadyFortuneyouneedanotherkindofstoutheart—oh,quiteanotherkind.""Ibelieveit,sir:andthekindofstoutheartwhichIamafraidIhaven'tgot,"saidtheMajor."What!"saidtheoldman."Showthewhitefeatherbeforeyou'vetackledthelady!FilltheMajor'sglass,Colonel.Iamquitesurewewillnoneofuseversaydie.""Not likely.Not ifweknowit," said theColonel, stretchinghimselfheartilyinsidehistunic.Hewasbecomingruddierthanthecherry.Allhecaredaboutatthemomentwashisgaylittleportglass.ButtheMajor'syoungcheekwashollowandsallow,hisoneeyeterriblypathetic."And you,Mr. Sisson," said SirWilliam, "mean to carry all before you bytakingnothoughtforthemorrow.Well,now,wecanonlywishyousuccess.""Idon'twanttocarryallbeforeme,"saidAaron."Ishouldbesorry.Iwanttowalkpastmostofit.""Canyoutelluswhereto?Iamintrigued,asSybilsays,toknowwhereyouwillwalkto.Comenow.Enlightenus.""Nowhere,Isuppose.""Butisthatsatisfactory?Canyoufinditsatisfactory?""Isiteventrue?"saidtheMajor."Isn'titquiteaspositiveanacttowalkawayfromasituationastowalktowardsit?""Mydearboy,youcan'tmerelywalkaway fromasituation.Believe that. Ifyouwalk away fromRome,youwalk into theMaremma,or into theAlbanHills, or into the sea—but youwalk into something. Now if I am going towalk away from Rome, I prefer to choose my direction, and therefore mydestination.""Butyoucan't,"saidtheMajor."Whatcan'tyou?""Choose.Eitheryourdirectionoryourdestination."TheMajorwasobstinate."Really!" saidSirWilliam."Ihavenot found it so. Ihavenot found it so. Ihavehad tokeepmyselfhardatwork,allmy life,choosingbetween thisorthat."

"Andwe,"saidtheMajor,"havenochoice,exceptbetweenthisornothing.""Really! I am afraid," said SirWilliam, "I am afraid I am too old—or tooyoung—whichshallIsay?—tounderstand.""Too young, sir," said Arthur sweetly. "The child was always father to theman,Ibelieve.""Iconfess theMajormakesmefeelchildish,"said theoldman."Thechoicebetweenthisornothingisapuzzlertome.Canyouhelpmeout,Mr.Sisson?Whatdoyoumakeofthisthis-or-nothingbusiness?Icanunderstandneck-or-nothing—-""IprefertheNOTHINGpartofittotheTHISpartofit,"saidAaron,grinning."Colonel,"saidtheoldman,"throwalittlelightonthisnothingness.""No,SirWilliam,"saidtheColonel."IamallrightasIam.""Asamatteroffact,soareweall,perfectlyA-one,"saidArthur.Aaronbrokeintoalaugh."That's the top and bottom of it," he laughed, flushed with wine, andhandsome.We'reallasrightasninepence.Onlyit'srathernicetotalk.""There!"saidSirWilliam."We'reallasrightasninepence!We'reallasrightninepence. So there well leave it, before the Major has time to say he istwopenceshort."Laughinghisstrangeoldsoundless laugh,SirWilliamroseandmadea littlebow."Comeupandjoin the ladies inaminuteor two,"hesaid.Arthuropenedthedoorforhimandhelefttheroom.The fourmenwere silent for amoment—then the Colonel whipped up thedecanterandfilledhisglass.ThenhestoodupandclinkedglasseswithAaron,likearealoldsport."Lucktoyou,"hesaid."Thanks,"saidAaron."You'regoinginthemorning?"saidArthur."Yes,"saidAaron."Whattrain?"saidArthur."Eight-forty.""Oh—thenweshan'tseeyouagain.Well—bestofluck.""Bestofluck—"echoedtheColonel."Same to you," saidAaron, and they all peered over their glasses and quitelovedoneanotherforarosyminute."I should like toknow, though," said thehollow-cheekedyoungMajorwith

theblackflapoverhiseye,"whetheryoudoreallymeanyouareall right—thatitisallrightwithyou—orwhetheryouonlysaysotogetawayfromtheresponsibility.""ImeanIdon'treallycare—Idon'tadamn—letthedeviltakeitall.""Thedevildoesn'twantit,either,"saidtheMajor."Thenlethimleaveit.Idon'tcareonesinglelittlecurseaboutitall.""Bedamned.Whatistheretocareabout?"saidtheColonel."Ay,what?"saidAaron."It'sallthesame,whetheryoucareordon'tcare.SoIsayit'smucheasiernottocare,"saidArthur."Ofcourseitis,"saidtheColonelgaily."AndIthinkso,too,"saidAaron."Rightyouare!We'reallasrightasninepence—what?Goodoldsport!Here'syours!"criedtheColonel."Weshallhavetobegoingup,"saidArthur,wiseinhisgeneration.Astheywentintothehall,ArthursuddenlyputonearmroundAaron'swaist,andonearmroundtheColonel's,andthethreedidasuddenlittlebarn-dancetowardsthestairs.Arthurwasfeelinghimselfquiteletlooseagain,backinhisoldregimentalmess.Approaching the foot of the stairs, he let go again. He was in that rosyconditionwhenunited-we-stand.Butunfortunately it isacomplicated job toclimb the stairs in unison. The whole lot tends to fall backwards. Arthur,therefore,rosy,plump,lookingsogoodtoeat,stoodstillamomentinordertofind his own neatly-slippered feet.Having found them, he proceeded to putthem carefully one before the other, and to his enchantment found that thisprocedure was carrying him magically up the stairs. The Colonel, like adrowning man, clutched feebly for the straw of the great stair-rail—andmissedit.Hewouldhavegoneunder,butthatAaron'shandgrippedhisarm.So, orientating once more like a fragile tendril, he reached again for thebanister rail, and got it. After which, lifting his feet as if they were littlepacketsofsandtied tohis trouserbuttons,hemanipulatedhiswayupwards.Aaronwasinthatpleasantstatewhenhesawwhateverybodyelsewasdoingandwasunconsciousofwhathedidhimself.Whilst tall,gaunt,erect, likeamurderedHamletresurrectedinkhaki,withtheterribleblackshutteroverhiseye,theyoungMajorcamelast.Arthurwasmakingasternfightforhiscomposure.Hiswholefuturedependedonit.Butdowhathewould,hecouldnotgettheflushed,pleased,mess-happylookoffhisface.TheColonel,oh,awfulman,didasortofplumproly-poly-

cake-walk,likeafatboy,righttotheverydoorofthatsantum-sanctorum,thelibrary.Aaronwasinwardlyconvulsed.EventheMajorlaughed.ButArthurstiffenedhimselfmilitarilyandclearedhisthroat.Allfourstartedto compose themselves, like actors going on the stage, outside that librarydoor.And thenArthur softly,almostwistfully,openedandheld thedoor forthe others to pass. The Colonel slunk meekly in, and sat in a chair in thebackground. TheMajor stalked in expressionless, and hovered towards thesofawherehiswifesat.There was a rather cold-water-down-your-back feeling in the library. Theladieshadbeenwaitingforcoffee.SirWilliamwaswaiting,too.Thereforeina little tension, half silent, the coffee was handed round. Lady Franks wasdiscussing somethingwithArthur'swife.Arthur'swifewas in a cream lacedress, and lookingwhat is called lovely. TheMajor'swifewas in amethystchiffonwithdark-redroses,andwaslookingblindinglybeautiful.TheColonelwas looking intohiscoffee-cupaswistfullyas if it contained the illusionoftawnyport.TheMajorwaslookingintospace,asifthereandtherealone,etc.Arthur was looking for something which Lady Franks had asked for, andwhichhewasmuchtooflushedtofind.SirWilliamwaslookingatAaron,andpreparingforanothercoeuracoeur."Well,"hesaid,"IdoubtifyouwillcareforMilan.ItisoneoftheleastItalianofall the towns, inmyopinion.Venice,of course, is a thingapart. I cannotstand,myself,thatmiserablespecimenthemodernRoman.Hehasmostofthevicesof theoldRomans andnoneof thevirtues.Themost congenial town,perhaps,forastranger,isFlorence.Butithasaverybadclimate."Lady Franks rose significantly and left the room, accompanied by Arthur'swife.Aaronknew,silently,thathewassummonedtofollow.Hishostesshadhereyeonhimthisevening.Butalwayspostponinghisobediencetothecoolcommands of women, he remained talkingwith his host in the library, andsipping creme dementhe! Came the ripple of the pianoforte from the opendoorwaydownatthefurtherendoftheroom.LadyFrankswasplaying,inthelarge drawing-room. And the ripple of the music contained in it the hardinsistenceofthelittlewoman'swill.Coldly,anddecidedly,sheintendedthereshouldbenomoreunsettlingconversationsfortheoldSirWilliam.Aaronwastocomeforthwithintothedrawingroom.WhichAaronplainlyunderstood—andsohedidn'tgo.No,hedidn'tgo,thoughthepianoforterippledandswelledinvolume.No,andhedidn'tgoevenwhenLadyFranksleftoffplayingandcameintothelibraryagain.Therehesat,talkingwithSirWilliam.LetusdocredittoLadyFranks'will-power,andadmitthatthetalkwasquiteemptyanddistracted—noneofthedepthsandskirmishesofthepreviousoccasions.Nonethe less, the talk continued. Lady Franks retired, discomfited, to her pianoagain.Shewouldneverbreakinuponherlord.

So nowAaron relented. He becamemore andmore distracted. SirWilliamwandered away like some restless, hunted soul. The Colonel still sat in hischair,nursinghislastdropofcremedementheresentfully.Hedidnotcareforthe green toffee-stuff. Arthur was busy. TheMajor lay sprawled in the laststagesofeverythingonthesofa,holdinghiswife'shand.Andthemusiccamepatheticallythroughtheopenfolding-doors.Ofcourse,sheplayedwithfeeling—itwentwithoutsaying.Aaron'ssoulfeltrathertired.Butshehadatouchofdiscriminationalso.Heroseandwenttothedrawing-room.Itwasalarge,vacant-seeming,Empiresortofdrawing-room,withyellowsilkchairsalongthewallsandyellowsilkpanels upon thewalls, and a huge, vasty crystal chandelier hanging from afaraway-aboveceiling.LadyFrankssatatalargeblackBechsteinpianoatoneend of this vacant yellow state-room. She sat, a little plump elderly lady inblacklace,foralltheworldlikeQueenVictoriainMaxBeerbohm'sdrawingofAlfredTennyson reading toherVictorianMajesty,with spacebeforeher.Arthur's wife was bending over some music in a remote corner of the bigroom.Aaronseatedhimselfononeof thechairsby thewall, to listen.Certainly itwasabeautifulinstrument.Andcertainly,inherway,shelovedit.ButAaronrememberedanantheminwhichhehadtakenpartasaboy.HiseyeisonthesparrowSoIknowHewatchesme.Foralongtimehehadfailedtocatchthewordsparrow,andhadheard:Hiseyeisonthespy-holeSoIknowHewatchesme.Whichwasjusthowithadallseemedtohim,asaboy.Now,asever,hefelttheeyewasonthespy-hole.Theresatthewomanplayingmusic. But her inward eye was on the spy-hole of her vital affairs—herdomestic arrangements, her control of her household, guests and husbandincluded.Theothereyewasleftforthemusic,don'tyouknow.SirWilliamappearedhoveringinthedoorway,notatalllikingthedefectionofMr.Aaron.Thenheretreated.Heseemednottocareformusic.TheMajor'swifehovered—feltitherdutytoaude,orplayaudience—andentered,seatingherselfinabreathoflilacandamethystagainattheneardistance.TheMajor,after a certain beating about the bush, followed and sat wrapt in dimcontemplationnearhiswife.Arthurluckilywasstillbusywithsomething.Aaronofcoursemadepropermusicalremarksintheintervals—Arthur'swifesortedoutmorepieces.Arthurappeared—andthentheColonel.TheColoneltip-toed beautifully across the wide blank space of the Empire room, and

seated himself on a chair, rather in the distance, with his back to the wall,facing Aaron. When Lady Franks finished her piece, to everybody'samazement the Colonel clapped gaily to himself and said Bravo! as if at aCafe Chantant, looking round for his glass. But there was no glass. So hecrossedhisneatly-khakiedlegs,andlookedraptagain.Lady Franks started with a vivace Schumann piece. Everybody listened insanctifiedsilence,tryingtoseemtolikeit.WhensuddenlyourColonelbegantospringandbounceinhischair,slinginghislooselegwithakindofraptureupanddownintheair,andcaperinguponhisposterior,doingasitting-downjig to the Schumann vivace. Arthur, who had seated himself at the farthestextremity of the room,winkedwithwild bliss atAaron.TheMajor tried tolook as if he noticed nothing, and only succeeded in looking agonised.Hiswifestudiedthepointofhersilvershoeminutely,andpeepedthroughherhairat theperformance.Aarongrimlychuckled, and loved theColonelwith realtenderness.And the gamewent on while the vivace lasted. Up and down bounced theplumpColonel on his chair, kickingwith his bright, black-patent toe higherandhigher,gettingquiteenthusiasticoverhisjig.Rosyandunabashed,hewasworthy of the great nation he belonged to. The broad-seated Empire chairshowednosignsofgivingway.Lethimenjoyhimself,awaythereacrosstheyellowSaharaofthissilk-panelledsalon.Aaronfeltquitecheeredup."Well,now,"hethoughttohimself,"thismanisinentirecommandofaveryimportantbranchoftheBritishServiceinItaly.Weareagreatracestill."ButLadyFranksmusthavetwigged.Herplayingwentratherstiff.Shecametotheendofthevivacemovement,andabandonedherpiece."IalwayspreferSchumanninhisvivacemoods,"saidAaron."Doyou?"saidLadyFranks."Oh,Idon'tknow."It was now the turn of Arthur's wife to sing. Arthur seemed to get furtheraway: if itwaspossible, forhewasat the remotest remoteendof theroom,nearthegallerydoors.TheColonelbecamequiet,pensive.TheMajor'swifeeyedtheyoungwomaninwhitelace,andseemednottocareforlace.Arthurseemedtobetryingtopushhimselfbackwardsthroughthewall.LadyFranksswitchedonmorelightsintothevastandvoluminouscrystalchandelierwhichhunglikesomeglory-cloudabovetheroom'scentre.AndArthur'swifesangsweetlittleFrenchsongs,andYeBanksandBraes,andCaromioben,whichgoes without saying: and so on. She had quite a nice voice and was quiteadequatelytrained.Whichisenoughsaid.Aaronhadallhisnervesonedge.Thenhehad toplay theflute.Arthurstrolledupstairswithhim,arm-in-arm,wherehewenttofetchhisinstrument.

"Ifindmusicinthehomeratherastrain,youknow,"saidArthur."Cruelstrain.Iquiteagree,"saidAaron."Idon'tminditsomuchinthetheatre—orevenaconcert—wheretherearealotofotherpeopletotaketheedgeoff—Butafteragooddinner—""It'smedicine,"saidAaron."Well,youknow,itreallyis,tome.Itaffectsmyinside."Aaronlaughed.Andthen,intheyellowdrawing-room,blewintohispipeandplayed.Heknewsowell that Arthur, theMajor, theMajor's wife, the Colonel, and SirWilliamthought itmerely an intolerablebore.However,heplayed.Hishostess evenaccompaniedhiminaMozartbit.

CHAPTERXIV.XXSETTEMBRE

Aaronwasawakenedinthemorningbythesoftentranceofthebutlerwiththetray:itwasjustseveno'clock.LadyFranks'householdwaspunctualasthesunitself.But our hero roused himselfwith awrench. The very act of lifting himselffromthepillowwas likea fight thismorning.Why?Herecognizedhisownwrench, thepainwithwhichhestruggledunder thenecessity tomove.Whyshouldn'thewanttomove?Whynot?Becausehedidn'twantthedayinfront—theplunge into a strange country, towardsnowhere,withno aim inview.True,hesaidthatultimatelyhewantedtojoinLilly.Butthiswashardlymorethanasop,anexcuseforhisownirrationalbehaviour.Hewasbreakingloosefromoneconnectionafteranother;andwhatfor?Whybreakeverytie?Snap,snap,snapwentthebondsandligatureswhichboundhimtothelifethathadformed him, the people he had loved or liked. He found all his affectionssnapping off, all the ties which united him with his own people comingasunder.Andwhy?InGod'sname,why?Whatwasthereinstead?Therewasnothingness.Therewasjusthimself,andblanknothingness.Hehadperhaps a faint senseofLilly aheadof him; an impulse in that direction, orelsemerelyanillusion.Hecouldnotpersuadehimselfthathewasseekingforlove, for any kind of unison or communion.He knewwell enough that thethoughtofanyloving,anysortofrealcomingtogetherbetweenhimselfandanybodyoranything,wasjustobjectionabletohim.No—hewasnotmovingtowardsanything:hewasmovingalmostviolentlyawayfromeverything.Andthat was what he wanted. Only that. Only let him not run into any sort ofembrace with anything or anybody—this was what he asked. Let no newconnection be made between himself and anything on earth. Let all oldconnectionsbreak.Thiswashiscraving.

Yethestruggledunderitthismorningasunderthelidofatomb.Theterriblesuddenweightof inertia!Heknewthetraystoodreadybythebed:heknewtheautomobilewouldbeatthedoorateighto'clock,forLadyFrankshadsaidso,andhehalfdivinedthattheservanthadalsosaidso:yettherehelay,inakindofparalysisinthisbed.Heseemedforthemomenttohavelosthiswill.Whygoforwardintomorenothingness,awayfromallthatheknew,allhewasaccustomedtoandallhebelongedto?However,withaclickhesatup.Andtheveryinstanthehadpouredhiscoffeefromthelittlesilvercoffee-potintohisdelicatecup,hewasreadyforanythingandeverything.Thesenseofsilentadventuretookhim,theexhilaratedfeelingthathewasfulfillinghisowninwarddestiny.Pleasanttotastewasthecoffee,thebread,thehoney—delicious.The man brought his clothes, and again informed him that the automobilewouldbeatthedoorateighto'clock:oratleastsohemadeout."Icanwalk,"saidAaron."Miladyhacomandatol'automobile,"saidthemansoftly.ItwasevidentthatifMiladyhadorderedit,soitmustbe.SoAaronleftthestill-sleepinghouse,andgotintothesoftandluxuriouscar.As he dropped through the park he wondered that Sir William and LadyFranksshouldbesokindtohim:acompletestranger.Butsoitwas.Therehesatintheircar.Hewondered,also,asheranoverthebridgeandintothecity,whether this soft-runningautomobilewouldever rouse thesocialisticbileofthe work-people. For the first time in his life, as he sat among the snugcushions,herealisedwhat itmightbetoberichanduneasy:uneasy,evenifnot afraid, lurking there insideanexpensivecar.—Well, itwasn'tmuchof asensation anyhow: and riches were stuffy, like wadded upholstery oneverything.Hewasgladtogetoutintothefreshairofthecommoncrowd.Hewasgladtobeinthebleak,not-very-busystation.Hewasgladtobepartofcommon life. For the very atmosphere of riches seems to be stuffed andwadded, never any real reaction. It was terrible, as if one's very body,shoulders and arms,were upholstered andmade cushiony.Ugh, but hewasgladtoshakeoffhimselftheatmosphereofwealthandmotor-cars,togetoutofitall.Itwaslikegettingoutofquiltedclothes."Well," thoughtAaron, "if this is all it amounts to, tobe rich,youcanhaveriches.Theytalkaboutmoneybeingpower.Buttheonlysortofpowerithasovermeistobringonakindofnumbness,whichIfairlyhate.Nowonderrichpeopledon'tseemtobereallyalive."Thereliefofescapingquitetookawayhisself-consciousembarrassmentatthestation.Hecarriedhisownbags,boughtathird-classticket,andgot intothetrainforMilanwithoutcaringonestrawforthecommentsorthelooksofthe

porters.Itbegantorain.TherainranacrossthegreatplainofnorthItaly.Aaronsatinhiswood-seatedcarriageandsmokedhispipeinsilence,lookingatthethick,short Lombards opposite him without heeding them. He paid hardly anyoutwardattentiontohissurroundings,butsatinvolvedinhimself.InMilanhehadbeenadvisedtogototheHotelBritannia,becauseitwasnotexpensive,andEnglishpeoplewentthere.Sohetookacarriage,droveroundthegreenspaceinfrontofMilanstation,andawayintothetown.Thestreetswerebusy,butonlyhalf-heartedlyso.Itmustbeconfessedthateverynewmovehemadewasratheraneffort.Evenhehimselfwonderedwhyhewasstrugglingwithforeignportersandforeigncabmen,beingtalkedatandnotunderstandingaword.Buttherehewas.Sohewentonwithit.The hotel was small and congenial. The hotel porter answered in English.Aaronwasgivenalittleroomwithatinybalcony,lookingontoaquietstreet.So,hehadahomeofhisownoncemore.Hewashed,and thencountedhismoney.Thirty-sevenpounds he had: and nomore.He stoodon the balconyandlookedatthepeoplegoingbybelow.Lifeseemstobemovingsoquick,whenonelooksdownonitfromabove.Acrosstheroadwasalargestonehousewithitsgreenshuttersallclosed.Butfromtheflagpoleundertheeaves,overthecentralwindowoftheuppermostfloor—the house was four storeys high—waved the Italian flag in themelancholydampair.Aaronlookedatit—thered,whiteandgreentricolour,withthewhitecrossofSavoyinthecentre.Ithungdampandstill.Andthereseemedacuriousvacancyinthecity—somethingemptyanddepressinginthegreathumancentre.Notthattherewasreallyalackofpeople.Butthespiritofthe townseemeddepressedandempty. Itwasanationalholiday.TheItalianflagwashangingfromalmosteveryhousefront.Itwasaboutthreeo'clockintheafternoon.Aaronsatintherestaurantofthehotel drinking tea, for he was rather tired, and looking through the thincurtainsatthelittlesquareoutside,wherepeoplepassed:littlegroupsofdark,aimless-seeming men, a little bit poorer looking—perhaps rather shorter instature—butverymuch like thepeople inanyother town.Yet the feelingofthe city was so different from that of London. There seemed a curiousemptiness.Therainhadceased,butthepavementswerestillwet.Therewasatension.Suddenly there was a noise of two shots, fired in rapid succession. Aaronturned startled to look into the quiet piazza. And to his amazement, thepavementswereempty,notasoulwasinsight.Twominutesbeforetheplacewasbusywithpassers-by,andanewspapermansellingtheCorriere,andlittle

carriagesrattlingthrough.Now,asifbymagic,nobody,nothing.Itwasasiftheyhadallmeltedintothinair.Thewaiter,too,waspeepingbehindthecurtain.Acarriagecametrottingintothe square—an oddman took hisway alone—the traffic began to stir oncemore, andpeople reappearedas suddenlyas theyhaddisappeared.Then thewaiter ran hastily and furtively out and craned his neck, peering round thesquare.Hespokewithtwoyouths—ratherloutishyouths.Thenhereturnedtohisdutyinthehotelrestaurant."Whatwasit?Whatweretheshots?"Aaronaskedhim."Oh—somebodyshootingatadog,"saidthemannegligently."Atadog!"saidAaron,withroundeyes.Hefinishedhistea,andwentoutintothetown.Hishotelwasnotfarfromthecathedralsquare.Passingthroughthearcade,hecameinsightofthefamouscathedralwithitsnumerousspinesprickingintotheafternoonair.Hewasnotas impressed as he should have been. And yet there was something in thenortherncity—thisbigsquarewithall the trams threading through, the littleyellow Continental trams: and the spiny bulk of the great cathedral, like agrey-purple sea-urchin with many spines, on the one side, the ornamentalgrass-plots and flower beds on the other: the big shops going all along thefurther strands, all round: and the endless restless nervous drift of a northItaliancrowd,sonervous,sotwitchy;nervousandtwitchyastheslippingpastof the littleyellowtram-cars; itallaffectedhimwithasenseofstrangeness,nervousness,andapproachingwinter.Itstruckhimthepeoplewereafraidofthemselves:afraidoftheirownsouls,andthatwhichwasintheirownsouls.Turningup thebroadstepsof thecathedral,heentered the famousbuilding.Theskyhadcleared,andthefreshenedlightshonecolouredin livingtabletsroundthewonderful,towering,rose-heartedduskofthegreatchurch.Atsomealtarslightsflickereduneasily.Atsomeunseensidealtarmasswasgoingon,andastrangeraggedmusicflutteredoutontheincense-duskofthegreatandloftyinterior,whichwasallshadow,allshadow,hungroundwithjeweltabletsoflight.Particularlybeautifulthegreateastbay,abovethegreataltar.Andallthetime,overthebig-patternedmarblefloor,thefaintclickandrustleoffeetcomingandgoing,comingandgoing,likeshallowuneasywaterrustledbackandforth ina trough.Awhitedog trottedpale through theunder-dusk,overthe pale, big-patterned floor. Aaron came to the side altar wheremass wasgoing on, candles ruddily wavering. There was a small cluster of kneelingwomen—araggedhandfulofon-lookingmen—andpeoplewanderingupandwanderingaway,youngwomenwithneatlydressedblackhair,andshawls,butwithouthats;fineyoungwomeninveryhighheels;youngmenwithnothingto do; raggedmenwith nothing to do. All strayed faintly clicking over the

slabbed floor, and glanced at the flickering altar where the white-surplicedboyswerecurtseyingandthewhite-and-goldpriestbowing,hishandsoverhisbreast, in the candle-light. All strayed, glanced, lingered, and strayed awayagain,asifthespectaclewerenotsufficientlyholding.ThebellchimedfortheelevationoftheHost.Butthethintrickleofpeopletrickledthesame,uneasily,overtheslabbedfloorofthevastly-upreachingshadow-foliagedcathedral.Thesmellofincenseinhisnostrils,Aaronwentoutagainbyasidedoor,andbegan to walk along the pavements of the cathedral square, looking at theshops.Somewereclosed,andhad littlenoticespinnedon them.Somewereopen, and seemed half-stockedwith half-elegant things.Menwere carryingnewspapers. In the cafes a fewmenwere seated drinking vermouth. In thedoorwayoftherestaurantswaitersstoodinert,lookingoutonthestreets.Thecuriousheart-eatingennuiof thebig townonaholidaycameoverourhero.Hefelthemustgetout,whateverhappened.Hecouldnotbearit.Sohewentbacktohishotelanduptohisroom.Itwasstillonlyfiveo'clock.Andhedidnotknowwhattodowithhimself.Helaydownonthebed,andlooked at the painting on his bedroom ceiling. It was a terrible business inreckitt's blue and browny gold, with awful heraldic beasts, rather worm-wriggly,displayedinabluefield.Ashelaythinkingofnothingandfeelingnothingexceptacertainweariness,ordreariness,ortension,orGod-knows-what,heheardaloudhoarsenoiseofhumanity in the distance, something frightening. Rising, he went on to hislittlebalcony. Itwasasortofprocession,ormarchofmen,hereand thereared flag fluttering fromaman's fist.Therehadbeenabigmeeting, and thiswas the issue.Theprocessionwas irregular,butpowerful,menfourabreast.They emerged irregularly from the small piazza to the street, calling andvociferating.Theystoppedbeforeashopandclotted intoacrowd,shouting,becomingvicious.Over the shop-doorhung a tricolour, a national flag.Theshop was closed, but the men began to knock at the door. They were allworkmen,some inrailwaymen'scaps,mostly inblackfelthats.Someworered cottonneck-ties.They lifted their faces to the national flag, and as theyshouted and gesticulated Aaron could see their strong teeth in their jaws.Therewassomethingfrighteningintheirlean,strongItalianjaws,somethinginhuman and possessed-looking in their foreign, southern-shaped faces, somuch more formed and demon-looking than northern faces. They had ademon-likesetpurpose,andthenoiseoftheirvoiceswaslikeajarringofsteelweapons.Aaronwonderedwhattheywanted.Therewerenowomen—allmen—astrangemale,slashingsound.Viciousitwas—theheadoftheprocessionswirling likea littlepool, the thickwedgeof theprocessionbeyond, fleckedwithredflags.Awindowopened above the shop, and a frowsty-lookingman, yellow-pale,

wasquicklyandnervouslyhaulinginthenationalflag.Therewereshoutsofderision and mockery—a great overtone of acrid derision—the flag and itsowner ignominiously disappeared. And the procession moved on. Almosteveryshophadaflagflying.Andeveryoneof theseflagsnowdisappeared,quicklyorslowly,soonerorlater,inobediencetothecommandofthevicious,derisive crowd, thatmarched and clotted slowly down the street, having itsownway.Only one flag remained flying—the big tricolour that floated from the topstorey of the house opposite Aaron's hotel. The ground floor of this houseconsistedofshop-premises—nowclosed.Therewasnosignofanyoccupant.Theflagfloatedinertaloft.Thewhole crowd had come to a stop immediately below the hotel, and allwerenow lookingup at thegreen andwhite and red tricolourwhich stirreddamply in the early evening light, fromunder the broad eaves of the houseopposite.Aaronlookedatthelongflag,whichdroopedalmostunmovedfromtheeaves-shadow,andhehalfexpectedittofurlitselfupofitsownaccord,inobediencetothewillofthemasses.Thenhelookeddownatthepackedblackshouldersof themobbelow,andat thecuriousclusteringpatternofaseaofblack hats. He could hardly see anything but hats and shoulders, uneasilymovinglikeboilingpitchawaybeneathhim.Buttheshoutsbegantocomeuphotterandhotter.Therehadbeenagreatringingofadoor-bellandbatteringontheshop-door.Thecrowd—theswollenheadoftheprocession—talkedandshouted,occupyingthecentreofthestreet,butleavingthepavementclear.Awomaninawhiteblouseappearedintheshop-door.Shecameoutandlookedup at the flag and shook her head and gesticulated with her hands. It wasevidentlynotherflag—shehadnothingtodowithit.Theleadersagainturnedtothelargehouse-door,andbegantoringallthebellsandtoknockwiththeirknuckles. But no good—therewas no answer. They looked up again at theflag.Voicesroseraggedandironical.Thewomanexplainedsomethingagain.Apparently therewasnobodyathome in theupper floors—all entrancewaslocked—therewasnocaretaker.Nobodyownedtheflag.Thereithungunderthebroad eavesof the strong stonehouse, anddidn't evenknow that itwasguilty.Thewomanwentback intoher shopanddrewdown the iron shutterfrominside.Thecrowd,nonplussed,nowbegantoargueandshoutandwhistle.Thevoicesrose in pitch and derision. Steamwas getting up. There hung the flag. Theprocessioncrowdedforwardandfilledthestreetinamassbelow.Alltherestof the streetwas empty and shut up.And still hung the showy rag, red andwhiteandgreen,upaloft.Suddenly therewasa lull—thenshouts,half-encouraging,half-derisive.AndAaron saw a smallish-black figure of a youth, fair-haired, not more than

seventeenyearsold,clinginglikeamonkeytothefrontofthehouse,andbythehelpof theheavydrain-pipeand the stone-workornamentationclimbingupto thestone ledge that ranunderground-floorwindows,up likeasuddencatontotheprojectingfooting.Hedidnotstopthere,butcontinuedhisracelike some frantic lizard runningup thegreatwall-front,working away fromthe noise below, as if in sheer fright. It was one unending wrigglingmovement,sheerupthefrontoftheimpassive,heavystonehouse.The flaghung fromapoleunderoneof thewindowsof the topstorey—thethirdfloor.Upwentthewrigglingfigureofthepossessedyouth.Thecriesofthe crowd below were now wild, ragged ejaculations of excitement andencouragement. The youth seemed to be lifted up, almostmagically on theintenseupreachingexcitementofthemassedmenbelow.Hepassedtheledgeofthefirstfloor,likealizardhewriggledupandpassedtheledgeorcopingofthe second floor, and there he was, like an upward-climbing shadow,scrambling on to the coping of the third floor.The crowdwas for a secondelectricallystillastheboyrosethereerect,cleavingtothewallwiththetipsofhisfingers.Buthedidnothesitateforonebreath.Hewasonhisfeetandrunningalongthenarrowcopingthatwentacross thehouseunder thethirdfloorwindows,runningthereonthatnarrowfootingawayabovethestreet,straighttotheflag.Hehadgot it—hehadclutched it inhishand,ahandfulof it.Exactly likeagreatflamerosethesimultaneousyellofthecrowdastheboyjerkedandgotthe flag loose. He had torn it down. A tremendous prolonged yell, touchedwithasnarloftriumph,andsearinglikeapuffofflame,soundedastheboyremainedforonemomentwiththeflaginhishandlookingdownatthecrowdbelow.Hisfacewasoddandelatedandstill.Thenwiththeslightestgesturehethrew the flag from him, and Aaron watched the gaudy remnant fallingtowardsthemanyfaces,whilstthenoiseofyellingroseupunheard.Therewasagreatclutchandhissinthecrowd.Theboystillstoodunmoved,holding by one hand behind him, looking down from above, from hisdangerouselevation,inasortofabstraction.And the next thing Aaron was conscious of was the sound of trumpets. Asuddenstartlingchallengeof trumpets,andoutofnowhereasuddenrushofgrey-greencarabinieri battering the crowdwildlywith truncheons. Itwas sosuddenthatAaronheardnothinganymore.Heonlysaw.In utmost amazement he saw the greeny-grey uniformed carabinieri rushingthickandwildandindiscriminateonthecrowd:asuddennewexcitedcrowdinuniformsattacking theblackcrowd,beating themwildlywith truncheons.Therewasaseethingmomentinthestreetbelow.Andalmostinstantaneouslytheoriginalcrowdburstintoaterroroffrenzy.Themobbrokeasifsomethinghad exploded inside it. A few black-hatted men fought furiously to get

themselves free of the hated soldiers; in the confusion bunches of menstaggered,reeled,fell,andwerestrugglingamongthelegsof theircomradesandofthecarabinieri.Butthebulkofthecrowdjustburstandfled—ineverydirection. Like drops of water they seemed to fly up at the very wallsthemselves. They darted into any entry, any doorway. They sprang up thewallsandclamberedintotheground-floorwindows.Theysprangupthewallson to window-ledges, and then jumped down again, and ran—clambering,wriggling,darting,runningineverydirection;somecut,bloodontheirfaces,terroror frenzyof flight in theirhearts.Not somuch terroras the frenzyofrunningaway.Inabreaththestreetwasempty.Andall the time, thereaboveon thestonecopingstood the long-faced, fair-hairedboy,whilefourstoutcarabinieriinthestreetbelowstoodwithupliftedrevolvers and covered him, shouting that if hemoved theywould shoot. Sotherehestood,stilllookingdown,stillholdingwithhislefthandbehindhim,covered by the four revolvers.Hewas not somuch afraid as twitchily self-consciousbecauseofhisfalseposition.Meanwhile down below the crowd had dispersed—meltedmomentaneously.Thecarabinieriwerebusyarrestingthemenwhohadfallenandbeentroddenunderfoot,orwhohadfoolishlyletthemselvesbetaken;perhapshalfadozenmen,halfadozenprisoners;lessratherthanmore.Thesergeantorderedtheseto be secured between soldiers. And last of all the youth up above, stillcoveredbytherevolvers,wasorderedtocomedown.Heturnedquitequietly,and quite humbly, cautiously picked his way along the coping towards thedrain-pipe.Hereachedthispipeandbegan,inhumiliation,toclimbdown.Itwasarealclimbdown.Once in the street he was surrounded by the grey uniforms. The soldiersformedup.Thesergeantgavetheorder.Andawaytheymarched,thedejectedyouthaprisonerbetweenthem.Thenwereheardafewscatteredyellsofderisionandprotest,afewshoutsofangerandderisionagainstthecarabinieri.Therewereoncemoregangsofmenandgroupsofyouthsalongthestreet.Theysentupanoccasionalshout.Butalwaysovertheirshoulders,andpretendingitwasnottheywhoshouted.Theywereallcowedandhang-dogoncemore,andmadenottheslightestefforttosave the youth.Nevertheless, they prowled andwatched, ready for the nexttime.So,awaywenttheprisonerandthegrey-greensoldiers,andthestreetwaslefttothelittlegangsandgroupsofhangdog,discontentedmen,allthoroughlyoutofcountenance.Thescenewasended.Aaronlookedround,dazed.Andthenforthefirsttimehenoticed,onthenextbalcony tohisown, twoyoungmen:younggentlemen,hewouldhave said.

Theonewas tallandhandsomeandwell-coloured,mightbe Italian.But theotherwithhispalethinfaceandhisrimlessmonocleinhiseye,hewassurelyanEnglishman.Hewassurelyoneoftheyoungofficersshatteredbythewar.Alookofstrange,arch,bird-likepleasurewasonhisfaceat thismoment:ifonecouldimaginethegleamingsmileofawhiteowlovertheeventsthathadjust passed, this was the impression produced on Aaron by the face of theyoungmanwiththemonocle.Theotheryouth,theruddy,handsomeone,hadknittedhisbrows inmockdistress, andwasglancingwith a lookof shrewdcuriosityatAaron,andwithalookofalmostself-satisfiedexcitementfirsttooneendofthestreet,thentotheother."Butimagine,Angus,it'sallover!"hesaid,layinghishandonthearmofthemonocledyoungman,andmakinggreateyes—notwithoutashrewdglanceinAaron'sdirection."Didyouseehimfall!"repliedAngus,withanotherstrangegleam."Yes.ButwasheHURT—?""I don't know. I should think so. He fell right back out of that on to thosestones!""ButhowperfectlyAWFUL!Didyoueverseeanythinglikeit?""No.It'soneofthefunniestthingsIeverdidsee.Isawnothingquitelikeit,eveninthewar—"HereAaronwithdrewintohisroom.Hismindandsoulwereinawhirl.Hesatdown in his chair, and did notmove again for a great while.When he didmove,hetookhisfluteandplayedheknewnotwhat.Butstrange,strangehissoulpassedintohisinstrument.Orpassedhalfintohisinstrument.Therewasabigresidueleft,togobitter,ortofermentintogoldoldwineofwisdom.Hedidnotnoticethedinnergong,andonlythearrivalofthechamber-maid,toputthewash-tableinorder,senthimdowntotherestaurant.Thefirstthinghesaw,asheentered,wasthetwoyoungEnglishmenseatedatatableinacornerjust behind him. Their hairwas brushed straight back from their foreheads,making the sweep of the head bright and impeccable, and leaving both theyoungfacesclearasifincameo.Angushadlaidhismonocleonthetable,andwas looking round the room with wide, light-blue eyes, looking hard, likesomebird-creature,andseeming to seenothing.Hehadevidentlybeenveryill:was still very ill.His cheeks and even his jaw seemed shrunken, almostwithered.Heforgothisdinner:orhedidnotcareforit.Probablythelatter."Whatdoyouthink,Francis,"hesaid,"ofmakingaplantoseeFlorenceandSiennaandOrvietoonthewaydown,insteadofgoingstraighttoRome?"Hespokeinprecise,particularly-enunciatedwords,inapublic-schoolmanner,butwithastrongtwangofSouthWales.

"Why,Angus,"camethegracefulvoiceofFrancis,"Ithoughtwehadsettledto go straight through via Pisa." Franciswas graceful in everything—in histall,elegantfigure,intheposesofhishandsomehead,inthemodulationofhisvoice."Yes,butIseewecangoeitherway—eitherPisaorFlorence.AndIthoughtitmight be nice to look at Florence and Sienna andOrvieto. I believe they'reverylovely,"camethesoft,precisevoiceofAngus,endinginatouchofoddemotiononthewords"verylovely,"asifitwereanewexperiencetohimtobeusingthem."I'mSUREthey'remarvellous.I'mquitesurethey'remarvellouslybeautiful,"saidFrancis,inhisassured,elegantway."Well,then,Angus—supposewedothat,then?—Whenshallwestart?"Angus was the nervous insister. Francis was quite occupied with his ownthoughts and calculations and curiosity. For hewas very curious, not to sayinquisitive.Andatthepresentmomenthehadanewsubjecttoponder.Thisnew subjectwasAaron,who satwithhisback toournewcouple, andwho,withhisfinesharpears,caughteverywordthattheysaid.Aaron'sbackwas broad enough, and his shoulders square, and his head rather small andfairishandwell-shaped—andFranciswasintrigued.Hewantedtoknow,wasthemanEnglish.HelookedsoEnglish—yethemightbe—hemightperhapsbeDanish, Scandinavian, orDutch. Therefore, the elegant youngmanwatchedandlistenedwithallhisears.ThewaiterwhohadbroughtAaronhissoupnowcameveryfreeandeasy,toaskforfurtherorders."Whatwouldyouliketodrink?Wine?Chianti?Orwhitewine?Orbeer?"—The old-fashioned "Sir"was dropped. It is too old-fashioned now, since thewar."What SHOULD I drink?" saidAaron,whose acquaintancewithwineswasnotverylarge."Half-litreofChianti:thatisverygood,"saidthewaiter,withtheairofamanwhoknewonlytoowellhowtobringuphisbetters,andtraintheminthewaytheyshouldgo."Allright,"saidAaron.Thewelcomesoundofthesetwomagicwords,AllRight!waswhatthewaitermostdesired."Allright!Yes!AllRight!"Thisisthepith,themarrow,thesumand essence of the English language to a southerner.Of course it is not allright. It isOr-rye—and oneword at that. The blow thatwould be given tomostforeignwaiters, if theywereforcedtorealizethatthefamousoryewasreallycomposedoftwowords,andspeltallright,wouldbetoocruel,perhaps.

"HalflitreChianti.Orye,"saidthewaiter.Andwe'lllethimsayit."ENGLISH!" whispered Francis melodramatically in the ear of Angus. "ITHOUGHTso.Theflautist."Angus put in his monocle, and stared at the oblivious shoulders of Aaron,without apparently seeing anything. "Yes. Obviously English," said Angus,pursinglikeabird."Oh,but Iheardhim,"whisperedFrancisemphatically."Quite,"saidAngus."Butquiteinoffensive.""Oh, but Angus, my dear—he's the FLAUTIST. Don't you remember? ThedivinebitofScriabin.At least Ibelieve itwasScriabin.—ButPERFECTLYDIVINE!!!Iadorethefluteaboveallthings—"AndFrancisplacedhishandon Angus' arm, and rolled his eyes—Lay this to the credit of a bottle ofLacrimaeCristi,ifyoulike."Yes. So do I," saidAngus, again looking archly through themonocle, andseeingnothing."Iwonderwhathe'sdoinghere.""Don'tyou thinkwemightASKhim?"saidFrancis, inavehementwhisper."Afterall,wearetheonlythreeEnglishpeopleintheplace.""For themoment, apparently we are," said Angus. "But the English are allover theplacewherever yougo, like bits of orangepeel in the street.Don'tforgetthat,Francesco.""No,Angus,Idon't.Thepointis,hisfluteisPERFECTLYDIVINE—andheseemsquiteattractiveinhimself.Don'tyouthinkso?""Oh,quite,"saidAngus,whoseobservationshadgotnofurtherthantheblackclothofthebackofAaron'sjacket.Thattherewasamaninsidehehadnotyetpausedtoconsider."Quiteamusician,"saidFrancis."Thehiredsort,"saidAngus,"mostprobably.""ButhePLAYS—heplaysmostmarvellously.THATyoucan'tgetawayfrom,Angus.""Iquiteagree,"saidAngus."Well, then?Don't you thinkwemight hear him again?Don't you thinkwemightgethimtoplayforus?—ButIshouldloveitmorethananything.""Yes,Ishould,too,"saidAngus."Youmightaskhimtocoffeeandaliqueur.""Ishouldliketo—mostawfully.ButdoyouthinkImight?""Oh,yes.Hewon'tmindbeingofferedacoffeeandliqueur.Wecangivehimsomethingdecent—Where's thewaiter?"Angus liftedhispinched,uglybarefaceandlookedroundwithweirdcommandforthewaiter.Thewaiter,having

not much to do, and feeling ready to draw these two weird young birds,allowedhimselftobesummoned."Where's the wine list? What liqueurs have you got?" demanded Angusabruptly.The waiter rattled off a list, beginning with Strega and ending with cherrybrandy."GrandMarnier,"saidAngus."Andleavethebottle."Thenhe lookedwitharch triumphatFrancis, likeawickedbird.Francisbithisfingermoodily,andgloweredwithhandsome,dark-blueuncertaineyesatMr.Aaron,whowasjustsurveyingtheFrutte,whichconsistedoftworatherold pomegranates and various pale yellow apples, with a sprinkling ofwithered dried figs. At the moment, they all looked like a Natura Mortaarrangement."But do you think Imight—?" said Francismoodily.Angus pursed his lipswitharecklessbrightness."Whynot? I seeno reasonwhyyoushouldn't,"he said.WhereuponFranciscleared his throat, disposed of his serviette, and rose to his feet, slowly butgracefully. Then he composed himself, and took on the air he wished toassume at the moment. It was a nice degage air, half naive and halfenthusiastic.ThenhecrossedtoAaron'stable,andstoodononelounginghip,gracefully,andbentforwardinaconfidentialmanner,andsaid:"Doexcuseme.ButIMUSTaskyouifitwasyouweheardplayingtheflutesoperfectlywonderfully,justbeforedinner."Thevoicewasconfidentialandingratiating.Aaron,relievedfromtheworld'sstressandseeinglifeanewintherosyglowofhalfalitreofgoodoldChianti—thewarwas sonearbutgoneby—lookedupat thedarkblue, ingenuous,well-adaptedeyesofourfriendFrancis,andsmiling,said:"Yes,Isawyouonthebalconyaswell.""Oh, did you notice us?" plunged Francis. "But wasn't it an extraordinaryaffair?""Very,"saidAaron."Icouldn'tmakeitout,couldyou?""Oh,"criedFrancis."Inevertry.It'sallmuchtoonewandcomplicatedforme.—ButperhapsyouknowItaly?""No,Idon't,"saidAaron."Neitherdowe.Andwe feel rather stunned.Wehadonly just arrived—andthen—Oh!"Francisputuphishandtohiscomelybrowandrolledhiseyes."Ifeelperfectlyoverwhelmedwithitstill."

He here allowed himself to sink friendlily into the vacant chair oppositeAaron's."Yes,Ithoughtitwasabitexciting,"saidAaron."Iwonderwhatwillbecomeofhim—""—Of the one who climbed for the flag, you mean? No!—But wasn't itperfectlymarvellous!Oh,incredible,quiteincredible!—Andthenyourflutetofinishitall!Oh!Ifeltitonlywantedthat.—Ihaven'tgotoverityet.ButyourplayingwasMARVELLOUS,reallymarvellous.Doyouknow,Ican'tforgetit.Youareaprofessionalmusician,ofcourse.""IfyoumeanIplayforaliving,"saidAaron."IhaveplayedinorchestrasinLondon.""Ofcourse!Ofcourse!Iknewyoumustbeaprofessional.Butdon'tyougiveprivaterecitals,too?""No,Ineverhave.""Oh!" cried Francis, catching his breath. "I can't believe it. But you playMARVELLOUSLY!Oh, I just loved it, it simply sweptme away, after thatsceneinthestreet.Itseemedtosumitallup,youknow.""Didit,"saidAaron,rathergrimly."Butwon'tyoucomeandhavecoffeewithusatourtable?"saidFrancis."Weshouldlikeitmostawfullyifyouwould.""Yes,thankyou,"saidAaron,half-rising."Butyouhaven't hadyourdessert," saidFrancis, laying a fatherlydetaininghandonthearmoftheotherman.Aaronlookedatthedetaininghand."Thedessertisn'tmuchtostopfor,"hesaid."IcantakewithmewhatIwant."Andhepickedoutahandfulofdriedfigs.ThetwowentacrosstoAngus'table."We'regoingto takecoffee together,"saidFranciscomplacently,playingthehostwithasuaveassurancethatwasratheramusingandcharminginhim."Yes. I'mveryglad," saidAngus.Letusgive the showaway:hewasbeingwilfullynice.Buthewasquiteglad;tobeabletobesonice.Anythingtohavea bit of life going: especially a bit of pleased life. He looked at Aaron'scomely,wine-warmedfacewithgratification."HaveaGrandMarnier,"hesaid."Idon'tknowhowbadit is.Everythingisbad now.They lay it down to thewar aswell. It used to be quite a decentdrink.Whatthewarhadgottodowithbadliqueurs,Idon'tknow."Aaronsatdowninachairattheirtable."Butletusintroduceourselves,"saidFrancis."IamFrancis—orreallyFranz

Dekker—AndthisisAngusGuest,myfriend.""AndmynameisAaronSisson.""What!Whatdidyousay?"saidFrancis,leaningforward.He,too,hadsharpears."AaronSisson.""AaronSisson!Oh,buthowamusing!Whatanicename!""Nobetterthanyours,isit?""Mine!FranzDekker!Oh,muchmoreamusing,Ithink,"saidFrancisarchly."Oh,well,it'samatterofopinion.You'rethedoubledecker,notme.""The double decker!" saidFrancis archly. "Why,what do youmean!—"Herolledhiseyessignificantly."ButmayIintroducemyfriendAngusGuest.""You'veintroducedmealready,Francesco,"saidAngus."Sosorry,"saidFrancis."Guest!"saidAaron.Francissuddenlybegantolaugh."MayhenotbeGuest?"heasked,fatherly."Verylikely,"saidAaron."NotthatIwasevergoodatguessing."Francistiltedhiseyebrows.Fortunatelythewaiterarrivedwiththecoffee."Tellme,"saidFrancis,"willyouhaveyourcoffeeblack,orwithmilk?"Hewasdeterminedtorestoreatoneofsobriety.Thecoffeewassippedinsobersolemnity."Ismusicyourlineaswell,then?"askedAaron."No,we'repainters.We'regoingtoworkinRome.""Toearnyourliving?""Notyet."Theamountofdiscretion,modesty,andreservewhichFrancisput into thesetwosyllablesgaveAaron to think thathehad two realyoungswells todealwith."No,"continuedFrancis."IwasonlyJUSTdownfromOxfordwhenthewarcame—andAngushadbeenabouttenmonthsattheSlade—ButIhavealwayspainted.—Sonowwearegoingtowork,reallyhard,inRome,tomakeupforlosttime.—Oh,onehaslostsomuchtime,inthewar.AndsuchPRECIOUStime!Idon'tknowifeveronewillevenbeabletomakeitupagain."Francistilted his handsome eyebrows and put his head on one side with a wise-distressedlook.

"No,"saidAngus."Onewillneverbeabletomakeitup.Whatismore,onewillneverbeable tostartagainwhereoneleftoff.We'reshatteredoldmen,now,inonesense.Andinanothersense,we'rejustpre-warbabies."ThespeechwasutteredwithanoddabruptnessanddidacticismwhichmadeAaron open his eyes. Angus had that peculiar manner: he seemed to beharanguinghimselfinthecircleofhisownthoughts,notaddressinghimselftohislistener.So his listener listened on the outside edge of the young fellow's crowdedthoughts.Francisputonadistressedair,and lethisattentionwander.Anguspursedhislipsandhiseyeswerestretchedwidewithakindofpleasure,likeawickedowlwhichhasjustjoyfullyhootedanillomen."Tellme," saidFrancis toAaron. "WherewereYOUall the timeduring thewar?""Iwasdoingmyjob,"saidAaron.Whichledtohisexplaininghisorigins."Really!Soyourmusicisquitenew!Buthowinteresting!"criedFrancis.Aaronexplainedfurther."And so the war hardly affected you? But what did you FEEL about it,privately?""Ididn't feelmuch. Ididn'tknowwhat to feel.Other folksdidsucha lotoffeeling,IthoughtI'dbetterkeepmymouthshut.""Yes,quite!"saidAngus."Everybodyhadsuchalotoffeelingsonsomebodyelse'sbehalf,thatnobodyeverhadtimetorealisewhattheyfeltthemselves.Iknow Iwas like that.The feelings all cameon tome from theoutside: likefliessettlingonmeat.BeforeIknewwhereIwasIwaseatenupwithaswarmoffeelings,andIfoundmyselfinthetrenches.Godknowswhatfor.AndeversincethenI'vebeentryingtogetoutofmyswarmoffeelings,whichbuzzinandout ofme andhavenothing to dowithme. I realised it in hospital. It'sexactly like trying togetoutofa swarmofnastydirty flies.Andeveryoneyoukillmakesyousick,butdoesn'tmaketheswarmanyless."AgainAnguspursedandbridledandlookedlikeapleased,wickedwhiteowl.Thenhepolishedhismonocleonaverychoicesilkhandkerchief,andfixeditunseeinginhislefteye.ButFranciswasnotinterestedinhisfriend'sexperiences.ForFrancishadhada job in the War Office—whereas Angus was a war-hero with shatterednerves.Andlethimdepreciatehisownexperiencesasmuchasheliked, theyoungmanwith themonocle kept tight hold on his prestige as awar hero.Onlyforhimself,though.Hebynomeansinsistedthatanyoneelseshouldbewar-bitten.

Franciswasoneof thosemenwho, likewomen, can setup the sympatheticflowandmakeafellowgivehimselfawaywithoutrealisingwhatheisdoing.SotheresatourfriendAaron,amusinglyunbosominghimselfofallhishistoryandexperiences,drawnoutbythearch,subtleattentivenessofthehandsomeFrancis.Anguslistened,too,withpleasedamusednessonhispale,emaciatedface, pursing his shrunken jaw. And Aaron sipped various glasses of theliqueur,andtoldallhistaleasifitwasacomedy.Acomedyitseemed,too,atthathour.Andacomedynodoubtitwas.Butmixed,likemostthingsinthislife.Mixed.Itwasquitelatebeforethisseancebrokeup:andthewaiteritchingtogetridofthefellows."Well, now," said Francis, as he rose from the table and settled his elegantwaist,restingononehip,asusual."Weshallseeyouinthemorning,Ihope.You say you are going to Venice. Why? Have you some engagement inVenice?""No,"saidAaron."Ionlywasgoingtolookforafriend—RawdonLilly.""RawdonLilly!Why,isheinVenice?Oh,I'veheardSUCHalotabouthim.Ishouldlikesomuchtomeethim.ButIheardhewasinGermany—""Idon'tknowwhereheis.""Angus!Didn'twehearthatLillywasinGermany?""Yes,inMunich,beingpsychoanalysed,Ibelieveitwas."Aaronlookedratherblank."ButhaveyouanythingtotakeyoutoVenice?It'ssuchabadclimateinthewinter.WhynotcomewithustoFlorence?"saidFrancis.Aaronwavered.Hereallydidnotknowwhattodo."Thinkaboutit,"saidFrancis,layinghishandonAaron'sarm."Thinkaboutittonight.Andwe'llmeetinthemorning.Atwhattime?""Anytime,"saidAaron."Well,sayeleven.We'llmeetintheloungehereateleven.Willthatsuityou?Allright,then.It'ssoawfullynicemeetingyou.Thatmarvellousflute.—AndthinkaboutFlorence.Butdocome.Don'tdisappointus."Thetwoyoungmenwentelegantlyupstairs.

CHAPTERXV.ARAILWAYJOURNEY

The next day but one, the three set off for Florence. Aaron had made an

excursion from Milan with the two young heroes, and dined with themsubsequentlyat themostexpensiverestaurantinthetown.Thentheyhadallgone home—and had sat in the young men's bedroom drinking tea, whilstAaron played the flute. Francis was really musical, and enchanted. Angusenjoyed thenovelty,and themoderatepatronagehewasable toconfer.AndAaronfeltamusedandpleased,andhopedhewaspayingforhistreat.So behold them setting off for Florence in the early morning. Angus andFrancishadfirst-classtickets:Aarontookathird-class."Come and have lunch with us on the train," said Angus. "I'll order threeplaces,andwecanlunchtogether.""Oh,Icanbuyabitoffoodatthestation,"saidAaron."No,comeandlunchwithus.Itwillbemuchnicer.Andweshallenjoyitaswell,"saidAngus."Of course! Ever somuch nicer! Of course!" cried Francis. "Yes, why not,indeed!Whyshouldyouhesitate?""Allright,then,"saidAaron,notwithoutsomefeelingofconstraint.Sotheyseparated.Theyoungmensettledthemselvesamidsttheredplushandcrochet-work, looking,with theirhairplasteredsmoothlyback,quiteas firstclassasyoucouldwish,creatingquitetherightimpressionontheportersandthetravellingItalians.Aaronwenttohisthird-class,furtherupthetrain."Well,then,aurevoir,tillluncheon,"criedFrancis.Thetrainwasfairlyfullinthethirdandsecondclasses.However,Aarongothisseat,andtheporterbroughtonhisbags,afterdisposingoftheyoungmen'sluggage. Aaron gave the tip uneasily. He always hated tipping—it seemedhumiliating bothways.And the airy aplomb of the two young cavaliers, asthey settled down among the red plush and the obsequiousness, and said"Well,then,aurevoirtillluncheon,"waspeculiarlyunsettling:thoughtheydidnotintenditso."TheporterthinksI'mtheirservant—theirvalet,"saidAarontohimself,andacurioushalf-amused,half-contemptuouslookflickeredonhisface.Itannoyedhim.The falsityoccasionedby thedifference in thepriceof the ticketswasreally humiliating. Aaron had lived long enough to know that as far asmanhoodandintellectwent—nay,eveneducation—hewasnottheinferiorofthetwoyoung"gentlemen."Heknewquitewellthat,asfarasintrinsicnaturewent, they did not imagine him an inferior: rather the contrary. They hadratheranexaggeratedrespectforhimandhislife-power,andevenhisorigin.Andyet—theyhad the inestimablecashadvantage—and theyweregoing tokeepit.Theyknewitwasnothingmorethananartificialcashsuperiority.Butthey gripped it all themore intensely. Theywere the uppermiddle classes.

They were Eton and Oxford. And they were going to hang on to theirprivileges.Inthesedays,itisafoolwhoabdicatesbeforehe'sforcedto.Andtherefore:"Well,then—aurevoirtillluncheon."Theywerebeingsoawfullynice.Andinwardlytheywerenotcondescending.Butsocially, they justhad tobe.Theworld ismade like that. Itwasn't theirownprivate fault. Itwas no fault at all. Itwas just themode inwhich theywere educated, the style of their living. And as we know, le style, c'estl'homme.AnguscameofverywealthyironpeoplenearMerthyr.Alreadyhehadaveryfair incomeof his own.As soon as the law-business concerning his father'sandhisgrandfather'swillwassettled,hewouldbewelloff.Andheknewit,and valued himself accordingly. Francis was the son of a highly-esteemedbarrister and politician of Sydney, and in his day would inherit his father'slately-wonbaronetcy.ButFrancishadnotverymuchmoney:andwasmuchmoreclass-flexiblethanAngus.Angushadbeenborninahousewithapark,andofawful,hard-willed,money-boundpeople.Franciscameofamuchmoreadventurous, loose, excitable family, he had the colonial newness andadaptability.Heknew,forhisownpart,thatclasssuperioritywasjustatrick,nowadays.Still, itwasa trickthatpaid.Andatrickhewasgoingtoplayaslongasitdidpay.WhileAaronsat,alittlepaleatthegills,immobile,ruminatingthesematters,anotverypleasantlookabouthisnose-end,heheardavoice:"Oh, thereyouARE!I thoughtI'dbettercomeandsee,sothatwecanfetchyou at lunch time.—You've got a seat?Are you quite comfortable? Is thereanything I could get you?Why, you're in a non-smoker!—But that doesn'tmatter, everybody will smoke. Are you sure you have everything? Oh, butwaitjustonemoment—"It was Francis, long and elegant, with his straight shoulders and his coatbuttoned to showhiswaist, andhis face sowell-formed and somodern.Somodern,altogether.Hisvoicewaspleasantlymodulated,andneverhurried.Henowlookedas ifa thoughthadstruckhim.Heputa finger tohisbrow,andhastenedbacktohisowncarriage.Inaminute,hereturnedwithanewLondonliterarymagazine."Something to read—I shall have to FLY—See you at lunch," and he hadturnedandelegantlyhastened,butnottoofast,backtohiscarriage.Theporterwasholdingthedoorforhim.SoFrancislookedpleasantlyhurried,butbynomeansrushed.Oh,dear,no.Hetookhistime.ItwasnotforhimtoboltandscramblelikeamereItalian.ThepeopleinAaron'scarriagehadwatchedtheapparitionoftheelegantyouth

intently. For them, hewas a being from another sphere—no doubt a youngmilordowithpowerwealth, andglamorous lifebehindhim.Whichwas justwhatFrancis intended toconvey.Sohandsome—sovery,very impressive inallhiselegantcalmshowiness.Hemadesuchabellafigura.ItwasjustwhattheItaliansloved.ThoseinthefirstclassregionsthoughthemightevenbeanItalian,hewassoattractive.Thetraininmotion,themanyItalianeyesinthecarriagestudiedAaron.He,too,wasgood-looking.Butbynomeansasfascinatingastheyoungmilordo.Nothalfassympathetic.Nogoodatallatplayingarole.Probablyaservantoftheyoungsignori.Aaronstaredoutofthewindow,andplayedtheonesingleBritishrolelefttohim, that of ignoring his neighbours, isolating himself in their midst, andminding his own business. Upon this insular trick our greatness and ourpredominancedepends—suchasitis.Yes,theymightlookathim.Theymightthinkhimaservantorwhat they liked.Buthewas inaccessible to them.Heisolatedhimselfuponhimself,andthereremained.Itwasalovelyday,alovely,lovelydayofearlyautumn.OverthegreatplainofLombardyamagnificentblueskyglowedlikemid-summer,thesunshonestrong.Thegreatplain,withitsgreatstripesofcultivation—withouthedgesorboundaries—-how beautiful it was! Sometimes he saw oxen ploughing.Sometimes.Oh,sobeautiful,teamsofeight,orten,evenoftwelvepale,greatsoftoxeninprocession,ploughingthedarkvelvetyearth,adriverwithagreatwhipattheirhead,amanfarbehindholdingtheplough-shafts.Beautifulthesoft, soft plunging motion of oxen moving forwards. Beautiful the strange,snakyliftingofthemuzzles,theswayingofthesharphorns.Andthesoft,softcrawlingmotionofateamofoxen,soinvisible,almost,yetsoinevitable.Nowandagainstraightcanalsofwaterflashedblue.Nowandagainthegreatlinesofgrey-silverypoplarsroseandmadeavenuesorlovelygreyairyquadranglesacross the plain. Their top boughswere spangledwith gold and green leaf.Sometimes the vine-leaves were gold and red, a patterning. And the greatsquare farm-homesteads, white, red-roofed, with their out-buildings, stoodnakedamid the lands,withoutscreenorsoftening.Therewassomethingbigandexposedaboutitall.NomorethecosyEnglishambushedlife,nolongerthe cosy littleness of the landscape. A bigness—and nothing to shelter theunshrinking spirit. Itwas all exposed, exposed to the sweepof plain, to thehigh, strong sky, and to human gaze. A kind of boldness, an indifference.Aaron was impressed and fascinated. He looked with new interest at theItaliansinthecarriagewithhim—forthissameboldnessandindifferenceandexposedgesture.Andhefounditinthem,too.Andagainitfascinatedhim.Itseemed somuch bigger, as if thewalls of life had fallen.Nay, thewalls ofEnglishlifewillhavetofall.

Sittingthereinthethird-classcarriage,hebecamehappyagain.Thepresenceof his fellow-passengers was not so hampering as in England. In England,everybodyseemsheldtightandgripped,nothingisleftfree.Everypassengerseems like a parcel holding his string as fast as he can about him, lest onecorner of the wrapper should come undone and reveal what is inside. Andeveryotherpassenger is forced,by thepublicwill, toholdhimself as tight-boundalso.Whichintheendbecomesasortofself-consciousmadness.Buthere,inthethirdclasscarriage,therewasnotightstringroundeveryman.Theywerenotall trussedwithself-consciousstringas tightascapons.Theyhad a sufficient amount of callousness and indifference and naturalequanimity.True,oneofthemspatcontinuallyonthefloor,inlargespits.Andanothersatwithhisbootsallunlacedandhiscollaroff,andvariousimportantbuttons undone. They did not seem to care if bits of themselves did show,through the gaps in the wrapping. Aaron winced—but he preferred it toEnglishtightness.Hewaspleased,hewashappywiththeItalians.Hethoughthowgenerousandnaturaltheywere.So the towns passed by, and the hours, and he seemed at last to have gotoutside himself and his old conditions. It seemed like a great escape.Therewasmagic again in life—realmagic.Was it illusion, orwas it genuine?Hethoughtitwasgenuine,andopenedhissoulaiftherewasnodanger.Lunch-timecame.FrancissummonedAarondowntherockingtram.Thethreemenhadatabletothemselves,andallfelttheywereenjoyingthemselvesverymuch indeed.Of course Francis andAngusmade a great impression again.Butinthediningcarweremostlymiddle-class,well-to-doItalians.Andthesedid not look upon our two young heroes as two youngwonders.No, ratherwithsomecriticism,andsomeclass-envy.Buttheywereimpressed.Oh,theywereimpressed!Howshouldtheynotbe,whenouryounggentlemenhadsuchan air! Aaron was conscious all the time that the fellow-diners were beingproperly impressed by the flower of civilisation and the salt of the earth,namely,young,well-to-doEnglishmen.Andhehadafaintpremonition,basedon experience perhaps, that fellow-passengers in the end never forgive themanwhohas"impressed"them.Mankindlovesbeingimpressed.Itaskstobeimpressed.Italmostforcesthosewhomitcanforcetoplayaroleandtomakeanimpression.Andafterwards,neverforgives.WhenthetrainranintoBolognaStation,theywerestillintherestaurantcar.Nor did they go at once to their seats. Angus had paid the bill. There wasthree-quarters-of-an-hour'swaitinBologna."You may as well come down and sit with us," said Francis. "We've gotnobodyinourcarriage,sowhyshouldn'tweallstaytogetherduringthewait.Youkeptyourownseat,Isuppose."

No, he had forgotten.Sowhenhewent to look for it, itwas occupied by astoutmanwhowas just taking off his collar andwrapping awhite kerchiefroundhis neck.The third class carriageswerepacked.For thosewere earlydays after thewar,whilemen still had pre-war notions andwere poor. Tenmonthswouldstealimperceptiblyby,andthemysteriousrevolutionwouldbeeffected. Then, the second class and the first class would be packed,indescribably packed, crowded, on all great trains: and the third classcarriages,loandbehold,wouldbecomparativelyempty.Oh,marvellousdaysofbankruptcy,whennobodywillcondescendtotravelthird!However,thesewerestillmodest,sombremonthsimmediatelyafterthepeace.Soa largemanwitha fatneckandawhitekerchief, andhiscollaroverhisknee, sat inAaron's seat.Aaron looked at theman, and at his own luggageoverhead.Thefatmansawhimlookingandstaredback:thenstaredalsoattheluggage overhead: and with his almost invisible north-Italian gesture saidmuch plainer thanwordswould have said it: "Go to hell. I'm here and I'mgoingtostophere."Therewassomethinginsolentandunbearableabout the look—andabout therockyfixityofthelargeman.Hesatasifhehadinsolentlytakenrootinhisseat. Aaron flushed slightly. Francis and Angus strolled along the train,outside,forthecorridorwasalreadyblockedwiththemadBolognarush,andthebaggagebelonging.TheyjoinedAaronashestoodontheplatform."But where is YOUR SEAT?" cried Francis, peering into the packed andjammedcompartmentsofthethirdclass."Thatman'ssittinginit.""Which?"criedFrancis,indignant."Thefatonethere—withthecollaronhisknee.""Butitwasyourseat—!"Francis'gorge rose in indignation.Hemounted into thecorridor.And in thedoorwayof thecompartmenthebridled likeanangryhorse rearing,bridlinghis head. Poising himself on one hip, he stared fixedly at themanwith thecollaronhisknee,thenatthebaggagealoft.Helookeddownatthefatmanasabirdlooksdownfromtheeavesofahouse.Butthemanlookedbackwithasolid, rock-like impudence, before which an Englishman quails: a jeering,immovableinsolence,withasneerroundthenoseandasolid-seatedposterior."But,"saidFrancisinEnglish—noneofthemhadanyItalianyet."But,"saidFrancis, turning round toAaron, "thatwasYOURSEAT?" andhe flunghislongfore-fingerinthedirectionofthefatman'sthighs."Yes!"saidAaron."Andhe'sTAKENit—!"criedFrancisinindignation.

"Andknowsit,too,"saidAaron."But—!" and Francis looked round imperiously, as if to summon hisbodyguard.But bodyguards are no longer forthcoming, and train-guards arefarfromsatisfactory.Thefatmansaton,withasneer-grin,veryfaintbutveryeffective,roundhisnose,andasolidly-plantedposterior.Hequiteenjoyedthepantomimeof theyoung foreigners.Theother passengers said something tohim, and he answered laconic. Then they all had the faint sneer-grin roundtheirnoses.AwomaninthecornergrinnedjeeringlystraightinFrancis'face.Hischarmfailedentirelythistime:andasforhiscommandingness,thatwasineffectualindeed.Ragecameupinhim."Ohwell—somethingmustbedone,"saidhedecisively."Butdidn'tyouputsomethingintheseattoRESERVEit?""OnlythatNewStatesman—buthe'smovedit."Themanstillsatwiththeinvisiblesneer-grinonhisface,andthatpeculiarandimmovableplantofhisItalianposterior."Mais—cette place etait RESERVEE—" said Francis, moving to the directattack.Theman turned aside and ignored him utterly—then said something to themenopposite,andtheyallbegantoshowtheirteethinagrin.Franciswas not so easily foiled.He touched theman on the arm.Themanlookedroundthreateningly,asifhehadbeenstruck."Cette place est reservee—par ce Monsieur—" said Francis with hauteur,thoughstillinanexplanatorytone,andpointingtoAaron.TheItalianlookedhim,notintheeyes,butbetweentheeyes,andsneeredfullin his face. Then he looked with contempt at Aaron. And then he said, inItalian,thattherewasroomforsuchsnobsinthefirstclass,andthattheyhadnotanyrighttocomeoccupyingtheplaceofhonestmeninthethird."Gia!Gia!"barkedtheotherpassengersinthecarriage."Loropossono andareprimaclassa—PRIMACLASSA!" said thewoman inthecorner, inaveryhighvoice,as if talking todeafpeople,andpointing toAaron'sluggage,thenalongthetraintothefirstclasscarriages."C'epostola,"saidoneofthemen,shrugginghisshoulders.TherewasajeeringqualityinthehardinsolencewhichmadeFrancisgoveryred and Augus very white. Angus stared like a death's-head behind hismonocle,withdeath-blueeyes."Oh,nevermind.Comealongtothefirstclass.I'llpaythedifference.Weshallbe much better all together. Get the luggage down, Francis. It wouldn't bepossible to travelwith this lot,evenifhegaveuptheseat.There'splentyof

roominourcarriage—andI'llpaytheextra,"saidAngus.Heknewtherewasonesolution—andonlyone—Money.ButFrancisbithisfinger.Hefeltalmostbesidehimself—andquitepowerless.Forheknewtheguardofthetrainwouldjeertoo.Itisnotsoeasytointerferewithhonestthird-classBolognesiinBolognastation,eveniftheyhavetakenanother man's seat. Powerless, his brow knitted, and looking just likeMephistopheles with his high forehead and slightly arched nose,Mephistopheles in a rage, he hauled down Aaron's bag and handed it toAngus.Sotheytransferredthemselvestothefirst-classcarriage,whilethefatman and his party in the third-class watched in jeering, triumphant silence.Solid,planted,immovable,instatictriumph.SoAaronsatwiththeothersamidtheredplush,whilstthetrainbeganitslongslow climb of the Apennines, stinking sulphurous through tunnelsinnumerable.Wonderful thesteepslopes, thegreatchestnutwoods,and thenthe great distances glimpsed between the heights, Firenzuola away andbeneath,Turneresquehillsfaroff,builtofheaven-bloom,notofearth.Itwascold at the summit-station, ice and snow in the air, fierce. Our travellersshrankintothecarriageagain,andwrappedthemselvesround.Thenthetrainbeganitslongslitherdownhill,stillthroughawholenecklaceoftunnels,whichfortunatelyno longerstank.Sodownanddown, till theplainappears in sight oncemore, the Arno valley. But then began the inevitablehitch that always happens in Italian travel. The train began to hesitate—tofalter to a halt, whistling shrilly as if in protest: whistling pip-pip-pip inexpostulationasitstoodforlornamongthefields:thenstealingforwardagainandstealthilymakingpace,gatheringspeed,tillithadgotuparegularspurt:thensuddenlythebrakescameonwitha jerk,morefalteringtoahalt,morewhistling and pip-pip-pipping, as the engine stood jinglingwith impatience:afterwhichanothercreakandsplash,andanotherchokingoff.SoontilltheylandedinPratostation:andtheretheysat.Afellowpassengertoldthem,therewasanhourtowaithere:anhour.Somethinghadhappeneduptheline."ThenIproposewemaketea,"saidAngus,beaming."Whynot!Ofcourse.Letusmaketea.AndIwilllookforwater."SoAaronandFranciswenttotherestaurantbarandfilledthelittlepanatthetap.Angusgotdowntheredpicniccase,ofwhichhewassofond,andspreadoutthevariousarrangementsonthefloorofthecoupe.Hesoonhadthespirit-lampburning, thewaterheating.Francisproposed thatheandAaronshoulddash into Prato and see what could be bought, whilst the tea was inpreparation. So off they went, leaving Angus like a busy old wizardmanipulating his arrangements on the floor of the carriage, his monoclebeamingwith bliss. The one fat fellow—passenger with a lurid striped rug

over his knees watched with acute interest. Everybody who passed thedoorway stood to contemplate the scene with pleasure. Officials came andstudiedthesituationwithappreciation.ThenFrancisandAaronreturnedwithalargesupplyofroastchestnuts,pipinghot,andharddriedplums,andgooddriedfigs,andratherstalerusks.Theyfoundthewaterjustboiling,Angusjustthrowinginthetea-egg,andthefellow-passengerjustpokinghisnoserightin,hewassothrilled.Nothing pleased Angus so much as thus pitching camp in the midst ofcivilisation. The scrubby newspaper packets of chestnuts, plums, figs andruskswere spreadout:Francis flew for salt to themanat thebar, andcamebackwithalittlepaperofrock-salt:thebrownteawasdispensedinthesilver-fitted glasses from the immortal luncheon-case: and the picnic was in fullswing.Angus,beingintheheightofhishappiness,nowsatontheseatcross-legged,withhis feetunderhim, in theauthenticBuddhafashion,andonhisfacethequeerraptalertlook,halfasmile,alsosomewhatBuddhistic,holdinghisglassofbrownteainhishand.Hewasasraptandimmobileasifhereallywereinamysticstate.Yetitwasonlyhisdelightinthetea-party.Thefellow-passengerpeeredatthetea,andsaidinbrokenFrench,wasitgood.Inequallyfragmentary French Francis said very good, and offered the fat passengersome.He,however,helduphishandinprotest,asiftosaynotforanymoneywouldheswallowthehot-waterystuff.Andhepulledoutaflaskofwine.Butahandfulofchestnutsheaccepted.The train-conductor, ticket-collector, and the heavy green soldier whoprotected them, swung open the door and stared attentively. The fellowpassengeraddressedhimselftothesenew-comers,andtheyallbegantosmilegood-naturedly.Thenthefellow-passenger—hewasstoutandfiftyandhadabrilliant striped rug always over his knees—pointed out the Buddha-likepositionofAngus, and the three in-starers smiled again.And so the fellow-passengerthoughthemusttrytoo.Soheputasidehisrug,andliftedhisfeetfromthefloor,andtookhistoesinhishands,andtriedtobringhislegsupandhisfeetunderhim.Buthiskneeswerefat,histrousersinthedirestextremeofperil,andhecouldnomoremanageitthanifhehadtriedtoswallowhimself.Sohedesisted suddenly, rather scared,whilst the threebunchedandofficialheads in the doorway laughed and jested at him, showing their teeth andteasinghim.But onour gypsyparty they turned their eyeswith admiration.Theylovedthenoveltyandthefun.Andonthethin,elegantAngusinhisnewLondon clothes, they looked really puzzled, as he sat there immobile,gleaming through his monocle like some Buddha going wicked, perchedcross-leggedandecstaticontheredvelvetseat.Theymarvelledthatthelowerhalfofhimcould sodoubleup, likea foot-rule.So they stared till theyhadseenenough.Whentheysuddenlysaid"Buon'appetito,"withdrewtheirheadsandshoulders,slammedthedoor,anddeparted.

Then the train set off also—and shortly after six arrived inFlorence. Itwasdebatedwhat shouldAaron do in Florence. The youngmen had engaged aroomatBertolini'shotel,ontheLungarno.Bertolini'swasnotexpensive—butAaron knew that his friendswould not long endure hotel life.However, hewentalongwiththeothertwo,trustingtofindacheaperplaceonthemorrow.Itwasgrowingquitedarkastheydrovetothehotel,butstillwaslightenoughtoshowtheriverrustling,thePonteVecchiospanningitslittlestoreysacrossthe flood,on its low,heavypiers: and some sortofmagicof thedarkening,variedhousesfacing,ontheothersideofthestream.Ofcoursetheywereallenchanted."Iknew,"saidFrancis,"weshouldloveit."Aaronwastoldhecouldhavealittlebackroomandpensiontermsforfifteenlireaday, ifhestayedat least fifteendays.Theexchangewas thenat forty-five. So fifteen lire meant just six-shillings-and-six pence a day, withoutextras.Extrasmeantwine,tea,butter,andlight.Itwasdecidedheshouldlookforsomethingcheapernextday.Bythetoneoftheyoungmen,henowgatheredthattheywouldpreferitifhetookhimselfofftoacheaperplace.Theywishedtobeontheirown."Well,then,"saidFrancis,"youwillbeintolunchhere,won'tyou?Thenwe'llseeyouatlunch."Itwas as if both the youngmenhaddrawn in their feelers now.Theywereafraidoffindingthenewmananincubus.Theywantedtowashtheirhandsofhim.Aaron'sbrowdarkened."PerhapsitwasrightyourlovetodissembleButwhydidyoukickmedownstairs?..."Thenmorningfoundhimoutearly,beforehisfriendshadarisen.Itwassunnyagain.ThemagicofFlorenceatonceovercamehim,andheforgottheboreoflimitedmeansandhotelcosts.Hewentstraightoutof thehoteldoor,acrosstheroad,andleanedontheriverparapet.ThererantheArno:notsuchafloodafterall,butagreenstreamwithshoalsofpebblesinitscourse.Across,andinthedelicateshadowoftheearlysun,stoodtheoppositeLungarno,theoldflathouses,pink,orwhite,orgreystone,with theirgreenshutters,someclosed,someopened.Ithadafloweryeffect,theskylineirregularagainstthemorninglight.TotherightthedelicateTrinitabridge,totheleft,theoldbridgewithitslittle shopsover the river.Beyond, towards the sun,glimpsesofgreen, sky-bloomedcountry:Tuscany.Therewasanoiseandclatterof traffic:boyspushinghand-barrowsover thecobble-stones, slow bullocks stepping side by side, and shouldering oneanotheraffectionately,drawingaloadofcountryproduce,thenhorsesingreat

brilliantscarletcloths,likevividpalls,slowlypullingthelongnarrowcartsofthedistrict: andmenhu-huing!—andpeople calling: all the sharp, clatteringmorningnoiseofFlorence."Oh,Angus!Docomeandlook!OH,solovely!"Glancing up, he saw the elegant figure of Francis, in fine coloured-silkpyjamas, perched on a small upper balcony, turning away from the rivertowardsthebedroomagain,hishandliftedtohislips,asiftocatchtherehiscryofdelight.Thewholeposewasclassicandeffective: andveryamusing.HowtheItalianswouldloveit!Aaron slipped back across the road, and walked away under the housestowards the Ponte Vecchio. He passed the bridge—and passed the Uffizi—watchingthegreenhillsopposite,andSanMiniato.Thenhenoticedtheover-dramatic group of statuary in the Piazza Mentana—male and physical andmelodramatic—andthenthecornerhouse.ItwasabigoldFlorentinehouse,withmanygreenshuttersandwideeaves.Therewasanoticeplatebythedoor—"PensionNardini."Hecametoafullstop.Hestaredatthenotice-plate,staredattheglassdoor,and turning round, staredat theover-patheticdeadsoldieron thearmofhisover-heroic pistol-firing comrade;Mentana—and the date! Aaron wonderedwhatandwhereMentanawas.Thenatlasthesummonedhisenergy,openedtheglassdoor,andmountedthefirststairs.Hewaitedsometimebeforeanybodyappeared.Thenamaid-servant."CanIhavearoom?"saidAaron.Thebewildered,wild-eyedservantmaidopenedadoorandshowedhimintoaheavily-gilt,heavily-plushdrawing-roomwithagreatdealoffranticgrandeuraboutit.Therehesatandcooledhisheelsforhalfanhour.Arrivedatlengthastout young lady—handsome, with big dark-blue Italian eyes—but anaemicandtoostout."Oh!"shesaidassheentered,notknowingwhatelsetosay."Good-morning,"saidAaronawkwardly."Oh,good-morning!English!Yes!Oh,Iamsosorrytokeepyou,youknow,tomakeyouwaitsolong.Iwasupstairs,youknow,withalady.Willyousit?""CanIhavearoom?"saidAaron."Aroom!Yes,youcan.""Whatterms?""Terms!Oh!Why, ten francs a day, you know, pension—if you stay—Howlongwillyoustay?"

"Atleastamonth,Iexpect.""Amonth!Ohyes.Yes,tenfrancsaday.""Foreverything?""Everything. Yes, everything. Coffee, bread, honey or jam in the morning:lunch at half-past twelve; tea in the drawing-room, half-past four: dinner athalf-pastseven:allverynice.Andawarmroomwiththesun—Wouldyouliketosee?"SoAaronwasledupthebig,ramblingoldhousetothetopfloor—thenalonga longoldcorridor—andat last intoabigbedroomwith twobedsandaredtiledfloor—alittledreary,asever—butthesunjustbeginningtocomein,andalovelyviewontotheriver,towardsthePonteVecchio,andatthehillswiththeirpinesandvillasandverdureopposite.Herehewouldsettle.Thesignorinawouldsendamanforhisbags,athalfpasttwointheafternoon.AtluncheonAaronfoundthetwofriends,andtoldthemofhismove."Howveryniceforyou!Tenfrancsaday—butthatisnothing.Iamsopleasedyou'vefoundsomething.Andwhenwillyoubemovingin?"saidFrancis."Athalf-pasttwo.""Oh,sosoon.Yes, justaswell.—Butweshallseeyoufromtimetotime,ofcourse. What did you say the address was? Oh, yes—just near the awfulstatue.Verywell.Wecan lookyouupany time—andyouwill findushere.Leave a message if we should happen not to be in—we've got lots ofengagements—"

CHAPTERXVI.FLORENCE

TheveryafternoonafterAaron'sarrivalinFlorencetheskybecamedark,thewindcold,andrainbegansteadilytofall.Hesatinhisbig,bleakroomabovethe river, and watched the pale green water fused with yellow, the many-threadedstreamsfuseintoone,asswiftlythesurfacefloodcamedownfromthehills.Across, thedarkgreenhills lookeddarker in thewet, theumbrellapines held up in vain above the villas. But away below, on the Lungarno,trafficrattledasever.Aaronwentdownatfiveo'clocktotea,andfoundhimselfalonenextagroupof women, mostly Swedes or Danish or Dutch, drinking a peculiar brownherb-brewwhichtastedlikenothingelseonearth,andeatingtwothickbitsofdarkishbreadsmearedwithabrownsmearwhichhopeditwasjam,buthoped

invain.Unhappilyhesatinthegiltandred,massivelyornateroom,whiletheforeignwomeneyedhim.Oh,bittertobeamaleundersuchcircumstances.He escaped as soon as possible back to his far-off regions, lonely andcheerless,awayabove.Butheratherlikedthefar-offremotenessinthebigoldFlorentinehouse:hedidnotmindthepeculiardark,uncosydreariness.Itwasnot really dreary: only indifferent. Indifferent to comfort, indifferent to allhomelinessandcosiness.Theover-big furniture trying tobe impressive,butnever to bepretty or bright or cheerful.There it stood, ugly and apart.Andthereletitstand.—Neitherdidhemindthelackoffire,thecoldsombrenessofhisbigbedroom.Athome,inEngland,thebrightgrateandtheruddyfire,thethickhearth-rugandtheman'sarm-chair,thesehadbeeninevitable.Andnowhewasgladtogetawayfromitall.Hewasgladnottohaveacosyhearth,andhisownarm-chair.Hewasgladtofeelthecold,andtobreathetheunwarmedair.HepreferredtheItalianwayofnofires,noheating.Ifthedaywascold,hewaswillingtobecoldtoo.Ifitwasdark,hewaswillingtobedark.Thecosybrightnessofarealhome—ithadstifledhimtillhefelthislungswouldburst.Thehorrorsofrealdomesticity.No,theItalianbrutalwaywasbetter.Soheputhisovercoatoverhisknee,andstudiedsomemusichehadboughtinMilan: some Pergolesi and the Scarlatti he liked, and some Corelli. Hepreferred frail, sensitive, abstract music, with not much feeling in it, but acertainlimpidityandpurity.Nightfellashesatreadingthescores.Hewouldhavelikedtotrycertainpiecesonhisflute.Buthisflutewastoosensitive,itwincedfromthenewstrangesurroundings,andwouldnotblossom.Dinnersoundedatlast—ateighto'clock,orsomethingafter.Hehadtolearntoexpect themeals always fortyminutes late.Down hewent, down the long,dark, lonely corridors and staircases.Thedining roomwas rightdownstairs.Buthehada little table tohimselfnear thedoor, theelderlywomenwereatsomelittledistance.TheonlyothermenwereAgostmo,theunshapelywaiter,and an Italian duke, with wife and child and nurse, the family sitting alltogether at a table halfway down the room, and utterly pre-occupiedwith alittleyellowdog.However, the foodwas good enough, and sufficient, and thewaiter and themaid-servant cheerful and bustling. Everything felt happy-go-lucky andinformal,therewasnoparticularatmosphere.Nobodyputonanyairs,becausenobodyintheNardinitookanynoticeiftheydid.Thelittleducaldogyapped,theducalsonshouted,thewaiterdroppedhalfadozenspoons,theoldwomenknittedduring thewaits,andallwentoffsobadly that itwasquitepleasant.Yes, Aaron preferred it to Bertolini's, which was trying to be efficient andcorrect: though notmaking any strenuous effort. Still, Bertolini'swasmuchmore up to the scratch, therewas the tension of proper standards.WhereashereatNardini's,nothingmatteredverymuch.

ItwasNovember.Whenhegotuptohisfar-offroomagain,Aaronfeltalmostas if he were in a castle with the drawbridge drawn up. Through the openwindowcamethesoundof theswellingArno,as it rushedandrustledalongoveritsgravel-shoals.Lightsspangledtheoppositeside.Trafficsoundeddeepbelow.Theroomwasnotreallycold,forthesummersunsosoaksintothesethickoldbuildings,thatittakesamonthortwoofwintertosoakitout.—Therainstillfell.InthemorningitwasstillNovember,andthedawncameslowly.Andthroughtheopenwindowwas thesoundof theriver's rushing.But the trafficstartedbeforedawn,withabangandarattleofcarts,andabangandjingleoftram-carsoverthenot-distantbridge.Oh,noisyFlorence!Athalf-pastsevenAaronrangforhiscoffee:andgotitatafewminutespasteight.Thesignorinahadtoldhimtotakehiscoffeeinbed.Rainwasstillfalling.Buttowardsnineo'clockitlifted,andhedecidedtogoout. Awet, wetworld. Carriages going by, with hugewet shiny umbrellas,black and withmany points, erected to cover the driver and the tail of thehorse and the box-seat. The hood of the carriage covered the fare. Clatter-clatterthroughtherain.Peasantswithlongwagonsandslowoxen,andpale-green huge umbrellas erected for the driver to walk beneath. Men trippingalong in cloaks, shawls, umbrellas, anything, quite unconcerned. A manloading gravel in the river-bed, in spite of the wet. And innumerable bellsringing:but innumerablebells.Thegreatsoft tremblingof thecathedralbellfeltinalltheair.Anyhowitwasanewworld.Aaronwentalongclosetothetallthickhouses,followinghisnose.AndsuddenlyhecaughtsightofthelongslimneckofthePalazzoVecchioupabove, in theair.And inanotherminutehewaspassingbetweenmassivebuildings,outintothePiazzadellaSignoria.Therehestoodstillandlookedroundhiminrealsurprise,andrealjoy.Theflatemptysquarewith its stone pavingwas all wet. The great buildings rose dark. The dark,sheerfrontofthePalazzoVecchiowentuplikeacliff,tothebattlements,andtheslimtowersoareddarkandhawk-like,crested,highabove.AndatthefootofthecliffstoodthegreatnakedDavid,whiteandstrippedinthewet,whiteagainstthedark,warm-darkcliffofthebuilding—andnear, theheavynakedmenofBandinelli.Thefirstthinghehadseen,asheturnedintothesquare,wasthebackofoneof theseBandinelli statues:agreatnakedmanofmarble,withaheavybackandstrongnakedflanksoverwhichthewaterwastrickling.AndthentocomeimmediatelyupontheDavid,somuchwhiter,glisteningskin-whiteinthewet,standingalittleforward,andshrinking.Hemaybeugly,toonaturalistic,toobig,andanythingelseyoulike.ButtheDavid in thePiazza dellaSignoria, there under the darkgreat palace, in the

position Michelangelo chose for him, there, standing forward stripped andexposedandeternallyhalf-shrinking,half—wishing toexposehimself, he isthe genius of Florence. The adolescent, the white, self-conscious, physicaladolescent: enormous, in keeping with the stark, grim, enormous palace,which isdarkandbareashe iswhiteandbare.Andbehind, thebig, lumpyBandinellimenare inkeeping too.Theymaybeugly—but theyare there intheir place, and they have their own lumpy reality.And thismorning in therain,standingunbroken,withthewatertricklingdowntheirflanksandalongthe inner side of their great thighs, theywere real enough, representing theundauntedphysicalnatureoftheheavierFlorentines.Aaronlookedandlookedatthethreegreatnakedmen.Davidsomuchwhite,and standing forward, self-conscious: then at the great splendid front of thePalazzoVecchio:andatthefountainsplashingwateruponitswet,wetfigures;and the distant equestrian statue; and the stone-flagged space of the grimsquare.Andhefeltthatherehewasinoneoftheworld'slivingcentres,here,inthePiazzadellaSignoria.Thesenseofhavingarrived—ofhavingreachedaperfectcentreofthehumanworld:thishehad.Andso,satisfied,heturnedroundtolookatthebronzePerseuswhichrosejustabovehim.BenvenutoCellini'sdarkherolookedfemale,withhisplumphipsandhiswaist,femaleandratherinsignificant:graceful,andrathervulgar.TheclownishBandinellisweresomehowmoretothepoint.—Thenallthestatuaryin the Loggia! But that is a mistake. It looks too much like the yard of amonumentalmason.Thegreat,nakedmen in the rain,under thedark-greyNovember sky, in thedark, strong inviolable square! Thewonderful hawk-head of the old palace.Thephysical,self-consciousadolescent,Michelangelo'sDavid,shrinkingandexposing himself,with hiswhite, slack limbs! Florence, passionate, fearlessFlorencehad spokenherself out.—Aaronwas fascinatedby thePiazzadellaSignoria.He neverwent into the town, nor returned from it to his lodging,withoutcontrivingtopassthroughthesquare.Andheneverpassedthroughitwithoutsatisfaction.Heremenhadbeenat their intensest,mostnakedpitch,here, at the end of the oldworld and the beginning of the new. Since then,alwaysratherpulingandapologetic.Aaronfeltanewself,anewlife-urgerisinginsidehimself.Florenceseemedtostartanewmaninhim.Itwasatownofmen.OnFridaymorning,soearly,heheard the traffic.Early, hewatched the rather low, two-wheeled trapsof thepeasants spanking recklessly over the bridge, coming in to town.And then,whenhewentout,he found thePiazzadellaSignoriapackedwithmen:butall,allmen.Andallfarmers,land-ownersandland-workers.Thecurious,fine-nosed Tuscan farmers, with their half-sardonic, amber-coloured eyes. Theircurious individuality, theirclotheswornsoeasyandreckless, theirhatswith

thepersonaltwist.Theircuriousfullovalcheeks,theirtendencytobetoofat,tohaveabellyandheavylimbs.Theirclose-sittingdarkhair.Andaboveall,theirsharp,almostacrid,mockingexpression, thesilentcurlof thenose, theeternal challenge, the rock-bottomunbelief, and the subtle fearlessness.Thedangerous,subtle,never-dyingfearlessness,andtheacridunbelief.Butmen!Men!Atownofmen,inspiteofeverything.Theonemanlyquality,undying,acrid fearlessness. The eternal challenge of the un-quenched human soul.Perhaps too acrid and challenging today, when there is nothing left tochallenge.Butmen—whoexistedwithout apology andwithout justification.Menwhowouldneitherjustifythemselvesnorapologizeforthemselves.Justmen.TherarestthingleftinoursweetChristendom.AltogetherAaronwaspleasedwithhimself,forbeinginFlorence.Thosewereearlydaysafterthewar,whenasyetveryfewforeignershadreturned,andtheplacehadthenativesombrenessandintensity.Sothatourfrienddidnotmindbeingalone.Thethirdday,however,Franciscalledonhim.Therewasatapatthebedroomdoor,andtheyoungmanentered,alleyesofcuriosity."Oh, thereyouARE!"hecried, flinginghishandand twistinghiswaistandthenlayinghishandonhisbreast."SuchaLONGwayuptoyou!Butmiles—!Well,howareyou?Areyouquiteallrighthere?Youare?I'msoglad—we'vebeensorushed,seeingpeoplethatwehaven'thadaMINUTE.ButnotaMINUTE!People!People!People!Isn't itamazinghowmanythereare,andhowmanyoneknows,andgetstoknow!Butamazing!Endlessacquaintances!—Oh, and such quaint people here! so ODD! So MORE than odd! Oh,extraordinary—!" Francis chuckled to himself over the extraordinariness.Then he seated himself gracefully at Aaron's table. "Oh, MUSIC! What?Corelli! So interesting! So very CLEVER, these people, weren't they!—CorelliandtheyoungerScarlattiandallthatcrowd."Hereheclosedthescoreagain."Butnow—LOOK!Doyouwanttoknowanybodyhere,ordon'tyou?I'vetoldthemaboutyou,andofcoursethey'redyingtomeetyouandhearyouplay.But I thought itbestnot tomentionanythingabout—aboutyourbeinghard-up, and all that. I saidyouwere just hereon avisit.You seewith thiskindofpeopleI'msureit'smuchthebestnottoletthemstartoffbythinkingyouwillneedthematall—orthatyouMIGHTneedthem.Whygiveyourselfaway, anyhow? Justmeet them and take them for what they're worth—andthenyoucansee.Iftheyliketogiveyouanengagementtoplayatsomeshoworother—well,youcandecidewhenthetimecomeswhetheryouwillaccept.Muchbetterthatthesekindofpeopleshouldn'tgetitintotheirheadsatoncethat they can hire your services. It doesn't do. They haven't enoughdiscriminationforthat.Muchbestmakeratherafavourofit,thansortofaskthemtohireyou.—Don'tyouagree?PerhapsI'mwrong."

Aaronsatandlistenedandwonderedatthewisdomandthegenuinekindnessof the young beau. And more still, he wondered at the profound socialdisillusionment. This handsome collie dog was something of a social wolf,halfshowinghis fangsat themoment.Butwithgenuinekindheartedness foranotherwolf.Aaronwastouched."Yes,Ithinkthat'sthebestway,"hesaid."Youdo!Yes,sodoI.Oh,theyaresuchqueerpeople!Whyisit,doyouthink,that English people abroad go so very QUEER—so ultra-English—INCREDIBLE!—and at the same time so perfectly impossible? Butimpossible!Pathological,Iassureyou.—Andasfortheirsexualbehaviour—oh,dear,don'tmentionit.Iassureyouitdoesn'tbearmention.—Andallquiteflagrant,quiteunabashed—underthecoverofthisfanaticalEnglishness.ButIcouldn'tbegintoTELLyouallthethings.It'sjustincredible."Aaron wondered how on earth Francis had been able to discover and bearwitnesstosomuchthatwasincredible,inabaretwodays.Butalittlegossip,andanadditionofluridimaginationwillcarryyouanywhere."Wellnow,"saidFrancis."Whatareyoudoingtoday?"Aaronwasnotdoinganythinginparticular."Thenwillyoucomeandhavedinnerwithus—?"Francisfixedupthetimeandtheplace—asmallrestaurantattheotherendofthetown.Thenheleanedoutofthewindow."Fascinatingplace!Oh,fascinatingplace!"hesaid,soliloquy."Andyou'vegota superbview.Almostbetter thanours, I think.—Well then,half-past seven.We'remeeting a few other people,mostly residents or people staying sometime.We'renotinvitingthem.Justdroppingin,youknow—alittlerestaurant.Weshallseeyouthen!Well then,arivederci till thisevening.—SogladyoulikeFlorence!I'msimplylovingit—revelling.Andthepictures!—Oh—"Thepartythateveningconsistedallofmen:FrancisandAngus,andawriter,JamesArgyle,andlittleAlgyConstable,andtinyLouisMee,anddeafWalterRosen.Theyall snappedand rattledatoneanother, andwere rather spitefulbut ratheramusing.FrancisandAngushad to leaveearly.Theyhadanotherappointment.AndJamesArgylegotquitetipsy,andsaidtoAaron:"But,my boy, don't let yourself be led astray by the talk of such people asAlgy.Bewareof them,myboy, if you've a soul to save. If you've a soul tosave!"Andheswallowedtheremainsofhislitre.Algy's nose trembled a little, andhis eyesblinked. "And if you've a soul toLOSE," he said, "I would warn you very earnestly against Argyle."WhereuponAlgyshutoneeyeandopenedtheothersowide,thatAaronwasalmostscared."Quiteright,myboy.Ha!Ha!Neveratruerthingsaid!Ha-ha-

ha." Argyle laughed hisMephistophelian tipsy laugh. "They'll teach you tosave.Neverwassuchalotofripeoldsavers!Savetheiroldtrouser-buttons!Gotothemifyouwanttolearntosave.Oh,yes,Iadviseitseriously.You'lllosenothing—notevenareputation.—YoumayloseaSOUL,ofcourse.Butthat'sadetail, amongsuchahoardofbanknotesand trouser-buttons.Ha-ha!What'sasoul,tothem—?""Whatisittoyou,isperhapsthemorepertinentquestion,"saidAlgy,flappinghiseyelidslikesomecrazyowl."Itisyouwhospecialiseinthematterofsoul,andwewhoareinneedofenlightenment—""Yes, very true, you ARE! You ARE in need of enlightenment. A set ofbenightedwisevirgins.Ha-ha-ha!That'sgood, that—benightedwisevirgins!What—"ArgyleputhisredfaceneartoAaron's,andmadeamoue,narrowinghiseyesquizzicallyashepeeredupfromunderhislevelgreyeyebrows."Sitin the dark to save the lamp-oil—And all no good to them.—When thebridegroomcometh—!Ha-ha!Good that!Good,myboy!—Thebridegroom—"hegiggled tohimself. "Whatabout thebridegroom,Algy,myboy?Eh?Whatabouthim?Bettertrimyourwick,oldman,ifit'snottoolate—""Weweretalkingofsouls,notwicks,Argyle,"saidAlgy."Samething.Uponmysoulitallamountstothesamething.Where'sthesoulinamanthathasn'tgotabedfellow—eh?—answermethat!Can'tbedoneyouknow.Mightaswellaskavirginchickentolayyouanegg.""Thenthereoughttobeagooddealofitabout,"saidAlgy."Of what? Of soul? There ought to be a good deal of soul about?—Ah,becausethere'sagooddealof—,youmean.—Ah,Iwishitwereso.Iwishitwereso.But,believeme,there'sfarmoredamnedchastityintheworld,thananythingelse.Eveninthistown.—Callitchastity,ifyoulike.Iseenothinginitbutsterility.Ittakesarattopraiselongtails.Impotencesetupthepraiseofchastity—believemeor not—but that's thebottomof it.Thevirtue ismadeoutofthenecessity.—Ha-ha-ha!—Likethem!Likethem!Ha-ha!Savingtheirsouls!Whythey'dsavethewastematteroftheirbodiesiftheycould.Grievesthemtopartwithit.—Ha!ha!—ha!"Therewas a pause.Argylewas in his cups,which left nomore to be said.Algy, quivering and angry, looked disconcertingly round the room as if hewerequitecalmandcollected.ThedeafJewishRosenwassmilingdownhisnoseandsaying:"Whatwasthatlast?Ididn'tcatchthatlast,"cuppinghisearwithhishandinthefrantichopethatsomeonewouldanswer.Noonepaidanyheed."Ishallbegoing,"saidAlgy,lookinground.ThentoAaronhesaid,"Youplaytheflute,Ihear.Maywehearyousometime?"

"Yes,"saidAaron,non-committal."Well, lookhere—cometo tea tomorrow.Ishallhavesomefriends,andDelTorrewillplaythepiano.Cometoteatomorrow,willyou?""Thankyou,Iwill.""Andperhapsyou'llbringyourflutealong.""Don'tyoudoanysuchthing,myboy.MakethementertainYOU,foronce.—They're always squeezing an entertainment out of somebody—" andArgyledesperately emptied the remains of Algy's wine into his own glass: whilstAlgystoodasiflisteningtosomethingfaroff,andblinkingterribly."Anyhow,"hesaidat length,"you'llcome,won'tyou?Andbringtheflute ifyoufeellikeit.""Don'tyou take that flute,myboy,"persistedArgyle."Don't thinkofsuchathing. If theywantaconcert, let thembuy their ticketsandgo to theTeatroDiana.Or toMarchesadelTorre'sSaturdaymorning.Shecanafford to treatthem."AlgylookedatArgyle,andblinked."Well,"hesaid."Ihopeyou'llgethomeallright,Argyle.""Thankyouforyourcourtesy,Algy.Won'tyoulendmeyourarm?"As Algy was small and frail, somewhat shaky, and as Argyle was a finelybuilt,heavymanoffiftyormore,theslapwasunkind."AfraidIcan'ttonight.Good-night—"Algy departed, so did little Mee, who had sat with a little delighteddisapprovalonhistiny,bird-likeface,withoutsayinganything.AndeventheJewRosenputawayhisdeaf-machineandbeganawkwardlytotakehisleave.HislongnosewassmilingtoitselfcomplacentlyatallthethingsArgylehadbeensaying.Whenhe,too,hadgone,ArgylearchedhisbrowsatAaron,saying:"Oh, my dear fellow, what a lot they are!—Little Mee—looking like aninnocent little boy.He's over seventy if he's a day.Well over seventy.Well,youdon'tbelieveme.Askhismother—askhismother.She'sninety-five.Oldlady of ninety-five—" Argyle even laughed himself at his ownpreposterousness."And then Algy—Algy's not a fool, you know. Oh, he can be mostentertaining,mostwitty,andamusing.Buthe'soutofplacehere.HeshouldbeinKensington,dandlingroundtheladies'drawingroomsandmakinghismots.They'rerich,youknow,thepairofthem.LittleMeeusedtoboastthathelivedoneleven-and-three-penceaweek.Had to,poorchap.But thenwhatdoesawhitemouse like thatneed?Makes aheavymealon a cheese-paring.Luck,youknow—butofcoursehe'scomeintomoneyaswell.RichasCroesus,and

still lives on nineteen-and-two-pence a week. Though it's nearly double, ofcourse,what itusedtobe.Nowonderhelooksanxious.Theydisapproveofme—oh,quite right,quite right from theirownpointofview.Wherewouldtheir money be otherwise? It wouldn't last long if I laid hands on it—" hemadeadevilishquizzingface."Butyouknow,theygetonmynerves.Littleoldmaids,youknow,littleoldmaids.I'msureI'msurprisedattheirpatiencewith me.—But when people are patient with you, you want to spit gall atthem.Don'tyou?Ha-ha-ha!PooroldAlgy.—Did I lay itonhim tonight,ordidImisshim?""Ithinkyougothim,"saidAaron."He'llneverforgiveme.Dependonit,he'llneverforgiveme.Ha-ha!Iliketobe unforgiven. It adds ZEST to one's intercoursewith people, to know thatthey'll never forgive one. Ha-ha-ha! Little oldmaids, who do their knittingwith their tongues. Poor old Algy—he drops his stitches now. Ha-ha-ha!—Mustbeeighty,Ishouldsay."Aaronlaughed.HehadnevermetamanlikeArgylebefore—andhecouldnothelp being charmed. The otherman had a certainwickedwhimsicality thatwas very attractive, when levelled against someone else, and not againstoneself.Hemusthavebeenveryhandsomeinhisday,withhisnaturaldignity,and his clean-shaven strong square face. But now his face was all red andsoftenedand inflamed,hiseyeshadgonesmallandwickedunderhisbushygreybrows.Stillhehadapresence.Andhisgreyhair,almostgonewhite,wasstillhandsome."AndwhatareyougoingtodoinFlorence?"askedArgyle.Aaronexplained."Well,"saidArgyle."Makewhatyoucanoutofthem,andthengo.Gobeforetheyhave time todo thedirtyonyou. If they thinkyouwantanythingfromthem, they'll treat you like a dog, like a dog.Oh, they're very frightened ofanybodywhowants anything of them: frightened to death. I see nothing ofthem.—Livebymyself—seenobody.Can'tstandit,youknow:theirsillylittleteaparties—simply can't stand it.No, I live alone—and shall die alone.—Atleast, I sincerely hope so. I should be sorry to have any of them hanginground."The restaurant was empty, the pale, malarial waiter—he had of coursecontractedmalaria during thewar—was looking purple round the eyes.ButArgylecallouslysaton.Aaronthereforerosetohisfeet."Oh,I'mcoming,I'mcoming,"saidArgyle.Hegotunsteadilytohisfeet.Thewaiterhelpedhimonwithhiscoat:andheputadisreputable-lookinglittlecurlyhatonhishead.Thenhetookhisstick.

"Don't lookatmyappearance,mydearfellow,"saidArgyle."Iamfrayedatthe wrists—look here!" He showed the cuffs of his overcoat, just frayedthrough. "I've got a trunkful of clothes inLondon, if only somebodywouldbringitouttome.—Readythen!Avanti!"And so they passed out into the still rainy street. Argyle lived in the verycentreofthetown:intheCathedralSquare.Aaronlefthimathishoteldoor."Butcomeandseeme,"saidArgyle."Callformeat twelveo'clock—orjustbefore twelve—and letushave luncheon together.What! Is thatall right?—Yes, come just before twelve.—When?—Tomorrow? Tomorrow morning?Willyoucometomorrow?"AaronsaidhewouldonMonday."Monday,eh!YousayMonday!Verywell then.Don'tyouforgetnow.Don'tyouforget.ForI'veamemorylikeavice.Ishan'tforget.—Justbeforetwelvethen.Andcome rightup. I'm rightunder the roof. InParadise, as theporteralwayssays.Siamonelparadiso.Buthe'sacretin.AsnearParadiseasIcarefor, for it's devilish hot in summer, and damned cold in winter. Don't youforgetnow—Monday,twelveo'clock."AndArgylepinchedAaron'sarmfast,thenwentunsteadilyupthestepstohishoteldoor.ThenextdayatAlgy'stherewasacrowdAlgyhadaverypleasantflatindeed,kept more scrupulously neat and finicking than ever any woman's flat waskept.So today,with itsbowlsof flowersand itspicturesandbooksandoldfurniture, andAlgy, very nicely dressed, fluttering and blinking andmakingreallyacharminghost, itwasallverydelightful tothelittlemobofvisitors.Theywereacuriouslot,itistrue:everybodyratherexceptional.Whichthoughitmaybestartling,issoverymuchbetterfunthaneverybodyallalike.Aarontalked to an old, old Italian elegant in side-curls, who peeled off his greygloves and studied his formalitieswith a delightfulMid-Victorian dash, andtoldstoriesaboutaplaintwhichLadySurryhadagainstLordMarsh,andwasquite incomprehensible. Out rolled the English words, like plums out of aburstbag,andallcompletelyunintelligible.But theoldbeauwassupremelysatisfied.HelovedtalkingEnglish,andholdinghislistenersspell-bound.Next toAaronon the sofa sat theMarchesadelTorre, anAmericanwomanfromtheSouthernStates,whohadlivedmostofherlifeinEurope.Shewasaboutfortyyearsofage,handsome,well-dressed,andquietinthebuzzofthetea-party. It was evident she was one of Algy's lionesses. Now she sat byAaron,eatingnothing,but takingacupof teaandkeepingstill.Sheseemedsad—or notwell perhaps.Her eyeswere heavy.But shewas very carefullymade up, and very well dressed, though simply: and sitting there, full-bosomed, rather sad, remote-seeming, she suggested to Aaron a modern

Cleopatrabrooding,Anthony-less.Her husband, the Marchese, was a little intense Italian in a colonel's greyuniform,cavalry,leathergaiters.Hehadblueeyes,hishairwascutveryshort,his head looked hard and rathermilitary: hewould have been taken for anAustrian officer, or even a German, had it not been for the peculiar Italiansprightlinessandtouchofgrimace inhismobilecountenance.Hewasratherlikeagnome—notugly,butodd.Now he came and stood opposite to Signor di Lanti, and quizzed him inItalian.But itwasevident, inquizzing theoldbuck, the littleMarchesewashoveringnearhiswife, inear-shot.Algycameupwithcigarettes,andsheatoncebegantosmoke,withthatpeculiarheavyintensityofanervouswoman.Aaron did not say anything—did not knowwhat to say. Hewas peculiarlyconscious of thewoman sitting next to him, her arm near his. She smokedheavily, insilence,as ifabstracted,asortofcloudonher level,darkbrows.Herhairwasdark,butasoftishbrown,notblack,andherskinwasfair.Herbosomwouldbewhite.—WhyAaronshouldhavehadthisthought,hecouldnotforthelifeofhimsay.Manfredi,herhusband,rolledhisblueeyesandgrimacedashelaughedatoldLanti.Butitwasobviousthathisattentionwasdivertedsideways,towardshiswife. Aaron, who was tired of nursing a tea-cup, placed in on a table andresumedhisseatinsilence.ButsuddenlythelittleMarchesewhippedouthiscigarette-case,andmakingalittlebow,presentedittoAaron,saying:"Won'tyousmoke?""Thankyou,"saidAaron."Turkishthatside—Virginiathere—yousee.""Thankyou,Turkish,"saidAaron.The little officer in his dove-grey and yellowuniform snappedhis box shutagain,andpresentedalight."YouarenewinFlorence?"hesaid,ashepresentedthematch."Fourdays,"saidAaron."AndIhearyouaremusical.""Iplaytheflute—nomore.""Ah,yes—butthenyouplayitasanartist,notasanaccomplishment.""Buthowdoyouknow?"laughedAaron."Iwastoldso—andIbelieveit.""That'sniceofyou,anyhow—Butyouareamusiciantoo."

"Yes—wearebothmusicians—mywifeandI."Manfredilookedathiswife.Sheflickedtheashoffhercigarette."Whatsort?"saidAaron."Why,howdoyoumean,whatsort?Wearedilettanti,Isuppose.""No—whatisyourinstrument?Thepiano?""Yes—the pianoforte. And my wife sings. But we are very much out ofpractice.Ihavebeenatthewarfouryears,andwehavehadourhomeinParis.MywifewasinParis,shedidnotwishtostayinItalyalone.Andso—yousee—everythinggoes—""Butyouwillbeginagain?""Yes.We have begun already.We havemusic on Saturdaymornings. NextSaturdayastringquartette,andviolinsolosbyayoungFlorentinewoman—afriend—verygoodindeed,daughterofourProfessorTortoli,whocomposes—asyoumayknow—""Yes,"saidAaron."Wouldyoucaretocomeandhear—?""Awfullyniceifyouwould—"suddenlysaidthewife,quitesimply,asifshehadmerelybeentired,andnottalkingbefore."Ishouldliketoverymuch—""Docomethen."While they were making the arrangements, Algy came up in his blandestmanner."NowMarchesa—mightwehopeforasong?""No—Idon'tsinganymore,"cametheslow,contraltoreply."Oh,butyoucan'tmeanyousaythatdeliberately—""Yes,quitedeliberately—"Shethrewawayhercigaretteandopenedherlittlegoldcasetotakeanother."Butwhatcanhavebroughtyoutosuchadisastrousdecision?""Ican'tsay,"shereplied,withalittlelaugh."Thewar,probably.""Oh,butdon'tletthewardepriveusofthis,asofeverythingelse.""Can'tbehelped,"shesaid."Ihavenochoiceinthematter.Thebirdhasflown—"Shespokewithacertainheavylanguor."Youmeanthebirdofyourvoice?Oh,but that isquiteimpossible.Onecanhearitcallingoutoftheleaveseverytimeyouspeak.""I'mafraidyoucan'tgethimtodoanymorethancalloutoftheleaves."

"But—but—pardonme—is it because you don't intend there should be anymoresong?Isthatyourintention?""ThatIcouldn'tsay,"saidtheMarchesa,smoking,smoking."Yes," saidManfredi. "At thepresent time it is because sheWILLnot—notbecauseshecannot.Itisherwill,asyousay.""Dearme!Dearme!"saidAlgy."But this is reallyanotherdisasteraddedtothewar list.—But—but—willnoneofuseverbeable topersuadeyou?"Hesmiledhalfcajoling,halfpathetic,withaprodigiousflappingofhiseyes."Idon'tknow,"saidshe."Thatwillbeasitmustbe.""Thencan'twesayitmustbeSONGoncemore?"Tothissallyshemerelylaughed,andpressedoutherhalf-smokedcigarette."Howverydisappointing!Howverycruelof—of fate—and thewar—and—andallthesumtotalofevils,"saidAlgy."Perhaps—"herethelittleandpiquanthostturnedtoAaron."PerhapsMr.Sisson,your flutemight callout thebirdof song.As thrushescall each other into challenge, you know. Don't you think that is veryprobable?""Ihavenoidea,"saidAaron."Butyou,Marchesa.Won'tyougiveushopethatitmightbeso?""I've no idea, either," said she. "But I should very much like to hear Mr.Sisson'sflute.It'saninstrumentIlikeextremely.""Therenow.Youseeyoumayworkthemiracle,Mr.Sisson.Won'tyouplaytous?""I'mafraidIdidn'tbringmyflutealong,"saidAaron"Ididn'twanttoarrivewithalittlebag.""Quite!"saidAlgy."Whatapityitwouldn'tgoinyourpocket.""Notmusicandall,"saidAaron."Dear me! What a comble of disappointment. I never felt so strongly,Marchesa,thattheoldlifeandtheoldworldhadcollapsed.—Really—Ishallsoonhavetotrytogiveupbeingcheerfulatall.""Don'tdothat,"saidtheMarchesa."Itisn'tworththeeffort.""Ah!I'mgladyoufinditso.ThenIhavehope."Shemerelysmiled,indifferent.Theteapartybegantobreakup—Aaronfoundhimselfgoingdownthestairswith the Marchesa and her husband. They descended all three in silence,

husbandandwifeinfront.Onceoutsidethedoor,thehusbandasked:"How shallwegohome, dear?Tramor carriage—?" Itwas evident hewaseconomical."Walk,"shesaid,glancingoverhershoulderatAaron."Weareallgoingthesameway,Ibelieve."Aaronsaidwherehe lived.Theywere justacross the river.Andsoall threeproceededtowalkthroughthetown."Youare sure itwon'tbe toomuch foryou—too far?" said the littleofficer,takinghiswife'sarmsolicitously.Shewastallerthanhe.Buthewasaspiritedfellow."No,Ifeellikewalking.""Solongasyoudon'thavetopayforitafterwards."Aarongatheredthatshewasnotwell.Yetshedidnotlookill—unlessitwerenerves. She had that peculiar heavy remote quality of pre-occupation andneurosis.ThestreetsofFlorencewereveryfullthisSundayevening,almostimpassable,crowdedparticularlywithgangsofgrey-greensoldiers.Thethreemadetheirway brokenly, and with difficulty. The Italian was in a constant state ofreturning salutes. The grey-green, sturdy, unsoldierly soldiers looked at thewomanasshepassed."Iamsureyouhadbettertakeacarriage,"saidManfredi."No—Idon'tmindit.""DoyoufeelathomeinFlorence?"Aaronaskedher."Yes—asmuchasanywhere.Oh,yes—quiteathome.""Doyoulikeitaswellasanywhere?"heasked."Yes—foratime.Parisforthemostpart.""NeverAmerica?""No,neverAmerica.IcamewhenIwasquitealittlegirltoEurope—Madrid—Constantinople—Paris.IhardlyknewAmericaatall."AaronrememberedthatFrancishadtoldhim,theMarchesa'sfatherhadbeenambassadortoParis."Soyoufeelyouhavenocountryofyourown?""IhaveItaly.IamItaliannow,youknow."Aaronwonderedwhyshespokesomuted,sonumbed.Manfrediseemedreallyattachedtoher—andshetohim.Theyweresosimplewithoneanother.

Theycametowardsthebridgewheretheyshouldpart."Won'tyoucomeandhaveacocktail?"shesaid."Now?"saidAaron."Yes.Thisistherighttimeforacocktail.Whattimeisit,Manfredi?""Halfpastsix.Docomeandhaveonewithus,"saidtheItalian."Wealwaystakeoneaboutthistime."Aaroncontinuedwiththemoverthebridge.Theyhadthefirstfloorofanoldpalazzoopposite,alittlewayupthehill.Aman-servantopenedthedoor."If only itwill bewarm," she said. "The apartment is almost impossible tokeepwarm.Wewillsitinthelittleroom."AaronfoundhimselfinaquitewarmroomwithshadedlightsandamixtureofoldItalianstiffnessanddeepsoftmoderncomfort.TheMarchesawentawaytotakeoffherwraps,andtheMarchesechattedwithAaron.Thelittleofficerwasamiableandkind,anditwasevidenthelikedhisguest."Wouldyouliketoseetheroomwherewehavemusic?"hesaid."Itisafineroomforthepurpose—weusedbeforethewartohavemusiceverySaturdaymorning, from ten to twelve: and all friends might come. Usually we hadfifteenortwentypeople.Nowwearestartingagain.Imyselfenjoyitsomuch.Iamafraidmywifeisn'tsoenthusiasticassheusedtobe.Iwishsomethingwouldrouseherup,youknow.Thewarseemedtotakeherlifeaway.HereinFlorence are somany amateurs.Very good indeed.We can have very goodchamber-musicindeed.Ihopeitwillcheerherupandmakeherquiteherselfagain.Iwasawayforsuchlongperiods,atthefront.—Anditwasnotgoodforhertobealone.—Iamhopingnowallwillbebetter."Sosaying,thelittle,oddofficerswitchedonthelightsofthelongsalon.Itwasa handsome room in the Italian mode of the Empire period—beautiful oldfadedtapestrypanels—reddish—andsomeormolufurniture—andotherthingsmixedin—ratherconglomerate,butpleasing,allthemorepleasing.Itwasbig,not too empty, and seemed to belong to human life, not to show and shut-upedness.Thehostwashappyshowingit."OfcoursetheflatinParisismoreluxuriousthanthis,"hesaid."ButIpreferthis.Ipreferithere."Therewasacertainwistfulnessashelookedround,thenbegantoswitchoffthelights.Theyreturnedtothelittlesalotta.TheMarchesawasseatedinalowchair.Sheworeaverythinwhiteblouse,thatshowedherarmsandherthroat.Shewasafull-breasted,soft-skinnedwoman,thoughnotstout."Make the cocktails then,Manfredi," she said. "Doyou find this roomverycold?"sheaskedofAaron.

"Notabitcold,"hesaid."Thestovegoesallthetime,"shesaid,"butwithoutmucheffect.""Youwearsuchthinclothes,"hesaid."Ah, no, the stove should give heat enough.Do sit down.Will you smoke?Therearecigarettes—andcigars,ifyoupreferthem.""No,I'vegotmyown,thanks."Shetookherowncigarettefromhergoldcase."Itisafineroom,formusic,thebigroom,"saidhe."Yes,quite.Wouldyouliketoplayforussometime,doyouthink?""Doyouwantmeto?Imeandoesitinterestyou?""What—theflute?""No—musicaltogether—""Music altogether—!Well! I used to love it. Now—I'm not sure.Manfredilivesforit,almost.""Forthatandnothingelse?"askedAaron."No,no!No,no!Otherthingsaswell.""Butyoudon'tlikeitmuchanymore?""Idon'tknow.PerhapsIdon't.I'mnotsure.""Youdon'tlookforwardtotheSaturdaymornings?"heasked."Perhaps I don't—but forManfredi's sake, of course, I do. But for his sakemorethanmyown,Iadmit.AndIthinkheknowsit.""Acrowdofpeopleinone'shouse—"saidAaron."Yes, the people. But it's not only that. It's themusic itself—I think I can'tstanditanymore.Idon'tknow.""Tooemotional?Toomuchfeelingforyou?""Yes,perhaps.Butno.WhatIcan'tstandischords,youknow:harmonies.Anumberofsoundsallsoundingtogether.Itjustmakesmeill.Itmakesmefeelsosick.""What—doyouwantdiscords?—dissonances?""No—theyarenearlyasbad.No,it'sjustwhenanynumberofmusicalnotes,different notes, come together, harmonies or discords. Even a single chordstruckonthepiano.Itmakesmefeelsick.IjustfeelasifIshouldretch.Isn'titstrange?Ofcourse,Idon'ttellManfredi.Itwouldbetoocrueltohim.Itwouldcuthislifeintwo."

"Butthenwhydoyouhavethemusic—theSaturdays—then?""Oh,Ijustkeepoutofthewayasmuchaspossible.I'msureyoufeelthereissomethingwrongwithme,thatItakeitasIdo,"sheadded,asifanxious:buthalfironical."No—Iwas just wondering—I believe I feel something the samemyself. IknoworchestramakesmeblindwithhateorIdon'tknowwhat.ButIwanttothrowbombs.""Therenow.Itdoesthattome,too.Onlynowithasfairlygotmedown,andIfeelnothingbuthelplessnausea.Youknow,likewhenyouareseasick."Her dark-blue, heavy, haunted-looking eyes were resting on him as if shehoped for something. He watched her face steadily, a curious intelligenceflickeringonhisown."Yes,"hesaid."Iunderstandit.AndIknow,atthebottom,I'mlikethat.ButIkeepmyselffromrealising,don'tyouknow?Elseperhaps,whereshouldIbe?BecauseImakemylifeandmylivingatit,aswell.""Atmusic!Doyou!Buthowbadforyou.Butperhapsthefluteisdifferent.Ihaveafeelingthatitis.Icanthinkofonesinglepipe-note—yes,Icanthinkofitquite,quitecalmly.AndIcan'teventhinkofthepiano,oroftheviolinwithitstremolo,oroforchestra,orofastringquartette—orevenamilitaryband—I can't think of it without a shudder. I can only bear drum-and-fife. Isn't itcrazyofme—butfromtheother,fromwhatwecallmusicproper,I'veenduredtoomuch.Butbringyourfluteoneday.Bringit,willyou?Andletmehearitquitealone.Quite,quitealone.Ithinkitmightdomeanawfullotofgood.Ido, really. I can imagine it."She closedher eyes andher strange, sing-songlapsing voice came to an end. She spoke almost like one in a trance—or asleep-walker."I'vegotitnowinmyovercoatpocket,"hesaid,"ifyoulike.""Haveyou?Yes!"Shewasneverhurried:always slowand resonant, so thattheechoesofhervoiceseemedtolinger."Yes—dogetit.Dogetit.Andplayintheotherroom—quite—quitewithoutaccompaniment.Do—andtryme.""Andyouwilltellmewhatyoufeel?""Yes."Aaronwentouttohisovercoat.Whenhereturnedwithhisflute,whichhewasscrewing together,Manfredi had comewith the tray and the three cocktails.TheMarchesatookherglass."Listen,Manfredi," shesaid. "Mr.Sisson isgoing toplay,quitealone in thesala.AndIamgoingtosithereandlisten.""Verywell,"saidManfredi."Drinkyourcocktailfirst.Areyougoingtoplay

withoutmusic?""Yes,"saidAaron."I'lljustputonthelightsforyou.""No—leaveitdark.Enoughlightwillcomeinfromhere.""Sure?"saidManfredi."Yes."Thelittlesoldierwasanintruderatthemoment.Boththeothersfeltitso.Buttheyborehimnogrudge.Theyknew itwas theywhowereexceptional,nothe.Aaronswallowedhisdrink,andlookedtowardsthedoor."Sitdown,Manfredi.Sitstill,"saidtheMarchesa."Won'tyouletmetrysomeaccompaniment?"saidthesoldier."No.Ishalljustplayalittlethingfrommemory,"saidAaron."Sitdown,dear.Sitdown,"saidtheMarchesatoherhusband.He seated himself obediently. The flash of bright yellow on the grey of hisuniformseemedtomakehimlikeachaffinchoragnome.Aaronretiredtotheotherroom,andwaitedawhile,togetbackthespellwhichconnected him with the woman, and gave the two of them this strangeisolation,beyondtheboundsoflife,asitseemed.Hecaughtitagain.Andthere,inthedarknessofthebigroom,heputhisflutetohislips,andbegantoplay.Itwasaclear,sharp,liltedrun-and-fallofnotes,notatuneinanysenseoftheword,andyetamelody,abright,quicksoundofpure animation, a bright, quick, animate noise, running and pausing. It waslikeabird'ssinging,inthatithadnohumanemotionorpassionorintentionormeaning—a ripple and poise of animate sound. But it was unlike a bird'ssinging,inthatthenotesfollowedclearandsingleoneaftertheother,intheirsubtlegallop.Anightingale israther like that—awildsound.Toreadall thehuman pathos into nightingales' singing is nonsense. A wild, savage, non-humanlurchandsquanderofsound,beautiful,butentirelyunaesthetic.What Aaron was playing was not of his own invention. It was a bit ofmediaevalphrasingwrittenforthepipeandtheviol.Itmadethepianoseemaponderous,nerve-wrackingsteam-rollerofnoise,andtheviolin,asweknowit,ahatefulwire-drawnnerve-torturer.After a little while, when he entered the smaller room again, theMarchesalookedfullintohisface."Good!"shesaid."Good!"Andagleamalmostofhappinessseemedtolightherup.Sheseemedlikeonewhohadbeenkeptinahorribleenchantedcastle—foryearsandyears.Oh,a

horribleenchantedcastle,withwetwallsofemotionsandponderouschainsoffeelingsandaghastlyatmosphereofmust-be.She felt shehadseen throughtheopeningdooracrackofsunshine,andthin,pure,lightoutsideair,outside,beyondthisdankandbeastlydungeonoffeelingsandmoralnecessity.Ugh!—sheshudderedconvulsivelyatwhathadbeen.Shelookedatherlittlehusband.Chainsofnecessityall roundhim:a little jailor.Yetshewasfondofhim.Ifonlyhewouldthrowawaythecastlekeys.Hewasalittlegnome.Whatdidheclutchthecastle-keyssotightfor?Aaron lookedather.Heknewthat theyunderstoodoneanother,heandshe.Without anymoral necessity or any other necessity. Outside—they had gotoutsidethecastleofso-calledhumanlife.Outsidethehorrible,stinkinghumancastleOflife.Abitoftrue,limpidfreedom.Justaglimpse."Charming!" said the Marchese. "Truly charming! But what was it youplayed?"Aarontoldhim."Buttrulydelightful.Isay,won'tyouplayforusoneoftheseSaturdays?Andwon'tyou letme take theaccompaniment? I shouldbecharmed,charmed ifyouwould.""Allright,"saidAaron."Dodrinkanothercocktail,"saidhishostess.Hedidso.Andthenherosetoleave."Willyoustaytodinner?"saidtheMarchesa."Wehavetwopeoplecoming—twoItalianrelativesofmyhusband.But—"No,Aarondeclinedtostaytodinner."Then won't you come on—let me see—on Wednesday? Do come onWednesday.We are alone.Anddobring the flute.Come at half-past six, astoday,willyou?Yes?"Aaron promised—and then he found himself in the street. It was half-pastseven. Insteadof returning straight home,he crossed thePonteVecchio andwalkedstraightintothecrowd.Thenightwasfinenow.Hehadhisovercoatoverhisarm,andinasortoftranceorfrenzy,whirledawaybyhisevening'sexperience, and by the woman, he strode swiftly forward, hardly heedinganything, but rushing blindly on through all the crowd, carried away by hisown feelings, as much as if he had been alone, and all these many peoplemerelytrees.Leaving the PiazzaVittorio Emmanuele a gang of soldiers suddenly rushedround him, buffeting him in one direction, whilst another gang, swinginground the corner, threw him back helpless again into the midst of the first

gang. For somemoments he struggled among the rude, brutal littlemob ofgrey-greencoarseuniformsthatsmeltsostrongofsoldiers.Then,irritated,hefound himself free again, shaking himself and passing on towards thecathedral. Irritated,henowputonhisovercoatandbuttoned it to the throat,closinghimself in, as itwere, from thebrutal insolenceof theSundaynightmobofmen.Before, he hadbeenwalking through them in a rushof nakedfeeling,allexposedtotheirtendermercies.Henowgatheredhimselftogether.As he was going home, suddenly, just as he was passing the Bargello, hestopped.Hestopped,andputhishandtohisbreastpocket.Hisletter-casewasgone. He had been robbed. It was as if lightning ran through him at thatmoment,asifafluidelectricityrusheddownhislimbs,throughthesluiceofhisknees,andoutathisfeet,leavinghimstandingtherealmostunconscious.For amomentunconscious and superconscioushe stood there.Hehadbeenrobbed. They had put their hand in his breast and robbed him. If they hadstabbedhim,itcouldhardlyhavehadagreatereffectonhim.And he had known it. He had known it.When the soldiers jostled him soevilly they robbedhim.Andheknew it.Hehadknown it as if itwere fate.Evenasifitwerefatedbeforehand.Feeling quite weak and faint, as if he had really been struck by some evilelectric fluid, hewalked on.And as soon as he began towalk, he began toreason.Perhapshisletter-casewasinhisothercoat.Perhapshehadnothaditwithhimatall.Perhapshewasfeelingallthis,justfornothing.Perhapsitwasallfolly.Hehurriedforward.Hewantedtomakesure.Hewantedrelief.Itwasasifthepowerofevilhadsuddenlyseizedhimandthrownhim,andhewantedtosayitwasnotso, thathehad imagined itall,conjured itup.Hedidnotwant toadmitthepowerofevil—particularlyat thatmoment.Forsurelyaveryuglyevilspirithadstruckhim,inthemidstofthatgangofItaliansoldiers.Heknewit—ithadpiercedhim.Ithadgothim.Buthewantedtosayitwasnotso.Reachingthehouse,hehastenedupwardsto his far-off, lonely room, through the dark corridors. Once in his ownapartment,heshutthedoorandswitchedonthelight,asensationlikefearathisheart.Thenhesearchedhisotherpockets.Helookedeverywhere.Invain.Invain,trulyenough.Forheknewthethingwasstolen.Hehadknownitallalong.Thesoldiershaddeliberatelyplotted,haddeliberatelyrushedhimandtaken his purse. They must have watched him previously. They must havegrinned,andjeeredathim.Hesatdowninachair,torecoverfromtheshock.Thepocket-bookcontainedfour hundred francs, three one-pound notes, and various letters and privateeffects.Well,thesewerelost.Butitwasnotsomuchthelossastheassaulton

hispersonthatcausedhimtofeelsostricken.Hefeltthejeering,gibingblowstheyhadgivenastheyjostledhim.Andnowhesat,weakineverylimb,andsaidtohimself:"Yes—andifIhadn'trushed along so full of feeling: if I hadn't exposed myself: if I hadn't gotworkedupwiththeMarchesa,andthenrushedallkindledthroughthestreets,withoutreserve,itwouldneverhavehappened.Igavemyselfaway:andtherewassomeonereadytosnatchwhatIgave.Igavemyselfaway.It ismyownfault. I should have been on my guard. I should be always on my guard:always,always.WithGodandthedevilboth,Ishouldbeonmyguard.Godlyordevilish,Ishouldholdfasttomyreserveandkeeponthewatch.AndifIdon't,IdeservewhatIget."But still he sat inhis chair inhisbedroom,dazed.Onepartofhis soulwassaying emphatically: It serves you right. It is nothing but right. It serveseverybodyrightwhorushesenkindledthroughthestreet,andtrustsimplicitlyin mankind and in the life-spirit, as if mankind and the life-spirit were aplaygroundforenkindledindividuals.Itservesyouright.Youhavepaidabouttwelve pounds sterling for your lesson. Fool, you might have knownbeforehand, and thenyouneedn't havepaid at all.Youcan ill afford twelvepoundssterling,youfool.Butsincepaidyouhave,thenmind,mindthelessonis learned.Never again.Never expose yourself again.Never again absolutetrust.Itisablasphemyagainstlife,isabsolutetrust.Hasawildcreatureeverabsolute trust? Itminds itself.Sleepingorwaking it ison itsguard.And somustyoube,oryou'llgounder.Sleepingorwaking,manorwoman,Godorthedevil,keepyourguardoveryourself.Keepyourguardoveryourself,lestworse befall you. Noman is robbed unless he incites a robber. Noman ismurderedunlessheattractsamurderer.Thenbenotrobbed:itlieswithinyourownpower.Andbenotmurdered.Or if you are, youdeserve it.Keepyourguardoveryourself,now,alwaysandforever.Yes,againstGodquiteashardasagainstthedevil.He'sfullyasdangeroustoyou....Thus thinking, not in his mind but in his soul, his active, living soul, hegathered his equanimity once more, and accepted the fact. So he rose andtidiedhimself fordinner.His facewasnowset,andstill.Hisheartalsowasstill—andfearless.Becauseitssentinelwasstationed.Stationed,stationedforever.AndAaronneverforgot.Afterthis,itbecameessentialtohimtofeelthatthesentinelstoodguardinhisownheart.Hefeltastrangeuneasethemomenthewasoffhisguard.Asleeporawake,inthemidstofthedeepestpassionorthesuddenest love, or in the throes of greatest excitement or bewilderment,somewhere,somecornerofhimselfwasawaketothefactthatthesentinelofthesoulmustnotsleep,no,never,notforoneinstant.

CHAPTERXVII.HIGHUPOVERTHECATHEDRALSQUARE

Aaron andLilly sat inArgyle's little loggia, high up under the eaves of thesmallhotel,asortoflongattic-terracejustundertheroof,wherenoonewouldhave suspected it. It was levelwith the grey conical roof of theBaptistery.Here satAaron and Lilly in the afternoon, in the last of the lovely autumnsunshine.Below, thesquarewasalreadycold in shadow, thepinkandwhiteandgreenBaptistery rose lantern-shapedas fromsomesea-shore, cool, coldand wan now the sun was gone. Black figures, innumerable black figures,curiousbecausetheywereallonend,uponend—Aaroncouldnotsaywhyheexpectedthemtobehorizontal—littleblackfiguresuponend,likefishesthatswim on their tails, wiggled endlessly across the piazza, little carriages onnatural all-fours rattled tinily across, the yellow little tram-cars, like dogsslipped round the corner. The balcony was so high up, that the sound wasineffectual. The upper space, above the houses, was nearer than the under-currentsof thenoisy town.Sunlight, lovely full sunlight, lingeredwarmandstillonthebalcony.Itcaughtthefacadeofthecathedralsideways,likethetipsofaflower,andsidewayslitupthestemofGiotto'stower,likealilystem,oralong, lovelypalepinkandwhiteandgreenpistilof the lilyof thecathedral.Florence, the flowery town. Firenze—Fiorenze—the flowery town: the redlilies.TheFiorentini, the flower-souled.Flowerswithgoodroots in themudandmuck,asshouldbe:andfearlessblossomsinair,likethecathedralandthetowerandtheDavid."I loveit,"saidLilly."I lovethisplace,I lovethecathedralandthe tower. Iloveitspinknessanditspaleness.TheGothicsoulsfindfaultwithit,andsayitisgimcrackandtawdryandcheap.ButIloveit,itisdelicateandrosy,andthedarkstripesareastheyshouldbe,likethetigermarksonapinklily.It'salily,notarose;apinkywhitelilywithdarktigerymarks.Andheavy,too,initsown substance: earth-substance, risen from earth into the air: and neverforgettingthedark,black-fierceearth—Ireckonheremenforamomentwerethemselves,asaplant in flower is for themomentcompletely itself.Then itgoes off.As Florence has gone off.No flowers now.But itHAS flowered.AndIdon't seewhya raceshouldbe likeanaloe tree, floweronceanddie.Whyshouldit?Whynotfloweragain?Whynot?""Ifit'sgoingto,itwill,"saidAaron."Ourdecidingaboutitwon'talterit.""Thedecisionispartofthebusiness."Here theywere interruptedbyArgyle,whoput his head throughoneof thewindows.Hehadflecksoflatheronhisreddenedface."Doyouthinkyou'rewisenow,"hesaid,"tositinthatsun?"

"InNovember?"laughedLilly."Alwaysfearthesunwhenthere'san 'r' inthemonth,"saidArgyle."Alwaysfearit'r'orno'r,'Isay.I'mfrightenedofit.I'vebeenintheSouth,Iknowwhatitis.ItellyouI'mfrightenedofit.Butifyouthinkyoucanstandit—well—""Itwon'tlastmuchlonger,anyhow,"saidLilly."Toolongforme,myboy.I'mashadybird, inallsensesof theword, inallsenses of the word.—Now are you comfortable? What? Have anothercushion?A rug for your knees?You're quite sure now?Well, wait just onemomenttillthewaiterbringsupasyphon,andyoushallhaveawhiskeyandsoda.Precious—oh,yes,verypreciousthesedays—likedrinkinggold.Thirty-fivelireabottle,myboy!"Argylepulledalongface,andmadeanoisewithhislips."ButIhadthisbottlegivenme,andluckilyyou'vecomewhilethere'sadropleft.Verygladyouhave!Verygladyouhave."Here he poked a little table through the window, and put a bottle and twoglasses,oneatooth-glass,uponit.Thenhewithdrewagaintofinishshaving.The waiter presently hobbled up with the syphon and third glass. Argylepushed his head through the window, that was only a little higher than thebalcony.Hewassoonneatlyshaved,andwasbrushinghishair."Goahead,myboys,goaheadwiththatwhiskey!"hesaid."We'llwaitforyou,"saidLilly."No,no,don'tthinkofit.However,ifyouwill,Ishallbeoneminuteonly—one minute only. I'll put on the water for the tea now. Oh, damned badmethylatedspirittheysellnow!Andsixfrancsalitre!Sixfrancsalitre!Idon'tknowwhatI'mgoingtodo,theairIbreathecostsmoneynowadays—JustonemomentandI'llbewithyou!Justonemoment—"Inaverylittlewhilehecamefromthetinyatticbedroom,throughthetiniestcupboardofasitting-roomundertheeaves,wherehisbookswere,andwherehe had hung his old red India tapestries—or silk embroideries—and heemergedthereupabovetheworldontheloggia."Nowthen—siamonelparadiso,eh?Paradisalenoughforyou,isit?""The devil looking over Lincoln," said Lilly laughing, glancing up intoArgyle'sface."ThedevillookingoverFlorencewouldfeelsad,"saidArgyle."Theplaceisfast growing respectable—Oh, piety makes the devil chuckle. Butrespectability,myboy, argues a serious diminution of spunk.Andwhen thespunkdiminisheswe-ell—it'senoughtomakethemoststurdydevillooksick.What?Nodoubtaboutit,nodoubtwhatever—There—!"hehadjustfinishedsettlinghistieandbuttoninghiswaistcoat."HowdoIlook,eh?Presentable?—I'vejusthadthissuitturned.Cleverlittletailoracrossthewaythere.Buthe

chargedmeahundredandtwentyfrancs."Argylepulledaface,andmadethelittletrumpingnoisewithhislips."However—notbad,isit?—Hehadtoletina bit at the back of the waistcoat, and a gusset, my boy, a gusset—in thetrousers back. Seems I've grown in the arsal region. Well, well, might doworse.—Isitallright?"Lillyeyedthesuit."Very nice. Very nice indeed. Such a good cloth! That makes all thedifference.""Oh,mydearfellow,allthedifference!Thissuitiselevenyearsold—elevenyearsold.ButbeautifulEnglishcloth—beforethewar,beforethewar!""Itlooksquitewonderfullyexpensiveandsmartnow,"saidLilly."Expensiveand smart, eh!Ha-ha-ha!Well, it costmeahundredand twentyfrancstohaveitturned,andIfoundthatexpensiveenough.Well,now,come—"hereArgyle'svoicetookonanewgaycheer."Awhiskeyandsoda,Lilly?Saywhen!Oh,nonsense,nonsense!You'regoingtohavedoublethat.You'reno lily of the valley here, remember. Not with me. Not likely. Siamo nelparadiso,remember.""Butwhyshouldwedrinkyourwhiskey?Teawoulddoforusjustaswell.""Notlikely!Notlikely!WhenIhavethepleasureofyourcompany,myboy,wedrinkaglassofsomething,unlessIamutterlystripped.Saywhen,Aaron.""When,"saidAaron.Argyle at last seated himself heavily in a small chair. The sun had left theloggia, butwas glowing still onGiotto's tower and the top of the cathedralfacade,andontheremotergreatred-tileddome."Lookatmylittleredmonthlyrose,"saidArgyle."Wonderfullittlefellow!Iwouldn'thaveanythinghappentohimfortheworld.Oh,abacchiclittlechap.ImadePasqualewearawreathofthemonhishair.Verybecomingtheywere,very.—Oh, I've had a charming show of flowers. Wonderful creaturessunflowers are." They got up and put their heads over the balcony, lookingdownonthesquarebelow."Oh,greatfun,greatfun.—Yes,Ihadacharmingshowofflowers,charming.—Zinnias,petunias,ranunculus,sunflowers,whitestocks—oh, charming. Look at that bit of honeysuckle. You see the berrieswherehisflowerswere!Deliciousscent,Iassureyou."Under the littlebalconywallArgylehadputsquarered-tiledpots,all round,and in these still bloomed a few pansies and asters, whilst in a corner amonthly rose hung flowers like round blood-drops. Argyle was as tidy andscrupulousinhistinyroomsandhisbalconyasifhewereafirst-ratesea-manonayacht.Lillyremarkedonthis.

"Doyouseesignsof theoldmaidcomingout inme?Oh, Idon'tdoubt it. Idon'tdoubtit.Weallendthatway.Agemakesoldmaidsofusall.AndTannyisallright,yousay?Bringhertoseeme.Whydidn'tshecometoday?""Youknowyoudon'tlikepeopleunlessyouexpectthem.""Oh,butmydearfellow!—YouandTanny;you'dbewelcomeifyoucameatmy busiest moment. Of course you would. I'd be glad to see you if youinterruptedmeatanycrucialmoment.—IamalonenowtillAugust.Thenweshallgoawaytogethersomewhere.ButyouandTanny;why,there'stheworld,andthere'sLilly:that'showIputit,myboy.""Allright,Argyle.—Hoflichkeiten.""What? Gar keine Hoflichkeiten. Wahrhaftiger Kerl bin ich.—When am IgoingtoseeTanny?Whenareyoucomingtodinewithme?""Afteryou'vedinedwithus—saythedayaftertomorrow.""Rightyouare.Delighted—.Letme look if thatwater'sboiling."Hegotupand poked half himself inside the bedroom. "Not yet. Damned filthymethylatedspirittheysell.""Look,"saidLilly."There'sDelTorre!""Like some sort ofmidge, in that damned grey-and-yellow uniform. I can'tstandit,Itellyou.Ican'tstandthesightofanymoreoftheseuniforms.Likeablighton thehuman landscape.Likeablight.Likegreen-flieson rose-trees,smother-flies. Europe's got the smother-fly in these infernal shoddymilitarists.""DelTorre'scomingoutofitassoonashecan,"saidLilly."Ishouldthinkso,too.""I like himmyself—verymuch. Look, he's seen us!Hewants to come up,Argyle.""What,inthatuniform!I'llseehiminhisgrandmother'scrinolinefirst.""Don'tbefanatical,it'sbadtaste.Lethimcomeupaminute.""Notformysake.Butforyours,heshall,"Argylestoodattheparapetofthebalcony and waved his arm. "Yes, come up," he said, "come up, you littlemistkafer—whattheAmericanscallabug.Comeupandbedamned."OfcourseDelTorrewastoofarofftohearthisexhortation.Lillyalsowavedtohim—andwatchedhimpassintothedoorwayfarbelow."I'llrinseoneoftheseglassesforhim,"saidArgyle.TheMarchese'sstepwasheardonthestonestairs:thenhisknock."Come in!Come in!"criedArgyle from thebedroom,wherehewas rinsing

the glass. The Marchese entered, grinning with his curious, half courteousgreeting."Gothrough—gothrough,"criedArgyle."Goontotheloggia—andmindyourhead.Goodheavens,mindyourheadinthatdoorway."TheMarchese justmissed the top of the doorway as he climbed the abruptsteps on to the loggia.—There he greeted Lilly and Aaron with heartyhandshakes."Very glad to see you—very glad, indeed!" he cried, grinning with excitedcourtesy and pleasure, and covering Lilly's hand with both his own glovedhands."WhendidyoucometoFlorence?"Therewasalittleexplanation.Argyleshovedthelastchair—itwasaluggagestool—throughthewindow."AllIcandoforyouinthewayofachair,"hesaid."Ah,thatisallright,"saidtheMarchese."Well,it isveryniceuphere—andverynicecompany.Oftheverybest,theverybestinFlorence.""Thehighest,anyhow,"saidArgylegrimly,asheenteredwiththeglass."Haveawhiskeyandsoda,DelTorre.It'sthebottomofthebottle,asyousee.""Thebottomofthebottle!ThenIstartwiththetail-end,yes!"Hestretchedhisblueeyessothatthewhitesshowedallround,andgrinnedawide,gnome-likegrin."Youmade that start long ago,mydear fellow.Don't play the ingenuewithme,youknowitwon'twork.Saywhen,myman,saywhen!""Yes,when,"saidDelTorre."WhendidImakethatstart,then?""At some unmentionably young age. Chickens such as you soon learn tocheep.""ChickenssuchasIsoonlearntocheap,"repeatedDelTorre,pleasedwiththeverbalplay."Whatischeap,please?WhatisTOCHEAP?""Cheep!Cheep!"squeakedArgyle,makingafaceatthelittleItalian,whowasperchedononestrapoftheluggage-stool."It'swhatchickenssaywhenthey'repokingtheirlittlenosesintonewadventures—naughtyones.""Arechickensnaughty?Oh!Ithoughttheycouldonlybegood!""Featherlesschickenslikeyourself,myboy.""Oh, as for featherless—then there is no sayingwhat theywill do.—"Andhere theMarchese turned away fromArgylewith the inevitable question toLilly:"Well,andhowlongwillyoustayinFlorence?"Lillydidnotknow:buthewasnotleavingimmediately.

"Good!Thenyouwillcomeandseeusatonce...."Argyleroseoncemore,andwenttomakethetea.Heshovedalumpofcake—orratherpanetone,goodcurrantloaf—throughthewindow,withaknifetocutit."Helpyourselves to thepanetone," he said. "Eat it up.The tea is coming atonce.You'llhavetodrinkitinyourglasses,there'sonlyoneoldcup."TheMarchesecutthecake,andofferedpieces.Thetwomentookandate."SoyouhavealreadyfoundMr.Sisson!"saidDelTorretoLilly."RanstraightintohimintheViaNazionale,"saidLilly."Oh, one always runs into everybody in Florence. We are all alreadyacquainted:alsowiththeflute.Thatisagreatpleasure.""SoIthink.—Doesyourwifelikeit,too?""Verymuch,indeed!Sheisquiteeprise.I,too,shallhavetolearntoplayit.""Andruntheriskofspoilingtheshapeofyourmouth—likeAlcibiades.""Is therea risk?Yes!ThenIshan'tplay it.Mymouth is toobeautiful.—ButMr.Sissonhasnotspoilthismouth.""Notyet,"saidLilly."Givehimtime.""Ishealsoafraid—likeAlcibiades?""Areyou,Aaron?"saidLilly."What?""Afraidofspoilingyourbeautybyscrewingyourmouthtotheflute?""Ilookafool,doI,whenI'mplaying?"saidAaron."Only the least littlebit in theworld,"saidLilly."Thewayyoupranceyourhead,youknow,likeahorse.""Ah,well,"saidAaron."I'venothingtolose.""Andwereyousurprised,Lilly,tofindyourfriendhere?"askedDelTorre."Ioughttohavebeen.ButIwasn'treally.""Thenyouexpectedhim?""No.Itcamenaturally,though.—Butwhydidyoucome,Aaron?Whatexactlybroughtyou?""Accident,"saidAaron."Ah,no!No!Thereisnosuchthingasaccident,"saidtheItalian."Amanisdrawnbyhisfate,wherehegoes.""Youareright,"saidArgyle,whocamenowwiththeteapot."Amanisdrawn

—ordriven.Driven,I'vefoundit.Ah,mydearfellow,whatislifebutasearchforafriend?Asearchforafriend—thatsumsitup.""Oralover,"saidtheMarchese,grinning."Samething.Samething.Myhairiswhite—butthatisthesumofmywholeexperience. The search for a friend."Therewas something at once real andsentimentalinArgyle'stone."Andneverfinding?"saidLilly,laughing."Oh,whatwouldyou?Oftenfinding.Oftenfinding.Andlosing,ofcourse.—Alife'shistory.Givemeyourglass.Miserabletea,butnobodyhassentmeanyfromEngland—""Andyouwillgoontillyoudie,Argyle?"saidLilly."Alwaysseekingafriend—andalwaysanewone?""If I lose the friend I've got.Ah,my dear fellow, in that case I shall go onseeking. I hope so, I assureyou.Somethingwill beverywrongwithme, ifeverIsitfriendlessandmakenosearch.""But,Argyle,thereisatimetoleaveoff.""Toleaveoffwhat,toleaveoffwhat?""Havingfriends:orafriend,rather:orseekingtohaveone.""Oh,no!Notatall,myfriend.Notatall!Onlydeathcanmakeanendofthat,myfriend.Onlydeath.AndIshouldsay,notevendeath.Notevendeathendsaman'ssearchforafriend.Thatismybelief.Youmayhangmeforit,butIshallneveralter.""Nay,"saidLilly."Thereisatimetolove,andatimetoleaveoffloving.""AllIcansaytothatisthatmytimetoleaveoffhasn'tcomeyet,"saidArgyle,withobstinatefeeling."Ah,yes,ithas.Itisonlyahabitandanideayoustickto.""Indeed,itisnosuchthing.Indeed,itisnosuchthing.Itisaprofounddesireandnecessity:andwhatismore,abelief.""Anobstinatepersistency,youmean,"saidLilly."Well,callitsoifitpleasesyou.Itisbynomeanssotome."Therewasabriefpause.Thesunhadleftthecathedraldomeandthetower,theskywasfulloflight,thesquareswimminginshadow."Butcanamanlive,"saidtheMarchese,"withouthavingsomethinghelivesfor:somethinghewishesfor,orlongsfor,andtriesthathemayget?""Impossible! Completely impossible!" said Argyle. "Man is a seeker, andexceptassuch,hehasnosignificance,noimportance."

"He bores me with his seeking," said Lilly. "He should learn to possesshimself—tobehimself—andkeepstill.""Ay,perhapsso,"saidAaron."Only—""Butmy dear boy, believeme, aman is never himself save in the supremestate of love: or perhaps hate, too,which amounts to the same thing.Neverreallyhimself.—Apartfromthisheisatram-driveroramoney-shovelleroranidea-machine.Onlyinthestateofloveishereallyaman,andreallyhimself.Isayso,becauseIknow,"saidArgyle."Ah,yes.Thatisonesideofthetruth.Itisquitetrue,also.Butitisjustastrueto say, that a man is never less himself, than in the supreme state of love.Neverlesshimself,thanthen.""Maybe!Maybe!Butwhatcouldbebetter?Whatcouldbebetterthantoloseoneselfwith someone you love, entirely, and so find yourself.Ah,my dearfellow,thatismycreed,thatismycreed,andyoucan'tshakemeinit.Neverinthat.Neverinthat.""Yes,Argyle,"saidLilly."Iknowyou'reanobstinatelove-apostle.""Iam!Iam!AndIhavecertainstandards,myboy,andcertainidealswhichInevertransgress.Nevertransgress.Andneverabandon.""Allright,then,youareanincurablelove-maker.""PrayGodIam,"saidArgyle."Yes," said theMarchese. "Perhaps we are all so.What else do you give?Wouldyouhaveusmakemoney?Ordoyougivethecentreofyourspirittoyourwork?Howisittobe?""Idon'tvitallycareeitheraboutmoneyormyworkor—"Lillyfaltered."Orwhat,then?""Oranything.Idon'treallycareaboutanything.Exceptthat—""You don't care about anything? But what is that for a life?" cried theMarchese,withahollowmockery."WhatdoYOUcarefor?"askedLilly."Me?Icareforseveralthings.Icareformywife.Icareforlove.AndIcaretobeloved.AndIcareforsomepleasures.AndIcareformusic.AndIcareforItaly.""Youarewelloffforcares,"saidLilly."Andyouseemtomesoverypoor,"saidDelTorre."I should say so—if he cares for nothing," interjaculated Argyle. Then heclappedLillyontheshoulderwithalaugh."Ha!Ha!Ha!—Butheonlysaysit

toteaseus,"hecried,shakingLilly'sshoulder."Hecaresmorethanwedoforhisownwayofloving.Comealong,don'ttryandtakeusin.Weareoldbirds,oldbirds,"saidArgyle.Butatthatmomentheseemedabitdoddering."Amancan'tlive,"saidtheItalian,"withoutanobject.""Well—andthatobject?"saidLilly."Well—itmaybemanythings.Mostlyitistwothings.—love,andmoney.Butitmaybemanythings:ambition,patriotism,science,art—manythings.Butitissomeobjective.Somethingoutsidetheself.Perhapsmanythingsoutsidetheself.""Ihavehadonlyoneobjectiveallmylife,"saidArgyle."Andthatwaslove.ForthatIhavespentmylife.""Andthelivesofanumberofotherpeople,too,"saidLilly."Admitted.Oh,admitted.Ittakestwotomakelove:unlessyou'reamiserable—""Don'tyou think," saidAaron, turning toLilly, "thathoweveryou try togetaway from it, if you're not after money, and can't fit yourself into a job—you've got to, you've got to try and find something else—somebody else—somebody.Youcan'treallybealone.""Nomatterhowmanymistakesyou'vemade—youcan't reallybealone—?"askedLilly."You canbe alone for aminute.You canbe alone just in thatminutewhenyou'vebrokenfree,andyoufeelheartthankfultobealone,becausetheotherthingwasn't tobeborne.Butyoucan'tkeeponbeingalone.Nomatterhowmany tunesyou'vebroken free,and feel, thankGod tobealone (nothingonearth is so good as to breathe fresh air and be alone), nomatter howmanytimesyou'vefeltthis—itwearsoffeverytime,andyoubegintolookagain—andyoubegintoroamround.Andevenifyouwon'tadmitittoyourself,stillyouareseeking—seeking.Aren'tyou?Aren'tyouyourselfseeking?""Oh,that'sanothermatter,"putinArgyle."Lillyishappilymarriedandontheshelf.WithsuchafinewomanasTannyIshouldthinkso—RATHER!Buthisisanexceptionalnature,andanexceptionalcase.Asforme,Imadeahellofmymarriage,andIswearitnearlysentmetohell.ButIdidn'tforswearlove,whenIforsworemarriageandwoman.NotbyANYmeans.""Are you not seeking anymore, Lilly?" asked theMarchese. "Do you seeknothing?""We married men who haven't left our wives, are we supposed to seekanything?" said Lilly. "Aren't we perfectly satisfied and in bliss with thewonderfulwomenwhohonourusaswives?"

"Ah,yes,yes!"saidtheMarchese."Butnowwearenotspeakingtotheworld.Nowwetrytospeakofthatwhichwehaveinourcentreofourhearts.""Andwhathavewethere?"saidLilly."Well—shall I say? We have unrest. We have another need. We havesomethingthathurtsandeatsus,yes,eatsusinside.DoIspeakthetruth?""Yes.Butwhatisthesomething?""Idon'tknow.Idon'tknow.Butitissomethinginlove,Ithink.Itisloveitselfwhichgnawsusinside,likeacancer,"saidtheItalian."Butwhyshouldit?Isthatthenatureoflove?"saidLilly."Idon'tknow.Truly.Idon'tknow.—Butperhapsitisinthenatureoflove—Idon'tknow.—ButItellyou,Ilovemywife—sheisverydeartome.Iadmireher,Itrusther,Ibelieveher.Sheistomemuchmorethananywoman,moreeventhanmymother.—Andso,Iamveryhappy.Iamveryhappy,sheisveryhappy, in our love and ourmarriage.—Butwait.Nothing has changed—thelovehasnotchanged:itisthesame.—AndyetweareNOThappy.No,wearenothappy.Iknowsheisnothappy,IknowIamnot—""Whyshouldyoube?"saidLilly."Yes—anditisnotevenhappiness,"saidtheMarchese,screwinguphisfaceinapainfuleffortofconfession."Itisnotevenhappiness.No,Idonotasktobehappy.WhyshouldI?Itischildish—butthereisforbothofus,Iknowit,something which bites us, which eats us within, and drives us, drives us,somewhere,wedon'tknowwhere.But itdrivesus,andeatsawaythe life—andyetweloveeachother,andwemustnotseparate—DoyouknowwhatImean?DoyouunderstandmeatallinwhatIsay?Ispeakwhatistrue.""Yes,Iunderstand.I'minthesamedilemmamyself.—ButwhatIwanttohear,isWHYyouthinkitisso.Whyisit?""ShallIsaywhatIthink?Yes?Andyoucantellmeifitisfoolishtoyou.—ShallItellyou?Well.Becauseawoman,shenowfirstwantstheman,andhemust go to her because he is wanted. Do you understand?—You know—supposingIgotoawoman—supposingsheismywife—andIgotoher,yes,withmybloodallready,becauseitisIwhowant.Thensheputsmeoff.Thenshesays,notnow,notnow,Iamtired,Iamnotwell.Idonotfeellikeit.Sheputsmeoff—tillIamangryorsorryorwhateverIam—buttillmybloodhasgonedownagain,youunderstand,and Idon'twantheranymore.And thensheputsherarmsroundme,andcaressesme,andmakeslovetome—tillsherousesmeoncemore.So,andsosherousesme—andsoIcometoher.AndIlove her, it is very good, very good. But it was shewho began, it was herinitiative, you know.—I do not think, in allmy life,mywife has lovedmefrom my initiative, you know. She will yield to me—because I insist, or

because shewants tobeagood submissivewifewho lovesme.So shewillyieldtome.Butah,whatisit,youknow?Whatisitawomanwhoallowsme,and who has no answer? It is something worse than nothing—worse thannothing.Andsoitmakesmeverydiscontentedandunbelieving.—IfIsaytoher,shesaysitisnottrue—notatalltrue.Thenshesays,allshewantsisthatIshoulddesireher,thatIshouldloveheranddesireher.Buteventhatisputtingherwillfirst.AndifIcometoherso,ifIcometoherofmyowndesire,thensheputsmeoff.Sheputsmeoff,orsheonlyallowsmetocometoher.Evennowitisthesameaftertenyears,asitwasatfirst.ButnowIknow,andformanyyearsIdidnotknow—"The littlemanwas intense.His facewasstrained,hisblueeyessostretchedthattheyshowedthewhitesallround.HegazedintoLilly'sface."Butdoesitmatter?"saidLillyslowly,"inwhichofyouthedesireinitiates?Isn'ttheresultthesame?""Itmatters.Itmatters—"criedtheMarchese."Oh,mydearfellow,howMUCHitmatters—"interruptedArgylesagely."Ay!"saidAaron.TheMarcheselookedfromonetotheotherofthem."Itmatters!"hecried."Itmatterslifeordeath.Itusedtobe,thatdesirestartedintheman,andthewomananswered.ItusedtobesoforalongtimeinItaly.Forthisreasonthewomenwerekeptawayfromthemen.ForthisreasonourCatholic religion tried to keep the young girls in convents, and innocent,beforemarriage.So thatwith theirminds they shouldnotknow, and shouldnotstartthisterriblething,thiswoman'sdesireoveraman,beforehand.Thisdesirewhich starts in awoman's head,when she knows, andwhich takes amanforheruse,forherservice.ThisisEve.Ah,IhateEve.Ihateher,whensheknows,andwhensheWILLS.Ihateherwhenshewillmakeofmethatwhichservesherdesire.—Shemayloveme,shemaybesoftandkindtome,shemaygiveherlifeforme.Butwhy?OnlybecauseIamHERS.Iamthatthingwhichdoeshermostintimateservice.Shecanseenootherinme.AndImaybenoothertoher—""Thenwhynotletitbeso,andbesatisfied?"saidLilly."Because I cannot. I cannot. I would. But I cannot. The Borghesia—thecitizens—the bourgeoisie, they are the ones who can. Oh, yes. Thebourgeoisie,theshopkeepers,theseservetheirwivesso,andtheirwiveslovethem.Theyarethemaritalmaquereaux—thehusband-maquereau,youknow.Their wives are so stout and happy, and they dote on their husbands andalways betray them. So it iswith the bourgeoise. She loves her husband somuch, and is always seeking to betray him. Or she is a Madame Bovary,

seekingforascandal.Butthebourgeoishusband,hegoesonbeingthesame.He is thehorse,andshe thedriver.Andwhenshesaysgee-up,youknow—then he comes ready, like a hiredmaquereau.Only he feels so good, like agoodlittleboyatherbreast.Andthentherearethenicelittlechildren.Andsotheykeeptheworldgoing.—Butforme—"hespatsuddenlyandwithfrenzyonthefloor."Youarequiteright,myboy,"saidArgyle."Youarequiteright.They'vegotthestartofus,thewomen:andwe'vegottocanterwhentheysaygee-up.I—oh,Iwentthroughitall.ButIbroketheshaftsandsmashedthematrimonialcart,Icantellyou,andIdidn'tcarewhetherIsmashedherupalongwithitornot.Ididn'tcareonesinglebit,Iassureyou.—AndhereIam.Andsheisdeadandburied thesedozenyears.Well—well!Life,youknow, life.Andwomenoh, they are the very hottest hell once they get the start of you. There'sNOTHINGtheywon'tdotoyou,oncethey'vegotyou.Nothingtheywon'tdotoyou.Especiallyiftheyloveyou.Thenyoumayaswellgiveuptheghost:orsmashthecartbehindyou,andherinit.Otherwiseshewilljustharryyouintosubmission,andmakeadogofyou,andcuckoldyouunderyournose.Andyou'llsubmit.Oh,you'llsubmit,andgooncallinghermydarling.Orelse,ifyouwon'tsubmit,she'lldoforyou.Youronlychanceistosmashtheshafts,and the wholematrimonial cart. Or she'll do for you. For a woman has anuncanny,hellishstrength—she'sashe-bearandawolf,isawomanwhenshe'sgotthestartofyou.Oh,it'saterribleexperience,ifyou'renotabourgeois,andnotoneoftheknuckling-undermoney-makingsort.""Knuckling-undersort.Yes.Thatisit,"saidtheMarchese."Butcan'ttherebeabalancingofwills?"saidLilly."Mydearboy,thebalanceliesinthat,thatwhenonegoesup,theothergoesdown.Oneacts, theother takes.It is theonlywayinlove—Andthewomenarenowadaystheactiveparty.Oh,yes,notashadowofdoubtaboutit.Theytaketheinitiative,andthemanplaysup.That'showitis.Themanjustplaysup.—Nicemanlyproceeding,what!"criedArgyle."But why can't man accept it as the natural order of things?" said Lilly."Sciencemakesitthenaturalorder.""Allmy——toscience,"saidArgyle."Nomanwithonedropofrealspunkinhimcanstanditlong.""Yes!Yes!Yes!"criedtheItalian."Mostmenwantitso.Mostmenwantonly,thatawomanshallwantthem,andtheyshallthenplayuptoherwhenshehasroused them.Mostmenwantonly this: that awomanshall chooseonemanout, to be her man, and he shall worship her and come up when she shallprovokehim.Otherwiseheistokeepstill.Andthewoman,sheisquitesureofherpart.Shemustbelovedandadored,andaboveall,obeyed,particularlyin

hersexdesire.Thereshemustnotbethwarted,orshebecomesadevil.Andifshe is obeyed, she becomes a misunderstood woman with nerves, lookingroundforthenextmanwhomshecanbringunder.Soitis.""Well,"saidLilly."Andthenwhat?""Nay,"interruptedAaron."Butdoyouthinkit'struewhathesays?Haveyoufoundit likethat?You'remarried.Hasyourexperiencebeendifferent,orthesame?""Whatwasyours?"askedLilly."Minewasthesame.Minewasthesame,ifeveritwas,"saidAaron."AndminewasEXTREMELYsimilar,"saidArgylewithagrimace."Andyours,Lilly?"askedtheMarcheseanxiously."Notverydifferent,"saidLilly."Ah!"criedDelTorre,jerkinguperectasifhehadfoundsomething."Andwhat'syourwayout?"Aaronaskedhim."I'mnotout—soIwon'tholloa,"saidLilly."ButDelTorreputsitbest.—Whatdoyousayisthewayout,DelTorre?""Thewayoutisthatitshouldchange:thatthemanshouldbetheaskerandthewomantheanswerer.Itmustchange.""Butitdoesn't.Prrr!"Argylemadehistrumpetingnoise."Doesit?"askedLillyoftheMarchese."No.Ithinkitdoesnot.""Andwilliteveragain?""Perhapsnever.""Andthenwhat?""Then?Whythenmanseeksapis-aller.Thenheseekssomethingwhichwillgivehimanswer,andwhichwillnotonlydrawhim,drawhim,withaterriblesexualwill.—Soheseeksyounggirls,whoknownothing,andsocannotforcehim.He thinkshewillpossess themwhile theyareyoung, and theywillbesoftandrespondingtohiswishes.—Butinthis, too,heismistaken.Becausenowababyofoneyear,ifitbeafemale,islikeawomanofforty,soisitswillmadeup,soitwillforceaman.""Andsoyounggirlsarenogood,evenasapis-aller.""Nogood—becausetheyareallmodernwomen.Everyone,amodernwoman.Notonewhoisn't.""Terriblething,themodernwoman,"putinArgyle.

"Andthen—?""Thenman seeks other forms of loves, always seeking the loving response,youknow,ofonegentlerandtendererthanhimself,whowillwaittillthemandesires,andthenwillanswerwithfulllove.—Butitisallpis-aller,youknow.""Notbyanymeans,myboy,"criedArgyle."Andthenamannaturallyloveshisownwife,too,evenifitisnotbearabletoloveher.""Oroneleavesher,likeAaron,"saidLilly."Andseeksanotherwoman,so,"saidtheMarchese."Doesheseekanotherwoman?"saidLilly."Doyou,Aaron?""Idon'tWANTto,"saidAaron."But—Ican'tstandbymyselfinthemiddleoftheworldand in themiddleofpeople,andknowIamquitebymyself, andnowheretogo,andnothingtoholdonto.Icanforadayortwo—Butthen,itbecomesunbearableaswell.Yougetfrightened.Youfeelyoumightgofunny—asyouwouldifyoustoodonthisbalconywallwithall thespacebeneathyou.""Can'tonebealone—quitealone?"saidLilly."Butno—itisabsurd.LikeSaintSimeonStylitesonapillar.Butitisabsurd!"criedtheItalian."Idon'tmeanlikeSimeonStylites.Imeancan'tonelivewithone'swife,andbefondofher:andwithone'sfriends,andenjoytheircompany:andwiththeworld and everything, pleasantly: and yet KNOW that one is alone?Essentially,attheverycoreofme,alone.Eternallyalone.Andchoosingtobealone.NotsentimentalorLONELY.Alone,choosingtobealone,becausebyone'sownnatureone isalone.Thebeingwithanotherperson is secondary,"saidLilly."Oneisalone,"saidArgyle,"inallbut love.Inallbut love,mydearfellow.AndthenIagreewithyou.""No,"saidLilly,"inlovemostintenselyofall,alone.""Completelyincomprehensible,"saidArgyle."Amountstonothing.""Onemanisbutapart.Howcanhebesoalone?"saidtheMarchese."Insofarasheisasingleindividualsoul,heISalone—ipsofacto.InsofarasIamI,andonlyIamI,andIamonlyI,insofar,Iaminevitablyandeternallyalone,anditismylastblessednesstoknowit,andtoacceptit,andtolivewiththisasthecoreofmyself-knowledge.""Mydearboy,youarebecomingmetaphysical,andthatisasbadassofteningofthebrain,"saidArgyle.

"Allright,"saidLilly."And,"saidtheMarchese,"itmaybesobyREASON.Butintheheart—?Canthehearteverbeatquitealone?Plop!Plop!—Cantheheartbeatquitealone,aloneinalltheatmosphere,allthespaceoftheuniverse?Plop!Plop!Plop!—Quitealoneinallthespace?"AslowsmilecameovertheItalian'sface."Itisimpossible.Itmayeatagainsttheheartofothermen,inanger,allinpressureagainsttheothers.Itmaybeathard,likeiron,sayingitisindependent.Butthisis only beating against the heart ofmankind, not alone.—But eitherwith oragainst the heart ofmankind, or the heart of someone,mother,wife, friend,children—somusttheheartofeverymanbeat.Itisso.""Itbeatsaloneinitsownsilence,"saidLilly.TheItalianshookhishead."We'd better be going inside, anyhow," said Argyle. "Some of you will betakingcold.""Aaron,"saidLilly."Isittrueforyou?""Nearly,"saidAaron,lookingintothequiet,half-amused,yetfrighteningeyesoftheotherman."Orithasbeen.""Amissisasgoodasamile,"laughedLilly,risingandpickinguphischairtotakeitindoors.Andthelaughterofhisvoicewassolikeasimple,deliberateamiability,thatAaron'sheartreallystoodstillforasecond.HeknewthatLillywasalone—asfarashe,Aaron,wasconcerned.Lillywasalone—andoutofhisisolationcamehiswords,indifferentastowhethertheycameornot.Andhe left his friends utterly to their own choice. Utterly to their own choice.Aaron felt that Lilly was there, existing in life, yet neither asking forconnection nor preventing any connection. Hewas present, hewas the realcentre of the group. And yet he asked nothing of them, and he imposednothing.Helefteachtohimself,andhehimselfremainedjusthimself:neithermorenorless.Andtherewasafinalityaboutit,whichwasatoncemaddeningandfascinating.Aaronfeltangry,asifhewerehalfinsultedbytheotherman'splacing the gift of friendship or connection so quietly back in the giver'shands.Lillywouldreceivenogiftoffriendshipinequality.Neitherwouldheviolently refuse it. He let it lie unmarked.And yet at the same timeAaronknewthathecoulddependontheothermanforhelp,nay,almostforlifeitself—so long as it entailednobreakingof the intrinsic isolationofLilly's soul.Butthisconditionwasalsohateful.Andtherewasalsoagreatfascinationinit.

CHAPTERXVIII.THEMARCHESA

SoAarondinedwiththeMarchesaandManfredi.Hewasquitestartledwhenhis hostess came in: she seemed like somebody else. She seemed like ademon, her hair on her brows, her terrible modern elegance. She wore awonderful gown of thin blue velvet, of a lovely colour, with some kind ofgauzy gold-threaded filament down the sides. Itwas terriblymodern, short,andshowedherlegsandhershouldersandbreastandallherbeautifulwhitearms.Roundherthroatwasacollarofdark-bluesapphires.Herhairwasdonelow,almosttothebrows,andheavy,likeanAubreyBeardsleydrawing.Shewasmostcarefullymadeup—yetwiththattouchofexaggeration,lipsslightlytoored,whichwasquiteintentional,andwhichfrightenedAaron.Hethoughtherwonderful,andsinister.Sheaffectedhimwitha touchofhorror.Shesatdownoppositehim,andherbeautifullyshapenlegs,infrail,goldishstockings,seemedtoglistenmetallicnaked,thrustfromoutofthewonderful,wonderfulskin, likeperiwinkle-bluevelvet.Shehad tapestryshoes,blueandgold:andalmost one could see her toes: metallic naked. The gold-threaded gauzeslippedatherside.Aaroncouldnothelpwatchingthenaked-seemingarchofherfoot.Itwasasifsheweredustedwithdarkgold-dustuponhermarvellousnudity.Shemusthaveseenhisface,seenthathewasebloui."You brought the flute?" she said, in that toneless, melancholy, unstrivingvoiceofhers.Hervoicealonewasthesame:directandbareandquiet."Yes.""PerhapsIshallsinglateron,ifyou'llaccompanyme.Willyou?""Ithoughtyouhatedaccompaniments.""Oh,no—notjustunison.Idon'tmeanaccompaniment.Imeanunison.Idon'tknowhowitwillbe.Butwillyoutry?""Yes,I'lltry.""Manfredi is justbringingthecocktails.Doyouthinkyou'dpreferorangeinyours?""Illhavemineasyouhaveyours.""Idon'ttakeorangeinmine.Won'tyousmoke?"Thestrange,naked,remote-seemingvoice!Andthenthebeautifulfirmlimbsthrust out in that dress, and nakedly dusky aswith gold-dust.Her beautifulwoman's legs, slightly glistening, duskily. His one abiding instinct was totouch them, to kiss them. He had never known a woman to exercise suchpoweroverhim.Itwasabare,occultforce,somethinghecouldnotcopewith.Manfredicameinwiththelittletray.Hewasstillinuniform."Hello!"cried the little Italian."Glad toseeyou—well,everythingall right?

Gladtohearit.Howisthecocktail,Nan?""Yes,"shesaid."Allright.""Onedroptoomuchpeach,eh?""No,allright.""Ah," and the little officer seated himself, stretching his gaitered legs as ifgaily. He had a curious smiling look on his face, that Aaron thought alsodiabolical—andalmosthandsome.Suddenlytheodd,laughing,satanicbeautyofthelittlemanwasvisible."Well,andwhathaveyoubeendoingwithyourself?"saidhe."Whatdidyoudoyesterday?""Yesterday?"saidAaron."IwenttotheUffizi.""TotheUffizi?Well!Andwhatdidyouthinkofit?""Veryfine.""Ithinkitis.Ithinkitis.Whatpicturesdidyoulookat?""IwaswithDekker.Welookedatmost,Ibelieve.""Andwhatdoyourememberbest?""IrememberBotticelli'sVenusontheShell.""Yes!Yes!—"saidManfredi."Ilikeher.ButIlikeothersbetter.Youthoughtheraprettywoman,yes?""No—notparticularlypretty.ButIlikeherbody.AndIlikethefreshair.Ilikethefreshair,thesummersea-airallthroughit—throughheraswell.""Andherface?"askedtheMarchesa,withaslow,ironicsmile."Yes—she'sabitbaby-faced,"saidAaron."Tryingtobemoreinnocentthanherowncommon-sensewilllether,"saidtheMarchesa."I don't agree with you, Nan," said her husband. "I think it is just thatwistfulnessand innocencewhichmakesher the trueVenus: the truemodernVenus.ShechoosesNOTtoknowtoomuch.Andthatisherattraction.Don'tyouagree,Aaron?Excuseme,buteverybodyspeaksofyouasAaron.Itseemsto come naturally.Most people speak ofme asManfredi, too, because it iseasier,perhaps, thanDelTorre.So ifyou find iteasier,use it.DoyoumindthatIcallyouAaron?""Notatall.IhateMisters,always.""Yes,sodoI.Ilikeonenameonly."ThelittleofficerseemedverywinninganddelightfultoAaronthisevening—

andAaronbegantolikehimextremely.Butthedominatingconsciousnessintheroomwasthewoman's."DOyouagree,Mr.Sisson?"saidtheMarchesa."Doyouagreethatthemock-innocence and the sham-wistfulness of Botticelli's Venus are her greatcharms?""Idon'tthinksheisatallcharming,asaperson,"saidAaron."Asaparticularwoman,shemakesnoimpressiononmeatall.Butasapicture—andthefreshair,particularlythefreshair.Shedoesn'tseemsomuchawoman,youknow,asthekindofout-of-doorsmorning-feelingsattheseaside.""Quite!Asortofsea-scapeofawoman.Withaperfectlyshaminnocence.AreyouaskeenoninnocenceasManfrediis?""Innocence?" said Aaron. "It's the sort of thing I don't have much feelingabout.""Ah,Iknowyou,"laughedthesoldierwickedly."YouarethesortofmanwhowantstobeAnthonytoCleopatra.Ha-ha!"Aaronwinced as if struck.Thenhe too smiled, flattered.Yet he felt he hadbeenstruck!Didhewant tobeAnthony toCleopatra?Withoutknowing,hewas watching theMarchesa. And she was looking away, but knew he waswatchingher.Andatlastsheturnedhereyestohis,withaslow,darksmile,full of pain and fuller still of knowledge. A strange, dark, silent look ofknowledge she gave him: from so far away, it seemed. And he felt all thebonds thatheldhimmeltingaway.Hiseyesremainedfixedandgloomy,butwithhismouthhesmiledbackather.Andhewasterrified.Heknewhewassulking towards her—sulking towards her. And he was terrified. But at thebackofhismind,also,heknewtherewasLilly,whomhemightdependon.Andalsohewanted tosink towardsher.The fleshandbloodofhimsimplymeltedout, indesire towardsher.Costwhatmay,hemustcometoher.Andyetheknewatthesametimethat,costwhatmay,hemustkeepthepowertorecoverhimselffromher.Hemusthavehiscakeandeatit.AndshebecameCleopatratohim."Agecannotwither,norcustomstale—"Tohisinstinctive,unwilledfancy,shewasCleopatra.Theywentintodinner,andhesatonherrighthand.Itwasasmallishtable,withaveryfewdaisy-flowers:everythingratherfrail,andsparse.Thefoodthesame—nothingveryheavy,allratherexquisite.Theydrankhock.Andhewasaware of her beautiful arms, and her bosom; her low-crowded, thick hair,partedinthecentre:thesapphiresonherthroat,theheavyringsonherfingers:andthepaintonherlips,thefard.Somethingdeep,deepatthebottomofhimhovereduponher,cleavedtoher.Yethewasasifsightless,inastupor.Whowasshe,whatwasshe?Hehadlostallhisgrasp.Onlyhesatthere,withhisfaceturnedtohers,ortoher,allthetime.Andshetalkedtohim.Butshenever

lookedathim.Indeed she said little. It was the husband who talked. His manner towardsAaron was almost caressive. And Aaron liked it. The woman was silentmostly,andseemedremote.AndAaronfelthis lifeebb towardsher.Hefeltthemarvellousness,therichbeautyofherarmsandbreast.Andthethoughtofhergold-dustedsmoothlimbsbeneaththetablemadehimfeelalmostanidiot.The second wine was a gold-coloured Moselle, very soft and rich andbeautiful. She drank this with pleasure, as one who understands. And fordesserttherewasadishofcacchi—thatorange-coloured,pulpyJapanesefruit—persimmons.Aaronhadnever eaten thesebefore.Soft, almost slimy,of awonderfulcolour,andofaflavourthathadsunkfromharshastringencydownto that first decay-sweetness which is all autumn-rich. TheMarchese lovedthem,andscoopedthemoutwithhisspoon.Butsheatenone.Aarondidnotknowwhat they talkedabout,whatwas said. If someonehadtakenhismindawayaltogether, and lefthimwithnothingbut abodyandaspinalconsciousness,itwouldhavebeenthesame.ButatcoffeethetalkturnedtoManfredi'sduties.Hewouldnotbefreefromthearmyforsometimeyet.Onthemorrow,forexample,hehadtobeoutandawaybeforeitwasday.Hesaidhehatedit,andwantedtobeafreemanoncemore.But it seemed toAaron hewould be a very boredman, once hewasfree. And then they drifted on to talk of the palazzo in which was theirapartment."We've got such a fine terrace—you can see it from your housewhere youare,"saidManfredi."Haveyounoticedit?""No,"saidAaron."Nearthattuftofpalm-trees.Don'tyouknow?""No,"saidAaron."Letusgooutandshowithim,"saidtheMarchesa.Manfredi fetchedher a cloak, and theywent throughvariousdoors, thenupsomesteps.Theterracewasbroadandopen.ItlookedstraightacrosstheriverattheoppositeLungarno:andtherewasthethin-neckedtowerofthePalazzoVecchio,andthegreatdomeofthecathedralinthedistance,inshadow-bulkinthecold-airednightof stars.Little tramswere runningbrilliantover the flatnewbridgeon the right.And fromagarden just below rose a tuft of palm-trees."Yousee,"saidtheMarchesa,comingandstandingclosetoAaron,sothatshejusttouchedhim,"youcanknowtheterrace,justbythesepalmtrees.AndyouareintheNardinijustacrossthere,areyou?Onthetopfloor,yousaid?"

"Yes,thetopfloor—oneofthemiddlewindows,Ithink.""Onethatisalwaysopennow—andtheothersareshut.Ihavenoticedit,notconnectingitwithyou.""Yes,mywindowisalwaysopen."Shewasleaningveryslightlyagainsthim,ashestood.Andheknew,withthesamekindofinevitabilitywithwhichheknewhewouldonedaydie,thathewouldbetheloverofthiswoman.Nay,thathewasherloveralready."Don'ttakecold,"saidManfredi.She turnedatonce indoors.Aaroncaught a faintwhiffofperfume from thelittleorangetreesintubsroundthewall."Willyougettheflute?"shesaidastheyentered."Andwillyousing?"heanswered."Playfirst,"shesaid.Hedidasshewished.Astheothernight,hewentintothebigmusic-roomtoplay.Andthestreamofsoundcameoutwiththequickwildimperiousnessofthepipe.Ithadanimmediateeffectonher.Sheseemedtorelaxthepeculiar,drug-liketensionwhichwasuponheratallordinarytimes.Sheseemedtogostill,andyielding.Herredmouthlookedasifitmightmoanwithrelief.Shesatwithherchindroppedonherbreast,listening.Andshedidnotmove.Butshe sat softly, breathing rather quick, like one who has been hurt, and issoothed.Acertainwomanlynaturalnessseemedtosoftenher.Andthemusicoftheflutecamequick,ratherbrilliantlikeacall-note,orlikealongquickmessage,halfcommand.Toheritwaslikeapuremalevoice—asablackbird'swhenhecalls:apuremalevoice,notonlycalling,buttellinghersomething, tellingher something, and soothingher soul to sleep. Itwas likethe fire-music putting Brunnhilde to sleep. But the pipe did not flicker andsink. It seemed to cause anatural relaxation inher soul, a peace.Perhaps itwas more like waking to a sweet, morning awakening, after a night oftormented,painfultensesleep.Perhapsmorelikethat.WhenAaroncamein,shelookedathimwithagentle,freshsmilethatseemedto make the fard on her face look like a curious tiredness, which now shemightrecoverfrom.Andasthelasttime,itwasdifficultforhertoidentifythismanwith thevoiceof the flute. Itwas ratherdifficult.Except that,perhaps,betweenhisbrowswassomethingofadoubt,andinhisbearinganaloofnessthatmadeherdreadhemightgoawayandnotcomeback.Shecouldseeitinhim,thathemightgoawayandnotcomeback.Shesaidnothingtohim,onlyjustsmiled.Andthelookofknowledgeinhereyesseemed,forthemoment,tobecontainedinanotherlook:alookoffaith,

andatlasthappiness.Aaron'sheartstoodstill.No,inhermoment'smoodoffaithandatlastpeace,life-trust,hewasperhapsmoreterrifiedofherthaninher previous sinister elegance. His spirit started and shrank.What was shegoingtoaskofhim?"Iamsoanxious thatyoushouldcome toplayoneSaturdaymorning," saidManfredi."Withanaccompaniment,youknow.Ishouldlikesomuchtohearyouwithpianoaccompaniment.""Verywell,"saidAaron."Will you really come? And will you practise with me, so that I canaccompanyyou?"saidManfredieagerly."Yes.Iwill,"saidAaron."Oh,good!Oh,good!Lookhere,comeinonFridaymorningandletusbothlookthroughthemusic.""IfMr.Sissonplaysforthepublic,"saidtheMarchesa,"hemustnotdoitforcharity.Hemusthavetheproperfee.""No,Idon'twantit,"saidAaron."Butyoumustearnmoney,mustn'tyou?"saidshe."Imust,"saidAaron."ButIcandoitsomewhereelse.""No.Ifyouplayforthepublic,youmusthaveyourearnings.Whenyouplayforme,itisdifferent.""Ofcourse,"saidManfredi."Everymanmusthavehiswage.IhaveminefromtheItaliangovernment—-"Afterawhile,AaronaskedtheMarchesaifshewouldsing."ShallI?"shesaid."Yes,do.""ThenIwillsingalonefirst,toletyouseewhatyouthinkofit—IshallbelikeTrilby—Iwon't say likeYvetteGuilbert, because Idaren't.So Iwill be likeTrilby, and sing a little French song.Though notMalbrouck, andwithout aSvengalitokeepmeintune."She went near the door, and stood with heir hands by her side. There wassomethingwistful,almostpatheticnow,inherelegance."DerrierechezmonpereVolevolemoncoeur,vole!DerrierechezmonpereIlyaunpommierdoux.

Toutdoux,etiouEtiou,toutdoux.Ilyaunpommierdoux.

TroisbellesprincessesVolevolemoncoeur,vole!TroisbellesprincessesSontassisdessous.Toutdoux,etiouEtiou,toutdoux.Sontassesdessous."Shehadabeautiful, strong, sweetvoice.But itwas faltering, stumblingandsometimesitseemedtodropalmosttospeech.Afterthreeversesshefalteredtoanend,bitterlychagrined."No,"shesaid."It'snogood.Ican'tsing."Andshedroppedinherchair."Alovelylittletune,"saidAaron."Haven'tyougotthemusic?"Sherose,notanswering,andfoundhimalittlebook."Whatdothewordsmean?"heaskedher.Shetoldhim.Andthenhetookhisflute."Youdon'tmindifIplayit,doyou?"hesaid.Soheplayedthetune.Itwassosimple.Andheseemedtocatchtheliltandthetimbreofhervoice."ComeandsingitwhileIplay—"hesaid."Ican'tsing,"shesaid,shakingherheadratherbitterly."Butletustry,"saidhe,disappointed."IknowIcan't,"shesaid.Butsherose.Heremainedsittingatthelittletable,thebookproppedupunderthereadinglamp.Shestoodatalittledistance,unhappy."I'vealwaysbeenlikethat,"shesaid."Icouldneversingmusic,unlessIhadathingdrilledintome,andthenitwasn'tsinginganymore."ButAaronwasn'theeding.His flutewasathismouth,hewaswatchingher.Hesoundedthenote,butshedidnotbegin.Shewastwistingherhandkerchief.Soheplayed themelodyalone.At theendof theverse,he lookedupatheragain,andahalfmockingsmileplayedinhiseyes.Againhesoundedthenote,

a challenge. And this time, as at his bidding, she began to sing. The fluteinstantly swungwith a lovely soft firmness into the song, and shewaveredonlyforaminuteortwo.Thenhersoulandhervoicegotfree,andshesang—shesangasshewantedtosing,asshehadalwayswantedtosing,withoutthatawfulscotch,thatimpedimentinsideherownsoul,whichpreventedher.Shesangfree,withthefluteglidingalongwithher.Andoh,howbeautifulitwasforher!Howbeautifulitwastosingthelittlesonginthesweetnessofherown spirit. How sweet it was to move pure and unhampered at last in themusic! The lovely ease and lilt of her own soul in its motion through themusic! She wasn't aware of the flute. She didn't know there was anythingexcept her own pure lovely song-drift. Her soul seemed to breathe as abutterflybreathes,as itrestsonaleafandslowlybreathesitswings.Forthefirsttime!Forthefirsttimehersouldrewitsowndeepbreath.Allherlife,thebreathhadcaughthalf-way.Andnowshebreathedfull,deep, to thedeepestextentofherbeing.Andoh,itwassowonderful,shewasdazed.Thesongended,shestoodwithadazed, happy face, like one just coming awake. And the fard on her faceseemedliketheoldnight-crust,thebadsleep.Newandluminousshelookedout.AndshelookedatAaronwithaproudsmile."Bravo,Nan!Thatwaswhatyouwanted,"saidherhusband."Itwas,wasn'tit?"shesaid,turningawondering,glowingfacetohim.Hisfacelookedstrangeandwitheredandgnome-like,atthemoment.Shewentandsatinherchair,quitesilent,asifinatrance.Thetwomenalsosatquitestill.Andinthesilencealittledramaplayeditselfbetweenthethree,of which they knew definitely nothing. ButManfredi knew that Aaron haddonewhathehimselfnevercoulddo,forthiswoman.Andyetthewomanwashisownwoman,notAaron's.Andso,hewasdisplaced.Aaron,sittingthere,glowed with a sort of triumph. He had performed a little miracle, and felthimselfalittlewonder-worker,towhomreverencewasdue.Andasinadreamthewomansat,feelingwhatajoyitwastofloatandmovelikeaswaninthehighair, flyingupon thewingsofherown spirit.Shewas as a swanwhichneverbeforecouldgetitswingsquiteopen,andsowhichnevercouldgetupintotheopen,wherealoneitcansing.Forswans,andstorksmaketheirmusiconlywhentheyarehigh,highupintheair.Thentheycangivesoundtotheirstrangespirits.Andso,she.Aaron and Manfredi kept their faces averted from one another and hardlyspoketooneanother.Itwasasiftwoinvisiblehandspushedtheirfacesapart,away,averted.AndAaron'sfaceglimmeredwitha little triumph,anda littlegrimace of obstinacy.And the Italian's face looked old, rathermonkey-like,and of a deep, almost stone-bare bitterness. The woman looked wondering

fromonemantotheother—wondering.Theglimmeroftheopenflower,thewonder-look,stilllasted.AndAaronsaidinhisheart,whatagoodlywoman,whatawomantotasteandenjoy.Ah,whatawomantoenjoy!Andwasitnothisprivilege?Hadhenotgainedit?His manhood, or rather his maleness, rose powerfully in him, in a sort ofmastery.Hefelthisownpower,hefeltsuddenlyhisownviriletitletostrengthandreward.Suddenly,andnewlyflushedwithhisownmalesuper-power,hewasgoingtohavehisreward.Thewomanwashisreward.Soitwas,inhim.Andhecastitoverinhismind.Hewantedher—ha,didn'the!Butthehusbandsatthere,likeasoap-stoneChinesemonkey,greyish-green.So,itwouldhavetobeanothertime.Herose,therefore,andtookhisleave."Butyou'llletusdothatagain,won'tyou?"saidshe."Whenyoutellme,I'llcome,"saidhe."ThenI'lltellyousoon,"saidshe.Soheleft,andwenthometohisownplace,andtheretohisownremoteroom.Ashe laidhis fluteon the tablehe lookedat it andsmiled.He rememberedthatLillyhadcalleditAaron'sRod."Soyoublossom,doyou?—andthornaswell,"saidhe.For sucha long timehehadbeengripped insidehimself, andwithheld.Forsuchalongtimeithadbeenhardandunyielding,sohardandunyielding.Hehadwantednothing,hisdesirehadkeptitselfback,fastback.Forsuchalongtimehisdesireforwomanhadwithhelditself,hardandresistant.Allhisdeep,desirousbloodhadbeen locked,hehadwantednobody,andnothing.And ithadbeenhardtolive,so.Withoutdesire,withoutanymovementofpassionatelove,onlygrippedbackinrecoil!Thatwasanexperiencetoendure.Andnowcamehisdesireback.Butstrong,fierceasiron.Likethestrengthofan eagle with the lightning in its talons. Something to glory in, somethingoverweening, the powerfulmalepassion, arrogant, royal, Jove's thunderbolt.Aaron's black rodof power, blossoming againwith redFlorentine lilies andfierce thorns. Hemoved about in the splendour of his ownmale lightning,invested in the thunder of themale passion-power. He had got it back, themalegodliness,themalegodhead.So he slept, and dreamed violent dreams of strange, black strife, somethinglike the street-riot inMilan, butmore terrible. In themorning, however, hecarednothing about his dreams.As soon as itwas really light, he rose, andopenedhiswindowwide.Itwasagrey,slowmorning.Buthesawneitherthemorningnortherivernorthewomanwalkingonthegravelriver-bedwithhergoosenorthegreenhilluptoSanMiniato.Hewatchedthetuftofpalm-trees,

andtheterracebesideit.Hecouldjustdistinguishtheterraceclearly,amongthegreenof foliage.Sohe stood at hiswindow for a full hour, anddidnotmove.Motionless,planted,hestoodandwatchedthatterraceacrossabovetheArno.Butlikeastatue.Afteranhourorso,helookedathiswatch.Itwasnineo'clock.Soherangforhiscoffee,andmeanwhilestillstoodwatchingtheterraceonthehill.Hefelthisturnhadcome.Thephoenixhadriseninfireagain,outoftheashes.Thereforeatteno'clockhewentoverthebridge.Hewroteonthebackofhiscardarequest,wouldshepleaselethimhavethelittlebookofsongs,thathemight practise them over. The manservant went, and came back with therequestthatAaronshouldwait.SoAaronentered,whilethemantookhishat.The manservant spoke only French and Spanish, no English. He was aSpaniard,with greyish hair and stooping shoulders, anddark,mute-seemingeyes.Hespokeaslittleaspossible.TheMarchesahadinheritedhimfromherfather.Aaron sat in the little sitting-room andwaited.After a rather long time theMarchesa came in—wearing awhite, thin blouse and a blue skirt. Shewashardlymadeupatall.Shehadanoddpleased,yetbroodinglookonherfaceasshegaveAaronherhand.Somethingbroodedbetweenherbrows.Andhervoice was strange, with a strange, secret undertone, that he could notunderstand.Helookedupather.Andhisfacewasbright,andhisknees,ashesat,werelikethekneesofthegods."Youwantedthebookofchansons?"shesaid."Iwantedtolearnyourtunes,"hereplied."Yes.Look—here it is!"And shebroughthim the littleyellowbook. Itwasjust a hand-book, withmelody and words only, no accompaniment. So shestoodofferinghimthebook,butwaitingasifforsomethingelse,andstandingasifwithanothermeaning.Heopenedtheleavesatrandom."ButIoughttoknowwhichonesyousing,"saidhe,risingandstandingbyhersidewiththeopenbook."Yes,"shesaid,lookingoverhisarm.Heturnedthepagesonebyone."Troisjeunes tambours," said she. "Yes, that.... Yes, En passant par la Lorraine....Aupres demablonde....Oh, I like that one somuch—"He stood andwentoverthetuneinhismind."Wouldyoulikemetoplayit?"hesaid."Verymuch,"saidshe.Sohegothisflute,proppedupthebookagainstavase,andplayedthetune,

whilstshehummeditfragmentarily.Butasheplayed,hefelt thathedidnotcastthespelloverher.Therewasnoconnection.Shewasinsomemysteriouswaywithstandinghim.Shewaswithstandinghim,andhismalesuper-power,andhisthunderboltdesire.Shewas,insomeindescribableway,throwingcoldwateroverhisphoenixnewlyrisenfromtheashesofitsnestinflames.Herealisedthatshedidnotwanthimtoplay.Shedidnotwanthimtolookatthesongs.Soheputthebookaway,andturnedround,ratherbaffled,notquitesurewhatwashappening,yetfeelingshewaswithstandinghim.Heglancedather face: it was inscrutable: it was her Cleopatra face oncemore, yet withsomethingnewandwarminit.Hecouldnotunderstandit.Whatwasitinherfacethatpuzzledhim?Almostangeredhim?Butshecouldnotrobhimofhismalepower,shecouldnotdivesthimofhisconcentratedforce."Won'tyou takeoffyourcoat?" she said, lookingathimwith strange, largedarkeyes.Astrangewoman,hecouldnotunderstandher.Yet,ashesatdownagain, having removed his overcoat, he felt her looking at his limbs, hisphysicalbody.Andthiswentagainsthim,hedidnotwantit.Yetquitefixedinhimtoowasthedesireforher,herbeautifulwhitearms,herwholesoftwhitebody.Andsuchdesirehewouldnotcontradictnorallowtobecontradicted.Itwashiswillalso.Herwholesoftwhitebody—topossessitinitsentirety,itsfulness."Whathaveyoutodothismorning?"sheaskedhim."Nothing,"hesaid."Haveyou?"Heliftedhisheadandlookedather."Nothingatall,"saidshe.Andthentheysatinsilence,hewithhisheaddropped.Thenagainhelookedather."Shallwebelovers?"hesaid.Shesatwithherfaceaverted,anddidnotanswer.Hisheartstruckheavily,buthedidnotrelax."Shallwe be lovers?" came his voice oncemore,with the faintest touch ofirony.Herfacegraduallygrewdusky.Andhewonderedverymuchtoseeit."Yes,"saidshe,stillnotlookingathim."Ifyouwish.""Idowish,"hesaid.Andall thetimehesatwithhiseyesfixedonherface,andshesatwithherfaceaverted."Now?"hesaid."Andwhere?"Againshewassilentforsomemoments,asifstrugglingwithherself.Thenshelooked at him—a long, strange, dark look, incomprehensible, andwhich hedidnotlike.

"Youdon'twantemotions?Youdon'twantmetosaythings,doyou?"hesaid.Afaintironicsmilecameonherface."Iknowwhatallthatisworth,"shesaid,withcuriouscalmequanimity."No,Iwantnoneofthat.""Then—?"Butnowshe sat gazingonhimwithwide, heavy, incomprehensible eyes. Itannoyedhim."What do youwant to see inme?" he asked,with a smile, looking steadilybackagain.Andnowsheturnedasideherfaceoncemore,andoncemoretheduskycolourcameinhercheek.Hewaited."ShallIgoaway?"hesaidatlength."Wouldyourather?"shesaid,keepingherfaceaverted."No,"hesaid.Thenagainshewassilent."WhereshallIcometoyou?"hesaid.Shepausedamomentstill,thenanswered:"I'llgotomyroom.""Idon'tknowwhichitis,"hesaid."I'llshowityou,"shesaid."AndthenIshallcometoyouintenminutes.Intenminutes,"hereiterated.Sosherose,andledthewayoutofthelittlesalon.Hewalkedwithhertothedoor of her room, bowed his head as she looked at him, holding the doorhandle;andthenheturnedandwentbacktothedrawing-room,glancingathiswatch.In thedrawing-roomhe stoodquite still,withhis feet apart, andwaited.Hestoodwithhishandsbehindhim,andhisfeetapart,quitemotionless,plantedandfirm.Sotheminuteswentbyunheeded.Helookedathiswatch.Thetenminuteswerejustup.Hehadheardfootstepsanddoors.Sohedecidedtogiveheranotherfiveminutes.Hewishedtobequitesurethatshehadhadherowntimeforherownmovements.Thenattheendofthefiveminuteshewentstraighttoherroom,entered,andlockedthedoorbehindhim.Shewaslyinginbed,withherbacktohim.He found her strange, not as he had imagined her.Not powerful, as he hadimagined her. Strange, in his arms she seemed almost small and childish,whilstindailylifeshelookedafull,womanlywoman.Strange,thenakedway

she clung to him!Almost like a sister, a younger sister! Or like a child! Itfilled him with a curious wonder, almost a bewilderment. In the darksightlessnessofpassion,sheseemedalmostlikeaclingingchildinhisarms.Andyetlikeachildwhoinsomedeepandessentialwaymockedhim.Insomestrange and incomprehensible way, as a girl-child blindly obstinate in herdeepestnature,shewasagainsthim.Hefeltshewasnothiswoman.Throughhimwentthefeeling,"Thisisnotmywoman."When,afteralongsleep,heawokeandcamefullytohimself,withthatclickofawakenesswhichistheend,thefirstshadeswereclosingontheafternoon.Hegotupandreachedforhiswatch."Quarterpastfour,"hesaid.Her eyes stretched wide with surprise as she looked at him. But she saidnothing. The same strange and wide, perhaps insatiable child-like curiositywas inhereyesas shewatchedhim.Hedressedveryquickly.Andhereyeswerewide,andshesaidnosingleword.Butwhenhewasdressed,andbentoverhertosaygoodbye,sheputherarmsroundhim,thatseemedsuchfrailandchildisharmsnow,yetwithalsodeadlyinpower.Hersoftarmsroundhisneck,hertangleofhairoverhisface.Andyet,evenashekissedher,hefeltherdeadly.Hewantedtobegone.Hewantedtogetoutofherarmsandherclingingandhertangleofhairandhercuriosityandherstrangeandhatefulpower."You'llcomeagain.We'llbelikethisagain?"shewhispered.Anditwashardforhimtorealisethatthiswasthatotherwoman,whohadsatsosilentlyonthesofa,sodarklyandreservedly,attheteaatAlgy's."Yes!Iwill!Goodbyenow!"Andhekissedher,andwalkedstraightoutoftheroom.Quicklyhetookhiscoatandhishat,quickly,andleftthehouse.Inhisnostrilswasstill thescentwithwhich thebed linenwas faintly scented—hedidnotknowwhatitwas.Butnowhewipedhisfaceandhismouth,towipeitaway.Hehadeatennothingsincecoffeethatmorning,andwashungry,faint-feeling.And his face, and his mind, felt withered. Curiously he felt blasted as ifblightedbysomeelectricity.Andheknew,heknewquitewellhewasonlyinpossession of a tithe of his natural faculties. And in his male spirit he felthimselfhatingher:hatingherdeeply,damnably.Buthesaidtohimself:"No,Iwon'thateher.Iwon'thateher."Sohewenton,overthePonteVecchio,wherethejeweller'swindowsonthebridgewere already blazingwith light, on into the town. Hewanted to eatsomething,sohedecidedtogotoashopheknew,whereonecouldstandandeatgoodtinyrollssplit intotruffleorsalamisandwiches,anddrinkMarsala.

So one after the other he ate little truffle rolls, and drank a few glasses ofMarsala.And thenhedidnotknowwhat todo.Hedidnotwant to eat anymore, he had hadwhat hewanted.His hunger had beenmore nervous thansensual.Sohewentintothestreet.Itwasjustgrowingdarkandthetownwaslightingup. He felt curiously blazed, as if some flame or electric power had gonethroughhimandwitheredhisvitaltissue.Blazed,asifsomekindofelectricflamehad runoverhimandwitheredhim.Hisbrain feltwithered,hismindhadonlyoneofitsmany-sightedeyesleftopenandunscorched.Somanyoftheeyesofhismindwerescorchednowandsightless.Yetarestlessnesswasinhisnerves.Whatshouldhedo?HerememberedhehadaletterinhispocketfromSirWilliamFranks.SirWilliamhadstillteasedhimabouthis fateandhisprovidence, inwhichhe,Aaron,wassupposed totrust."Ishallbeverygladtohearfromyou,andtoknowhowyourbenevolentProvidence—orwasyoursaFate—hastreatedyousincewesawyou—-"So,Aaron turned away, andwalked to the post office.There he tookpaper,andsatdownatoneofthetablesinthewritingroom,andwrotehisanswer.Itwasverystrange,writing thuswhenmostofhismind'seyeswerescorched,anditseemedhecouldhardlyseetoholdthepen,todriveitstraightacrossthepaper.Yetwritehemust.Andmostofhisfacultiesbeingquenchedorblastedfor the moment, he wrote perhaps his greatest, or his innermost, truth.—"Idon'twantmyFateormyProvidencetotreatmewell.Idon'twantkindnessorlove.Idon'tbelieveinharmonyandpeoplelovingoneanother.Ibelieveinthefightandinnothingelse.Ibelieveinthefightwhichisineverything.Andifitisaquestionofwomen,Ibelieveinthefightoflove,evenifitblindsme.Andifitisaquestionoftheworld,Ibelieveinfightingitandinhavingithateme,evenifitbreaksmylegs.Iwanttheworldtohateme,becauseIcan'tbearthethoughtthatitmightloveme.Forofallthingsloveisthemostdeadlytome,andespeciallyfromsucharepulsiveworldasIthinkthisis...."Well,herewasaletterforapooroldmantoreceive.But,inthedrynessofhiswitheredmind, Aaron got it out of himself.When aman writes a letter tohimself,itisapitytopostittosomebodyelse.Perhapsthesameistrueofabook.Hisletterwritten,however,hestampeditandsealeditandputit inthebox.Thatmadeitfinal.Thenheturnedtowardshome.Onefactremainedunbrokeninthedebrisofhisconsciousness:thatinthetownwasLilly:andthatwhenheneeded,hecouldgotoLilly:also,thatintheworldwasLottie,hiswife:andthat against Lottie, his heart burned with a deep, deep, almost unreachablebitterness.—Like a deep burn on his deepest soul, Lottie. And like a fatewhichheresented,yetwhichsteadiedhim,Lilly.

Hewenthomeandlayonhisbed.Hehadenoughself-commandtohear thegong andgodown to dinner.White and abstract-looking, he sat and ate hisdinner.Andthen,thankGod,hecouldgotobed,alone,inhisowncoldbed,alone, thank God. To be alone in the night! For this he was unspeakablythankful.

CHAPTERXIX.CLEOPATRA,BUTNOTANTHONY

Aaronawokein themorningfeelingbetter,butstillonlyaparthimself.Thenightalonehadrestoredhim.Andtheneed tobealonestillwashisgreatestneed. He felt an intense resentment against the Marchesa. He felt thatsomehow,shehadgivenhimascorpion.Andhisinstinctwastohateher.Andyetheavoidedhatingher.HerememberedLilly—andthesayingthatonemustpossessoneself,andbealone inpossessionofoneself.Andsomehow,undertheinfluenceofLilly,herefusedtofollowthereflexofhisownpassion.HerefusedtohatetheMarchesa.Hedidlikeher.Hedidesteemher.Andafterall,she toowas strugglingwith her fate.He had a genuine sympathywith her.Nay,hewasnotgoingtohateher.Buthecouldnotseeher.Hecouldnotbearthethoughtthatshemightcallandseehim.SohetookthetramtoSettignano,andwalkedawayalldayintothecountry,havingbreadandsausageinhispocket.HesatforlonghoursamongthecypresstreesofTuscany.Andneverhadanytreesseemedsolikeghosts,like soft, strange, pregnant presences. He lay and watched tall cypressesbreathing and communicating, faintlymoving and as itwerewalking in thesmallwind.Andhissoulseemed to leavehimand togo faraway, farback,perhaps, towhere lifewasalldifferent and timepassedotherwise than timepassesnow.Asinclairvoyanceheperceivedit:thatourlifeisonlyafragmentoftheshelloflife.Thattherehasbeenandwillbelife,humanlifesuchaswedonotbegintoconceive.Muchthatislifehaspassedawayfrommen,leavingusallmerebits.Inthedark,mindfulsilenceandinflectionofthecypresstrees,lost races, lost language, lost humanways of feeling and of knowing.Menhaveknownaswecannomoreknow,havefeltaswecannomorefeel.Greatlife-realities gone into thedarkness.But the cypresses commemorate. In theafternoon,Aaronfelt thecypressesrisingdarkabouthim, likesomanyhighvisitants from an old, lost, lost subtleworld,wheremen had thewonder ofdemonsaboutthem,theauraofdemons,suchasstillclingstothecypresses,inTuscany.All day, he did not make up his mind what he was going to do. His firstimpulsewasnevertoseeheragain.Andthiswashisintentionallday.Butashewent home in the tramhe softened, and thought.Nay, thatwouldnot be

fair.Forhowhadshetreatedhim,otherwisethangenerously.She had been generous, and the other thing, that he felt blasted afterwards,whichwashisexperience,thatwasfate,andnotherfault.Sohemustseeheragain.Hemustnotactlikeachurl.Buthewouldtellher—hewouldtellherthathewasamarriedman,andthatthoughhehadlefthiswife,andthoughhehadnodogmaoffidelity,still,theyearsofmarriagehadmadeamarriedmanofhim, andanyotherwoman thanhiswifewas a strangewoman tohim, aviolation."Iwilltellher,"hesaidtohimself,"thatatthebottomofmyheartIlove Lottie still, and that I can't help it. I believe that is true. It isn't love,perhaps.Butitismarriage.IammarriedtoLottie.AndthatmeansIcan'tbemarriedtoanotherwoman.Itisn'tmynature.AndperhapsIcan'tbeartolivewith Lottie now, because I am married and not in love. When a man ismarried,heisnotinlove.Ahusbandisnotalover.Lillytoldmethat:andIknowit'struenow.Lillytoldmethatahusbandcannotbealover,andalovercannotbeahusband.Andthatwomenwillonlyhaveloversnow,andneverahusband.Well,Iamahusband,ifIamanything.AndIshallneverbealoveragain,notwhileIlive.No,nottoanybody.Ihaven'titinme.I'mahusband,andsoitisfinishedwithmeasalover.Ican'tbealoveranymore,justasIcan'tbeagedtwentyanymore.Iamamannow,notanadolescent.AndtomysorrowIamahusbandtoawomanwhowantsalover:alwaysalover.Butallwomenwantlovers.AndIcan'tbeitanymore.Idon'twantto.Ihavefinishedthat.Finishedforever:unlessIbecomesenile—-"Therefore next day he gathered up his courage. He would not have hadcourageunlesshehadknownthathewasnotalone.Theothermanwasinthetown,andfromthisfacthederivedhisstrength:thefactthatLillywasthere.So at teatime hewent over the river, and rang at her door.Yes, shewas athome,andshehadothervisitors.Shewaswearingabeautifulsoftafternoondress, again of a blue like chicory-flowers, a pale,warmblue.And she hadcornflowersinherbelt:heavenknowswhereshehadgotthem.ShegreetedAaronwith someof thechildish shyness.Hecould tell that shewasgladhehadcome,andthatshehadwonderedathisnotcomingsooner.Sheintroducedhimtohervisitors:twoyoungladiesandoneoldladyandoneelderly Italian count. The conversation was mostly in French or Italian, soAaronwasratheroutofit.However, thevisitors left fairlyearly, soAaronstayed themout.When theyhadgone,heasked:"WhereisManfredi?""Hewillcomeinsoon.Ataboutseveno'clock."Thentherewasasilenceagain."Youaredressedfinetoday,"hesaidtoher.

"AmI?"shesmiled.Hewasneverabletomakeoutquitewhatshefelt,whatshewasfeeling.Butshehadaquietlittleairofproprietorshipinhim,whichhedidnotlike."Youwillstaytodinnertonight,won'tyou?"shesaid."No—not tonight," he said. And then, awkwardly, he added: "You know. Ithinkitisbetterifwearefriends—notlovers.Youknow—Idon'tfeelfree.Ifeelmywife,Isuppose,somewhereinsideme.AndIcan'thelpit—-"Shebentherheadandwassilentforsomemoments.Thensheliftedherfaceandlookedathimoddly."Yes,"shesaid."Iamsureyouloveyourwife."Thereplyratherstaggeredhim—andtotellthetruth,annoyedhim."Well,"hesaid."Idon'tknowaboutlove.Butwhenonehasbeenmarriedfortenyears—andIdidloveher—then—somesortofbondorsomethinggrows.Ithink some sort of connection grows between us, you know. And it isn'tnatural,quite,tobreakit.—DoyouknowwhatImean?"Shepausedamoment.Then,verysoftly,almostgently,shesaid:"Yes,Ido.Iknowsowellwhatyoumean."Hewasreallysurprisedathersoftacquiescence.Whatdidshemean?"Butwecanbefriends,can'twe?"hesaid."Yes,Ihopeso.Why,yes!Goodness,yes!Ishouldbesorryifwecouldn'tbefriends."Afterwhichspeechhe felt thateverythingwasall right—everythingwasA-one.AndwhenManfredicamehome, the first soundheheardwas the fluteandhiswife'ssinging."I'msogladyou'vecome,"hiswifesaidtohim."Shallwegointothesalaandhaverealmusic?Willyouplay?""Ishouldloveto,"repliedthehusband.Behold them then in the big drawing-room, and Aaron and the Marchesepractising together, and theMarchesa singing an Italian folk-songwhile herhusband accompanied her on the pianoforte. But her singing was ratherstrainedandforced.Still, theywerequitea little family,and it seemedquitenice.Assoonasshecould,theMarchesaleftthetwomentogether,whilstshesatapart.AaronandManfrediwentthrougholdItalianandoldGermanmusic,tried one thing and then another, and seemed quite like brothers. TheyarrangedapiecewhichtheyshouldplaytogetheronaSaturdaymorning,eightdayshence.Thenextday,Saturday,AaronwenttooneoftheDelTorremusicmornings.

Therewas a stringquartette—and a violin soloist—and theMarchese at thepiano.Theaudience,somedozenorfourteenfriends,satatthenearendoftheroom,or in thesmallersalotta,whilst themusiciansperformedat thefurtherendoftheroom.TheLillyswerethere,bothTannyandherhusband.Butapartfromthese,Aaronknewnobody,andfeltuncomfortable.TheMarchesagaveher guests little sandwiches andglasses ofwineorMarsala or vermouth, astheychose.Andshewasquitethehostess:thewell-bredandverysimple,butstilltheconventionalhostess.Aarondidnotlikeit.AndhecouldseethatLillytoowasunhappy.Infact,thelittlemanboltedthemomenthecould,draggingafter him the indignantTanny,whowas so looking forward to the excellentlittlesandwiches.Butno—Lillyjustrudelybolted.Aaronfollowedassoonashecould."Willyoucome todinner tomorrowevening?" saidhishostess tohimashewas leaving. And he agreed. He had really resented seeing her as aconventional hostess, attending so charmingly to all the other people, andtreatinghimsomerelyasoneoftheguests,amongmanyothers.Sothatwhenatthelastmomentshequietlyinvitedhimtodinnernextday,hewasflatteredandacceptedatonce.ThenextdaywasSunday—theseventhdayafterhiscomingtogetherwiththeMarchesa—whichhadtakenplaceontheMonday.Andalreadyhewasfeelingmuchlessdramaticinhisdecisiontokeephimselfapartfromher,tobemerelyfriends.Alreadythememoryofthelasttimewasfanningupinhim,notasawarningbutasaterribleincitement.Againthenakeddesirewasgettingholdof him, with that peculiar brutal powerfulness which startled him and alsopleasedhim.SothatbythetimeSundaymorningcame,hisrecoilhadexhausteditself,andhewasreadyagain,eageragain,butmorewarythistime.Hesatinhisroomalone in themorning,playinghisflute,playingoverfrommemorythe tunessheloved,andimagininghowheandshewouldgetintounisonintheevening.His flute, his Aaron's rod, would blossom once again with splendid scarletflowers, the redFlorentine lilies. Itwas curious, thepassionhehad for her:justunalloyeddesire,andnothingelse.Somethinghehadnotknowninhislifebefore.Previouslytherehadbeenalwayssomepersonalquality,somesortofpersonaltenderness.Buthere,none.Shedidnotseemtowantit.Sheseemedto hate it, indeed. No, all he felt was stark, naked desire, without a singlepretension.Trueenough,his lastexperiencehadbeenawarning tohim.Hisdesireandhimselflikewisehadbrokenratherdisastrouslyundertheproving.Butnotfinallybroken.Hewasreadyagain.Andwithall thesheerpowerfulinsolenceofdesirehelookedforwardtotheevening.ForhealmostexpectedManfrediwouldnotbethere.TheofficerhadsaidsomethingabouthavingtogotoPaduaontheSaturdayafternoon.

SoAaronwentskippingofftohisappointment,atseveno'clock.Judgeofhischagrin, then, when he found already seated in the salotta an elderly, quitewell-known, very cultured and very well-connected English authoress. Shewascharming,inherwhitehairanddressofsoftwhitewoolandwhitelace,withalongchainoffiligreegoldbeads,likebubbles.Shewascharminginherold-fashioned manner too, as if the world were still safe and stable, like agardeninwhichdelightfulculture,andchoiceideasbloomedsafefromwindandweather.Alas,neverwasAaronmoreconsciousof thecrudecollapseintheworld thanwhenhe listened to this animated, young-seeming lady fromthesafedaysoftheseventies.Alltheoldcultureandchoiceideasseemedlikeblowing bubbles. And dear old Corinna Wade, she seemed to be blowingbubblesstill,asshesat theresocharminginhersoftwhitedress,andtalkedwithherbrightanimationabouttheinfluenceofwomaninParliamentandtheinfluenceofwomaninthePericleanday.Aaronlistenedspell-bound,watchingthebubblesfloatroundhishead,andalmosthearingthemgopop.Tocompletethepartyarrivedanelderlylitterateurwhowasmoreproudofhisnot-very-importantsocialstandingthanofhisliterature.InfacthewasoneofthoseEnglishsnobsoftheoldorder,livingabroad.Perfectlywelldressedfortheevening,hisgreyhairandhisprimfacewasthemostwell-dressedthingtobemetinNorthItaly."Oh,sogladtoseeyou,Mr.French.Ididn'tknowyouwereinFlorenceagain.YoumakethatjourneyfromVenicesooften.Iwonderyoudon'tgettiredofit,"criedCorinnaWade."No,"hesaid."SolongasdutytoEnglandcallsmetoFlorence,IshallcometoFlorence.ButIcanLIVEinnotownbutVenice.""No, I suppose you can't. Well, there is something special about Venice:havingnostreetsandnocarriages,andmovingaboutinagondola.Isupposeitisallmuchmoresoothing.""Muchlessnerve-racking,yes.Andthenthereisaqualityinthewholelife.OfcourseIseefewEnglishpeopleinVenice—onlytheoldVenetianfamilies,asarule.""Ah, yes. That must be very interesting. They are very exclusive still, theVenetiannoblesse?"saidMissWade."Oh,veryexclusive,"saidMr.French."That isoneof thecharms.Venice isreallyaltogetherexclusive. Itexcludes theworld, really,anddefies timeandmodernmovement.Yes,inspiteofthesteamersonthecanal,andthetourists.""Thatisso.Thatisso.Veniceisastrangeback-water.Andtheoldfamiliesarevery proud still, in these democratic days. They have a great opinion ofthemselves,Iamtold."

"Well,"saidMr.French."Perhapsyouknowtherhyme:"'Venezianogran'SignorePadovanobuon'dotore.VicenzesemangiailgattoVeronesetuttomatto—-'""How very amusing!" said Miss Wade. "Veneziana gran' Signore. TheVenetianisagreatgentleman!Yes,Iknowtheyareallconvincedofit.Really,howvery amusing, in these advanced days.To be born aVenetian, is to bebornagreatgentleman!Butthisoutdoesdivinerightofking.""TobebornaVenetianGENTLEMAN,istobebornagreatgentleman,"saidMr.French,ratherfussily."Youseriouslythinkso?"saidMissWade."Wellnow,whatdoyoubaseyouropinionon?"Mr.Frenchgavevariousbasesforhisopinion."Yes—interesting.Very interesting.Rather like theByzantines—lingeringonintofarotherages.AnnaComnenaalwayscharmedmeverymuch.HOWshedespisedtheflowerofthenorth—evenTancred!AndsothelingeringVenetianfamilies!And you, in your palazzo on theGrandCanal: you are a northernbarbarian civilised into the oldVenetian Signoria.But how very romantic asituation!"It was really amusing to see the oldmaid, how she skirmished and hit outgaily, likeanoldjauntyfreelance:andtoseetheoldbachelor,howprimhewas,andnervyandfussyandprecious,likeanoldmaid.ButneedwesaythatMr.Aaronfeltverymuchoutofit.Hesatandlistened,withasardonicsmallsmileonhisfaceandasardonicgleaminhisblueeyes,thatlookedsoveryblueonsuchanoccasion.Hemadethetwoelderlypeopleuncomfortablewithhissilence:hisdemocraticsilence,MissWademighthavesaid.However,MissWadelivedouttowardsGaluzzo,sosheroseearly,tocatchhertram.AndMr.Frenchgallantlyandproperlyrosetoaccompanyher,toseehersafeonboard.WhichleftAaronandtheMarchesaalone."WhattimeisManfredicomingback?"saidhe."Tomorrow,"repliedshe.Therewasapause."Whydoyouhavethosepeople?"heasked."Who?"

"Thosetwowhowereherethisevening.""MissWadeandMr.French?—Oh,IlikeMissWadesoverymuch.Sheissorefreshing.""Thoseoldpeople,"saidAaron."Theylickedthesugaroffthepill,andgoonasifeverythingwastoffee.Andwe'vegottoswallowthepill.It'seasytoberefreshing—-""No,don'tsayanythingagainsther.Ilikehersomuch.""Andhim?""Mr. French!—Well, he's perhaps a little like the princess who felt the peathrough three feather-beds. But he can be quite witty, and an excellentconversationalist,too.Ohyes,Ilikehimquitewell.""Matteroftaste,"saidAaron.Theyhadnotmuchtosaytooneanother.Thetimepassed,inthepauses.Helookedathiswatch."Ishallhavetogo,"hesaid."Won'tyoustay?"shesaid,inasmall,mutedvoice."Stayallnight?"hesaid."Won'tyou?""Yes,"hesaidquietly.Didhenotfeelthestrengthofhisdesireonhim.Afterwhichshesaidnomore.Onlysheofferedhimwhiskeyandsoda,whichheaccepted."Go then," he said to her. "And I'll come to you.—Shall I come in fifteenminutes?"Shelookedathimwithstrange,slowdarkeyes.Andhecouldnotunderstand."Yes,"shesaid.Andshewent.Andagain,thisnightasbefore,sheseemedstrangelysmallandclinginginhisarms.Andthisnighthefelthispassiondrawnfromhimasifalong,livenerveweredrawnoutfromhisbody,alonglivethreadofelectricfire,along,livingnervefinelyextractedfromhim,fromtheveryrootsofhissoul.Alongfinedischargeofpure,bluishfire,fromthecoreofhissoul.Itwasanexcruciating,butalsoanintenselygratifyingsensation.Thisnighthesleptwithadeeperobliviousnessthanbefore.Butah,asitgrewtowardsmorninghowhewishedhecouldbealone.They must stay together till the day was light. And she seemed to loveclingingtohimandcurlingstrangelyonhisbreast.Hecouldneverreconcileitwithherwhowasahostessentertainingherguests.Howcouldshenowina

sort of little ecstasy curl herself and nestle herself on his, Aaron's breast,tanglinghisfacealloverwithherhair.Heverilybelievedthatthiswaswhatshereallywantedofhim:tocurlherselfonhisnakedbreast,tomakeherselfsmall,small,tofeelhisarmsaroundher,whilehehimselfwasremote,silent,insomewayinaccessible.Thisseemedalmosttomakeherbesideherselfwithgratification.Butwhy,why?Wasitbecausehewasoneofherownrace,andshe,asitwere,creptrighthometohim?Hedidnotknow.Heonlyknewithadnothingtodowithhim:andthat,saveoutofcomplaisance,hedidnotwantit.Itsimplyblastedhisowncentrallife.Itsimplyblightedhim.Andsheclungtohimcloser.Strange,shewasafraidofhim!Afraidofhimasof a fetish! Fetish afraid, and fetish-fascinated! Or was her fear only adelightfulgameofcatandmouse?Orwasthefeargenuine,andthedelightthegreater: a sort of sacrilege?The fear, and the dangerous, sacrilegious poweroverthatwhichshefeared.Insomeway,shewasnotafraidofhimatall.Insomeotherwaysheusedhimasameremagicimplement,usedhimwiththemostamazingpriestess-craft.Himself, the individual man which he was, this she treated with anindifferencethatwasstartlingtohim.Heforgot,perhaps,thatthiswashowhehadtreatedher.Hisfamousdesireforher,whathaditbeenbutthissameattempttostrikeamagicfireoutofher,forhisownecstasy.Theywereplayingthesamegameoffire.Inhim,however,therewasall the timesomethinghardand recklessanddefiant,which stoodapart. Shewas absolutely gone in her own incantations. Shewas absolutelygone,likeapriestessutterlyinvolvedinherterriblerites.Andhewaspartoftheritualonly,Godandvictiminone.Godandvictim!Allthetime,Godandvictim.Whenhisaloofsoul realised,amid thewelterof incantation,howhewasbeingused,—not as himself but as somethingquite different—Godandvictim—thenhedilatedwithintensesurprise,andhisremotesoulstooduptallandknewitselfalone.Hedidn'twantit,notatall.Heknewhewasapart.Andhe looked back over thewholemystery of their love-contact.Only his soulwasapart.Hewasawareofthestrengthandbeautyandgodlikenessthathisbreastwasthen to her—the magic. But himself, he stood far off, like Moses' sisterMiriam.Shewoulddrinktheonedropofhisinnermostheart'sblood,andhewouldbecarrion.AsCleopatrakilledher lovers in themorning.Surelytheyknew that death was their just climax. They had approached the climax.Acceptthen.Buthissoulstoodapart,andcouldhavenothingtodowithit.Ifhehadreallybeen tempted, he would have gone on, and shemight have had his central

heart'sblood.Yes,andthrownawaythecarrion.Hewouldhavebeenwilling.But fatally, he was not tempted. His soul stood apart and decided. At thebottomofhissoulhedislikedher.Orifnother, thenherwholemotive.Herwholelife-mode.HewasneitherGodnorvictim:neithergreaternorlessthanhimself.Hissoul,initsisolationasshelayonhisbreast,choseitso,withthesoul'sinevitability.So,therewasnotemptation.When itwassufficiently light,hekissedherand lefther.Quietlyhe left thesilent flat.He had some difficulty in unfastening the various locks and barsandcatchesofthemassivedoordownstairs,andbegan,inirritationandanger,tofeelhewasaprisoner, thathewaslockedin.Butsuddenlytheponderousdoorcame loose,andhewasout in thestreet.Thedoorshutheavilybehindhim,withashudder.HewasoutinthemorningstreetsofFlorence.

CHAPTERXX.THEBROKENROD

Thedaywas rainy.Aaronstayed indoorsalone,andcopiedmusicandslept.He felt the same stunned,withered feeling asbefore, but less intensely, lessdisastrously, this time. He knew now, without argument or thought that hewouldnevergoagaintotheMarchesa:notasalover.Hewouldgoawayfromitall.Hedidnotdislikeher.Buthewouldneverseeheragain.Agreatgulfhadopened,leavinghimaloneonthefarside.Hedidnotgoouttillafterdinner.Whenhegotdownstairshefoundtheheavynight-doorclosed.Hewondered:thenrememberedtheSignorina'sfearofriotsanddisturbances.Asagainhefumbledwiththecatches,hefeltthatthedoorsofFlorenceweretryingtopreventhisegress.However,hegotout.Itwas a very dark night, about nine o'clock, and deserted seeming.Hewasstruckbythestrange,desertedfeelingofthecity'satmosphere.Yethenoticedbeforehim,atthefootofthestatue,threemen,onewithatorch:alongtorchwithnakedflames.Themenwerestoopingoversomethingdark,themanwiththetorchbendingforwardtoo.Itwasadark,weirdlittlegroup,likeMediaevalFlorence.Aaron lingered on his doorstep,watching.He could not seewhattheywere doing.But now, the twowere crouching down; over a long darkobjecton theground,and theonewith the torchbendingalso to look.Whatwasit?Theywerejustatthefootofthestatue,adarklittlegroupunderthebigpediment, the torch-flamesweirdly flickeringas the torch-bearermovedandstoopedlowertothetwocrouchingmen,whoseemedtobekneeling.Aaronfelthisbloodstir.Therewassomethingdarkandmysterious,stealthy,inthelittlescene.Itwasobviousthemendidnotwanttodrawattention,theywere so quiet and furtive-seeming. And an eerie instinct prevented Aaron's

goingnearertolook.Instead,heswervedontotheLungarno,andwentalongthe top of the square, avoiding the little group in the centre.Hewalked thedeserteddark-seemingstreetbytheriver,thenturnedinwards,intothecity.Hewas going to thePiazzaVittoriaEmmanuele, to sit in the cafewhich is thecentre of Florence at night. There he could sit for an hour, and drink hisvermouthandwatchtheFlorentines.Ashewentalongoneofthedark,rathernarrowstreets,heheardahurryingoffeetbehindhim.Glancing round,hesaw the torch-bearercomingalongatatrot,holdinghisflamingtorchupinfrontofhimashetrotteddownthemiddleof the narrow dark street. Aaron shrank under the wall. The trotting torch-bearerdrewnear,andnowAaronperceivedtheothertwomenslowlytrottingbehind, stealthily, bearing a stretcher on which a body was wrapped up,completely and darkly covered. The torch-bearer passed, the men with thestretcher passed too, hastily and stealthily, the flickering flames revealingthem.TheytooknonoticeofAaron,nonoticeofanything,buttrottedsoftlyontowardsthecentreofthecity.Theirqueer,quickfootstepsechoeddownthedistance.ThenAarontooresumedhisway.Hecametothelarge,brilliantly-lightedcafe.ItwasSundayevening,andtheplacewasfull.Men,Florentines,many,manymensat ingroupsandintwosandthreesatthelittlemarbletables.Theyweremostlyindarkclothesorblackovercoats. They had mostly been drinking just a cup of coffee—othershoweverhadglassesofwineor liquor.Butmostly itwas justa littlecoffee-traywith a tiny coffee pot and a cup and saucer. Therewas a faint film oftobacco smoke. And the men were all talking: talking, talking with thatpeculiarintensityoftheFlorentines.Aaronfelttheintense,compressedsoundof many half-secret voices. For the little groups and couples abated theirvoices,nonewishedthatothersshouldhearwhattheysaid.Aaron was looking for a seat—there was no table to him—when suddenlysomeonetookhimbythearm.ItwasArgyle."Comealong,now!Comeandjoinus.Here,thisway!Comealong!"Aaronlethimselfbeledawaytowardsacorner.TheresatLillyandastrangeman:calledLevison.Theroomwaswarm.Aaroncouldneverbeartobetoohot.Aftersittingaminute,heroseandtookoffhiscoat,andhungitonastandnearthewindow.Ashedidsohefelttheweightofhisflute—itwasstillinhispocket.Andhewonderedifitwassafetoleaveit."I suppose no one will steal from the overcoat pockets," he said, as he satdown."Mydearchap,they'dstealthegoldfillingoutofyourteeth,ifyouhappenedtoyawn,"saidArgyle."Why,haveyouleftvaluablesinyourovercoat?""Myflute,"saidAaron.

"Oh,theywon'tstealthat,"saidArgyle."Besides,"saidLilly,"weshouldseeanyonewhotouchedit."Andsotheysettleddowntothevermouth."Well," saidArgyle,"whathaveyoubeendoingwithyourself,eh? Ihaven'tseenaglimpseofyouforaweek.Beengoingtothedogs,eh?""Orthebitches,"saidAaron."Oh,butlookhere,that'sbad!That'sbad!IcanseeIshallhavetotakeyouinhand,andcommencemyworkofreform.Oh,I'magreatreformer,aZwingliandSavonarolainone.Icouldn'tcountthenumberofpeopleI'veledintotherightway. It takessomefinding,youknow.Strait is thegate—damnedstraitsometimes.Adamnedtightsqueeze...."Argylewassomewhatintoxicated.Hespokewithaslightslur,andlaughed,reallytickledathisownjokes.ThemanLevisonsmiledacquiescent.ButLillywasnotlistening.Hisbrowwasheavyandheseemedabstracted.HehardlynoticedAaron'sarrival."Didyouseetherowyesterday?"askedLevison."No,"saidAaron."Whatwasit?"It was the socialists. They were making a demonstration against theimprisonment of one of the railway-strikers. I was there. They went on allright,withagoodbitofhowlingandgibing:alotofyounglouts,youknow.And the shop-keepers shut up shop, and nobody showed the Italian flag, ofcourse.Well,when theycame to theViaBenedettoCroce, therewerea fewmountedcarabinieri.Sotheystoppedtheprocession,andthesergeantsaidthatthecrowdcouldcontinue,couldgoonwheretheyliked,butwouldtheynotgodowntheViaVerrocchio,becauseitwasbeingrepaired,theroadwaywasallup,andtherewerepilesofcobblestones.Thesemightproveatemptationandlead to trouble. Sowould the demonstrators not take that road—theymighttakeanyothertheyliked.—Well,theverymomenthehadfinished,therewasarevolvershot,hemadeanoise,andfellforwardoverhishorse'snose.Oneoftheanarchistshadshothim.Thentherewashellletloose,thecarabinierifiredback,andpeoplewereboltingandfightinglikedevils. Iclearedout,myself.ButmyGod—whatdoyouthinkofit?""Seemsprettymean,"saidAaron."Mean!—Hehadjustspokenthemfair—theycouldgowheretheyliked,onlywouldtheynotgodowntheoneroad,becauseoftheheapofstones.Andtheylethimfinish.Andthenshothimdead.""Washedead?"saidAaron."Yes—killedoutright,theNazionesays."Therewasasilence.Thedrinkersinthecafeallcontinuedtotalkvehemently,

castinguneasyglances."Well,"saidArgyle,"ifyouletloosethedogsofwar,youmustn'texpectthemtocometoheelagaininfiveminutes.""Butthere'snofairplayaboutit,notabit,"saidLevison."Ah,mydear fellow, areyou still soyoungandcallow thatyoucherish theillusionoffairplay?"saidArgyle."Yes,Iam,"saidLevison."Livelongerandgrowwiser,"saidArgyle,rathercontemptuously."Areyouasocialist?"askedLevison."Am Imy aunt Tabitha's dachshund bitch calledBella," saidArgyle, in hismusical, indifferent voice. "Yes,Bella's her name.And if you can tellme adamnedernameforadog,Ishalllisten,Iassureyou,attentively.""Butyouhaven'tgotanauntcalledTabitha,"saidAaron."Haven'tI?Oh,haven'tI?I'vegotTWOauntscalledTabitha:ifnotmore.""Theyaren'tofanyvitalimportancetoyou,arethey?"saidLevison."Nottheveryleastintheworld—ifithadn'tbeenthatmyelderAuntTabithahad christened her dachshund bitch Bella. I cutmyself off from the familyafterthat.Oh,Iturnedoveranewleaf,withnotafamilynameonit.Couldn'tstandBellaamongsttherest.""Youmust have strainedmost of the gnats out of your drink,Argyle," saidLilly,laughing."Assiduously!Assiduously! I can't stand these little vermin.Oh, I am quiteindifferent about swallowing a camel or two—or even a whole string ofdromedaries. How charmingly Eastern that sounds! But gnats! Not foranythingintheworldwouldIswallowone.""You're a bit of a SOCIALIST though, aren't you?" persisted Levison, nowturningtoLilly."No,"saidLilly."Iwas.""Andamnomore,"saidArgylesarcastically."Mydearfellow,theonlyhopeofsalvationfortheworldliesinthere-institutionofslavery.""Whatkindofslavery?"askedLevison."Slavery! SLAVERY! When I say SLAVERY I don't mean any of yourdamnedmodernreformcant.ImeansolidsoundslaveryonwhichtheGreekandtheRomanworldrested.FARfinerworlds thanours,mydearchap!OhFAR finer! And can't be done without slavery. Simply can't be done.—Oh,they'll all come to realise it,when they'vehadabitmoreof thisdemocratic

washer-womenbusiness."Levisonwaslaughing,withaslightsneerdownhisnose."Anyhow,there'snoimmediate danger—or hope, if you prefer it—of the re-instituting of classicslavery,"hesaid."Unfortunatelyno.Weareallsuchfools,"saidArgyle."Besides,"saidLevison,"whowouldyoumakeslavesof?""Everybody, my dear chap: beginning with the idealists and the theorisingJews, and after them your nicely-bred gentlemen, and then perhaps, yourprofiteers and Rothschilds, and ALL politicians, and ending up with theproletariat,"saidArgyle."Then who would be the masters?—the professional classes, doctors andlawyersandsoon?""What?Masters.Theywouldbethesewerageslaves,asbeingthosewhohadmademostsmells."Therewasamoment'ssilence."TheonlyfaultIhavetofindwithyoursystem,"saidLevison,ratheracidly,"isthattherewouldbeonlyonemaster,andeverybodyelseslaves.""Doyoucallthatafault?Whatdoyouwantwithmorethanonemaster?Areyou asking for several?—Well, perhaps there's cunning inTHAT.—Cunningdevils,cunningdevils,thesetheorisingslaves—"AndArgylepushedhisfacewithadevilishleerintoAaron'sface."Cunningdevils!"hereiterated,withaslighttipsyslur."Thatbe-fouledEpictetuswasn'tthelastof'em—northefirst.Oh,notbyanymeans,notbyanymeans."Here Lilly could not avoid a slight spasm of amusement. "But returning toseriousconversation,"saidLevison,turninghisrathersallowfacetoLilly."Ithinkyou'llagreewithmethatsocialismistheinevitablenextstep—"Lillywaited for some timewithout answering.Thenhe said,withunwillingattentiontothequestion:"Isupposeit'sthelogicallyinevitablenextstep.""Uselogicaslavatorypaper,"criedArgyleharshly."Yes—logicallyinevitable—andhumanlyinevitableatthesametime.Someformofsocialismisboundtocome,nomatterhowyoupostponeitortryvariations,"saidLevison."Allright,letitcome,"saidLilly."It'snotmyaffair,neithertohelpitnortokeepitback,oreventotryvaryingit.""There Idon't followyou," saidLevison. "Supposeyouwere inRussianow—""IwatchitI'mnot.""Butyou'reinItaly,whichisn'tfaroff.Supposingasocialistrevolutiontakesplaceallaroundyou.Won'tthatforcetheproblemonyou?—Itiseveryman's

problem,"persistedLevison."Notmine,"saidLilly."Howshallyouescapeit?"saidLevison."Becausetomeitisnoproblem.ToBolshornottoBolsh,asfarasmymindgoes,presentsnoproblem.Notanymorethantobeornottobe.Tobeornottobeissimplynoproblem—""No, I quite agree, that since you are already existing, and since death isultimately inevitable, tobeornot tobe isnosoundproblem,"saidLevison."Buttheparallelisn'ttrueofsocialism.Thatisnotaproblemofexistence,butof a certainmodeof existencewhichcenturiesof thought andactionon thepartofEuropehavenowmadelogicallyinevitableforEurope.Andthereforethere isaproblem.There ismore thanaproblem, there isadilemma.Eitherwemustgotothelogicalconclusion—or—""Somewhereelse,"saidLilly."Yes—yes.Precisely!ButwhereELSE?That's the onehalf of the problem:supposingyoudonotagreetoalogicalprogressioninhumansocialactivity.Because after all, human society through the course of ages only enacts,spasmodicallybutstillinevitably,thelogicaldevelopmentofagivenidea.""Well,then,Itellyou.—Theideaandtheidealhasformegonedead—deadascarrion—""Whichidea,whichidealprecisely?""Theidealoflove,theidealthatitisbettertogivethantoreceive,theidealofliberty,theidealofthebrotherhoodofman,theidealofthesanctityofhumanlife,theidealofwhatwecallgoodness,charity,benevolence,publicspirited-ness, the idealofsacrifice foracause, the idealofunityandunanimity—allthelot—allthewholebeehiveofideals—hasallgotthemodernbee-disease,andgoneputrid,stinking.—Andwhentheidealisdeadandputrid,thelogicalsequence is only stink.—Which, forme, is the truth concerning the ideal ofgood, peaceful, loving humanity and its logical sequence in socialism andequality,equalopportunityorwhateveryoulike.—Butthistimehestinketh—andI'msorryforanyChristuswhobringshimtolifeagain, tostinklivinglyforanotherthirtyyears:thebeastlyLazarusofouridealism.""Thatmaybetrueforyou—""But it's truefornobodyelse,"saidLilly."All theworsefor them.Let themdieofthebee-disease.""Notonlythat,"persistedLevison,"butwhatisyouralternative?Isitmerelynihilism?""My alternative," said Lilly, "is an alternative for no one butmyself, so I'll

keepmymouthshutaboutit.""Thatisn'tfair.""Itellyou,theidealoffairnessstinkswiththerest.—IhavenoobligationtosaywhatIthink.""Yes,ifyouenterintoconversation,youhave—""Bah,thenIdidn'tenterintoconversation.—Theonlythingis,IagreeintheroughwithArgyle.You'vegottohaveasortofslaveryagain.PeoplearenotMEN:theyareinsectsandinstruments,andtheirdestinyisslavery.Theyaretoomanyforme,andsowhatIthinkisineffectual.Butultimatelytheywillbebroughttoagree—aftersufficientextermination—andthentheywillelectforthemselvesaproperandhealthyandenergeticslavery.""I should like to know what you mean by slavery. Because to me it isimpossible that slavery should be healthy and energetic. You seem to havesome other idea in yourmind, and youmerely use theword slavery out ofexasperation—""Imeanitnonethe less. Imeanarealcommittalof the life-issueof inferiorbeingstotheresponsibilityofasuperiorbeing.""It'll take a bit of knowing,who are the inferior andwhich is the superior,"saidLevisonsarcastically."Notabit.Itiswrittenbetweenaman'sbrows,whichheis.""I'mafraidweshallallreaddifferently.""Solongaswe'reliars.""Andputtingthatquestionaside:Ipresumethatyoumeanthatthiscommittalofthelife-issueofinferiorbeingstosomeonehighershallbemadevoluntarily—asortofvoluntaryself-giftoftheinferiors—""Yes—moreorless—andavoluntaryacceptance.Forit'snoprettygift,afterall.—But once made it must be held fast by genuine power. Oh yes—noplayingandfoolingaboutwithit.Permanentandveryefficaciouspower.""Youmeanmilitarypower?""Ido,ofcourse."HereLevisonsmiledalong,slow,subtlesmileofridicule.Itallseemedtohimthe preposterous pretentiousness of a megalomaniac—one whom, after awhile,humanitywouldprobablyhavethesatisfactionofputtingintoprison,orintoalunaticasylum.AndLevisonfeltstrong,overwhelminglystrong,inthehugesocialpowerwithwhichhe,insignificantashewas,wasarmedagainstsuch criminal-imbecile pretensions as those above set forth. Prison or thelunaticasylum.Thefaceofthefellowgloatedinthesetwoinevitableengines

ofhisdisapproval."Itwilltakeyousometimebeforeyou'llgetyourdoctrinesaccepted,"hesaid."Accepted!I'dbesorry.Idon'twantalotofswinesnoutingandsniffingatmewiththeiracceptance.—Bah,Levison—onecaneasilymakeafoolofyou.Doyoutakethisasmygospel?""Itakeityouarespeakingseriously."HereLillybrokeintothatpeculiar,gay,whimsicalsmile."ButIshouldsaytheblankoppositewithjustasmuchfervour,"hedeclared."Do you mean to say you don't MEAN what you've been saying?" saidLevison,nowreallylookingangry."Why,I'lltellyoutherealtruth,"saidLilly."Ithinkeverymanisasacredandholyindividual,NEVERtobeviolated;IthinkthereisonlyonethingIhatetothe verge of madness, and that is BULLYING. To see any living creatureBULLIED,inanyway,almostmakesamurdererofme.Thatistrue.Doyoubelieveit—?""Yes," said Levison unwillingly. "That may be true as well. You have nodoubt,likemostofus,gotacomplexnaturewhich—"CRASH!There intervened one awful minute of pure shock, when the soul was indarkness.OutofthisshockAaronfelthimselfissuingamidamassofterriblesensations:thefearfulblowoftheexplosion,thenoiseofglass,thehoarsehowlofpeople,therushingofmen,thesuddengulf,theawfulgulfingwhirlpoolofhorrorinthesociallife.He stood in agony and semi-blindness amid a chaos. Then as he began torecoverhisconsciousness,hefoundhimselfstandingbyapillarsomedistancefromwherehehadbeensitting:hesawaplacewheretablesandchairswereallupsidedown,legsintheair,amiddebrisofglassandbreakage:hesawthecafealmostempty,nearlyeverybodygone:hesawtheowner,orthemanager,advancing aghast to the place of debris: he saw Lilly standing not far off,whiteasasheet,andasifunconscious.Andstillhehadnoideaofwhathadhappened. He thought perhaps something had broken down. He could notunderstand.Lillybeganto lookround.HecaughtAaron'seye.AndthenAaronbegantoapproachhisfriend."Whatisit?"heasked."Abomb,"saidLilly.

Themanager,andoneoldwaiter,andthreeorfouryouthshadnowadvancedtotheplaceofdebris.AndnowAaronsawthatamanwaslyingthere—andhorror,bloodwasrunningacrossthefloorofthecafe.Menbegannowhastilytoreturntotheplace.Someseizedtheirhatsanddepartedagainatonce.Butmanybegantocrowdin—ablackeagercrowdofmenpressingtowherethebombhad burst—where themanwas lying. Itwas rather dark, someof thelampswere broken—but enough still shone.Men surged inwith that eager,excitedzestofpeople,whentherehasbeenanaccident.Greycarabinieri,andcarabinieri in the cocked hat and fine Sunday uniform pressed forwardofficiously."Letusgo,"saidLilly.Andhewenttothefarcorner,wherehishathung.ButAaronlookedinvainforhisownhat.Thebombhadfallennearthestandwherehehadhungitandhisovercoat."Myhatandcoat?"hesaidtoLilly.Lilly, not very tall, stood on tiptoe.Then he climbed on a chair and lookedround.Thenhesqueezedpastthecrowd.Aaron followed. On the other side of the crowd excited angry men werewrestlingoverovercoats thatweremixedupwithabrokenmarble table-top.Aaronspiedhisownblackhatunderthesofanearthewall.Hewaitedhisturnandthenintheconfusionpressedforwardtowherethecoatswere.Someonehaddraggedouthis,anditlayonthefloorundermanyfeet.Hemanaged,withastruggle, toget it fromunder thefeetof thecrowd.Hefeltatonceforhisflute.But his trampled, torn coat had no flute in its pocket.He pushed andstruggled, caught sight of a section, and picked it up. But itwas split rightdown, two silver stops were torn out, and a long thin spelch of wood wascuriouslytornoff.Helookedatit,andhisheartstoodstill.Noneedtolookfortherest.Hefeltutterly,utterlyovercome—asifhedidn'tcarewhatbecameofhimanyfurther.Hedidn'tcarewhetherhewerehitbyabomb,orwhetherhehimselfthrew thenextbomb, andhit somebody.He just didn't care anymore aboutanything in life or death. It was as if the reins of his life slipped from hishands.Andhewouldleteverythingrunwhereitwould,solongasitdidrun.Thenhe became aware ofLilly's eyes onhim—and automatically he joinedthelittleman."Letusgo,"saidLilly.And theypushed theirway through thedoor.Thepolicewere justmarchingacrossthesquare.AaronandLillywalkedintheoppositedirection.Groupsofpeoplewerewatching.SuddenlyLillyswerved—inthemiddleoftheroadwas

alargeblackglistenofblood,tricklinghorribly.Awoundedmanhadrunfromtheblowandfallenhere.Aaron did not knowwhere hewas going.But in theViaTournabuoniLillyturnedtowardstheArno,andsoontheywereonthePonteSantaTrinita."Whothrewthebomb?"saidAaron."Isupposeananarchist.""It'sallthesame,"saidAaron.Thetwomen,asifunabletowalkanyfurther,leanedonthebroadparapetofthebridgeandlookedatthewaterinthedarknessofthestill,desertednight.Aaronstillhadhisflutesectioninhishand,hisovercoatoverhisarm."Isthatyourflute?"askedLilly."Bitofit.Smashed.""Letmelook."Helooked,andgaveitback."Nogood,"hesaid."Oh,no,"saidAaron."Throwitintheriver,Aaron,"saidLilly.Aaronturnedandlookedathim."Throwitintheriver,"repeatedLilly."It'sanend."Aaron nervelessly dropped the flute into the stream. The two men stoodleaningonthebridge-parapet,asifunabletomove."Weshallhavetogohome,"saidLilly."Tannymayhearofitandbeanxious."Aaronwasquitedumbfoundedbythenight'sevent:thelossofhisflute.Herewas a blow he had not expected. And the loss was for him symbolistic. Itchimedwithsomethinginhissoul:thebomb,thesmashedflute,theend."TheregoesAaron'sRod,then,"hesaidtoLilly."It'll grow again. It's a reed, a water-plant—you can't kill it," said Lilly,unheeding."Andme?""You'llhavetolivewithoutarod,meanwhile."TowhichpleasantremarkAaronmadenoreply.

CHAPTERXXI.WORDS

Hewenthometobed:anddreamedastrangedream.Hedreamedthathewasinacountrywithwhichhewasnotacquainted.Nightwascomingon,andhehadnowhere tosleep.Sohepassed themouthofasortofcaveorhouse, inwhichawoman,anoldwoman,sat.Thereforeheentered,andthoughhecouldnotunderstandthelanguage,stillhissecondselfunderstood.Thecavewasahouse: andmen came home fromwork. His second self assumed that theyweretin-miners.Hewandereduneasilytoandfro,noonetakinganyparticularnoticeofhim.And he realized that there was a whole vast country spreading, a sort ofunderworld country, spreading away beyond him. He wandered from vastapartmenttoapartment,downnarrowcorridorsliketheroadsinamine.Inoneof thegreatsquarerooms, themenweregoing toeat.Anditseemedtohimthatwhat theyweregoingtoeatwasaman,nakedman.Buthissecondselfknewthatwhatappearedtohiseyesasamanwasreallyaman'sskinstuffedtight with prepared meat, as the skin of a Bologna sausage. This did notpreventhisseeingthenakedmanwhowastobeeatenwalkslowlyandstifflyacrossthegangwayanddownthecorridor.Hesawhimfrombehind.Itwasabighandsomemanintheprimeoflife,quitenakedandperhapsstupid.Butofcoursehewasonlyaskinstuffedwithmeat,whomthegreytin-minersweregoingtoeat.Aaron, the dream-Aaron, turned another way, and strayed along the vastsquare rooms, cavern apartments.He came into one roomwhere thereweremany children, all in white gowns. And they were all busily puttingthemselves tobed, in themanybeds scattered about the roomat haphazard.Andeachchildwenttobedwithawreathofflowersonitshead,whiteflowersandpink,soitseemed.Sotheretheyalllay,intheirflower-crownsinthevastspaceoftherooms.AndAaronwentaway.He could not remember the following part.Only he seemed to have passedthroughmanygreydomesticapartments,wherewereallwomen,allgreyishintheirclothesandappearance,beingwivesoftheundergroundtin-miners.Themen were away and the dream-Aaron remembered with fear the food theyweretoeat.Thenext thinghe could recallwas, that hewas in aboat.Andnowhewasmostdefinitelytwopeople.Hisinvisible,consciousself,whatwehavecalledhis second self, hovered as itwere before the prow of the boat, seeing andknowing,butunseen.Hisotherself,thepalpableAaron,satasapassengerintheboat,whichwasbeingrowedbytheunknownpeopleofthisunderworld.Theystoodupastheythrusttheboatalong.Otherpassengerswereintheboattoo,womenaswell,butallofthemunknownpeople,andnotnoticeable.Theboatwasuponagreatlakeintheunderworldcountry,alakeofdarkbluewater,butcrystal clearandverybeautiful incolour.The secondor invisible

Aaron sat in the prow and watched the fishes swimming suspended in theclear, beautiful dark-blue water. Some were pale fish, some frightening-looking,likecentipedesswimming,andsomeweredarkfish,ofdefiniteform,anddelightfultowatch.The palpable or visibleAaron sat at the side of the boat, on the end of themiddleseat,withhisnakedrightelbowleaningoutovertheside.Andnowtheboat entered upon shallows. The impalpable Aaron in the bows saw thewhitish clay of the bottom swirl up in clouds at each thrust of the oars,whitish-clayey cloudswhichwould envelope the strange fishes in a suddenmist. And on the right hand of the course stakes stood up in the water, atintervals,tomarkthecourse.The boat must pass very near these stakes, almost touching. And Aaron'snaked elbow was leaning right over the side. As they approached the firststake,theboatmenallutteredastrangecryofwarning,inaforeignlanguage.The flesh-and-blood Aaron seemed not even to hear. The invisible Aaronheard,butdidnotcomprehendthewordsofthecry.Sothenakedelbowstrucksmartlyagainstthestakeastheboatpassed.The rowers rowed on.And still the flesh-and-bloodAaron satwith his armover the side. Another stake was nearing. "Will he heed, will he heed?"thoughttheanxioussecondself.Therowersgavethestrangewarningcry.Hedidnotheed,andagaintheelbowstruckagainstthestakeastheboatpassed.Andyettheflesh-and-bloodAaronsatonandmadenosign.Therewerestakesall along this shallow part of the lake. Beyond was deep water again. TheinvisibleAaronwas becoming anxious. "Will he never hear?Will he neverheed?Willheneverunderstand?"hethought.Andhewatchedinpainforthenextstake.Butstill theflesh-and-bloodAaronsaton,andthoughtherowerscried so acutely that the invisible Aaron almost understood their verylanguage,stilltheAaronseatedatthesideheardnothing,andhiselbowstruckagainstthethirdstake.Thiswasalmosttoomuch.Butafterafewmoments,astheboatrowedon,thepalpableAaron changedhis position as he sat, anddrew inhis arm: thoughevennowhewasnotawareofanyneedtodoso.TheinvisibleAaronbreathedwith relief in the bows, the boat swung steadily on, into the deep,unfathomablewateragain.They were drawing near a city. A lake-city, like Mexico. They must havereachedacity,becausewhenAaronwokeupand tried topiece together thedreamofwhichthesearemerefragments,hecouldrememberhavingjustseenanidol.AnAstarteheknewitas,seatedbytheroad,andinheropenlap,weresomeeggs:smallishhen'seggs,andoneortwobiggereggs,likeswan's,andonesingle little rollofbread.These lay in the lapof the roadsideAstarte....

Andthenhecouldremembernomore.Hewoke,andforaminutetriedtorememberwhathehadbeendreaming,andwhat itallmeant.Buthequicklyrelinquishedtheeffort.Sohe lookedathiswatch:itwasonlyhalf-pastthree.HehadoneofthoseAmericanwatcheswithluminous,phosphorescentfiguresandfingers.Andtonighthefeltafraidofitseerilyshiningface.He was awake a long time in the dark—for two hours, thinking and notthinking,inthatbarrenstatewhichisnotsleep,noryetfullwakefulness,andwhichisapainfulstrain.Atlengthhewenttosleepagain,anddidnotwaketillpasteighto'clock.Hedidnotringforhiscoffeetillnine.Outside was a bright day—but he hardly heeded it. He lay profitlesslythinking.Withthebreakingof theflute, thatwhichwasslowlybreakinghadfinallyshatteredatlast.Andtherewasnothingahead:noplan,noprospect.Heknewquitewellthatpeoplewouldhelphim:FrancisDekkerorAngusGuestor the Marchese or Lilly. They would get him a new flute, and find himengagements. But what was the good? His flute was broken, and brokenfinally.Thebombhadsettledit.Thebombhadsettleditandeverything.Itwasanend,nomatterhowhetriedtopatchthingsup.TheonlythinghefeltwasathreadofdestinyattachinghimtoLilly.Theresthadallgoneasbareandbaldas thedeadorbof themoon.Sohemadeuphismind, ifhecould, tomakesomeplanthatwouldbringhislifetogetherwiththatofhisevanescentfriend.Lillywasapeculiarbird.Cleverandattractiveasheundoubtedlywas,hewasperhapsthemostobjectionablepersontoknow.Itwasstampedonhispeculiarface. Aaron thought of Lilly's dark, ugly face, which had something thatlurkedinitasacreatureunderleaves.Thenhethoughtofthewide-aparteyes,with their curious candour and surety. The peculiar, half-veiled surety, as ifnothing, nothing could overcome him. It made people angry, this look ofsilent,indifferentassurance."Nothingcantouchhimonthequick,nothingcanreallyGETathim,"theyfeltatlast.Andtheyfeltitwithresentment,almostwithhate.Theywantedtobeabletogetathim.Forhewassoopen-seeming,soveryoutspoken.Hegavehimselfawaysomuch.Andhehadnomoneytofallbackon.Yethegavehimselfawaysoeasily,paidsuchattention,almostdeferencetoanychancefriend.Sotheyallthought:Hereisawisepersonwhofinds me the wonder which I really am.—And lo and behold, after he hadgiven them the trial, and found their inevitable limitations, he departed andceased to heed theirwonderful existence.Which, to say the least of it,wasfraudulentanddamnable.Itwasthen,afterhisdeparture,thattheyrealisedhisbasic indifference to them, and his silent arrogance. A silent arrogance thatknewalltheirwisdom,andleftthemtoit.Aaronhadbeenthroughitall.HehadstartedbythinkingLillyapeculiarlittlefreak:goneontothinkhimawonderfulchap,andabitpathetic:progressed,

andfoundhimgenerous,butoverbearing:thencruelandintolerant,allowingnoman tohave a soul of his own: then terribly arrogant, throwing a fellowasidelikeanoldglovewhichisinholesatthefinger-ends.Andallthetime,whichwasmostbeastly,seeingthroughone.Allthetime,freakandoutsiderashewas,Lillyknew.Heknew,andhissoulwasagainstthewholeworld.Driven tobay,and forced tochoose.Forced tochoose,notbetween lifeanddeath, but between the world and the uncertain, assertive Lilly. Forced tochoose,andyet,intheworld,havingnothinglefttochoose.Forintheworldtherewasnothinglefttochoose,unlesshewouldgiveinandtryforsuccess.Aaronknewwellenoughthatifhelikedtodoabitofbuttering,peoplewouldgladlymake a success of him, and give himmoney and success. He couldbecomequiteafavourite.Butno! Ifhehad togive in to something: ifhe reallyhad togive in,and itseemed he had: then he would rather give in to the little Lilly than to thebeastly people of the world. If he had to give in, then it should be to nowoman,andtonosocialideal,andtonosocialinstitution.No!—ifhehadtoyield his wilful independence, and give himself, then he would rather givehimselftothelittle,individualmanthantoanyoftherest.Fortotellthetruth,inthemanwassomethingincomprehensible,whichhaddominionoverhim,ifhechosetoallowit.Ashelayponderingthisover,escapingfromtheculdesacinwhichhehadbeen running for so long,byyielding tooneofhispursuers:yielding to thepeculiarmasteryofoneman'snatureratherthantothequicksandsofwomanorthestinkingbogsofsociety:yielding,sinceyieldhemust,insomedirectionorother:yieldinginanewdirectionnow,toonestrangeandincalculablelittleindividual: asAaron lay so relaxing, findingapeculiar delight ingivinghissoultohismind'shero,theself-sameherotappedandentered."Iwondered," he said, "if you'd like towalk into the countrywithme: it issuchaniceday.Ithoughtyoumighthavegoneoutalready.Buthereyouareinbedlikeawomanwho'shadababy.—You'reallright,areyou?""Yes,"saidAaron."I'mallright.""Miserableaboutyour flute?—Ah,well, therearemoreflutes.Getup then."AndLillywenttothewindow,andstoodlookingoutattheriver."We'regoingawayonThursday,"hesaid."Whereto?"saidAaron."Naples.We'vegotalittlehousethereforthewinter—inthecountry,notfarfromSorrento—Imustgetabitofworkdone,nowthewinteriscoming.Andforgetallabouteverythingandjustlivewithlife.What'sthegoodofrunningafterlife,whenwe'vegotitinus,ifnobodypreventsusandobstructsus?"

Aaronfeltveryqueer."Butforhowlongwillyousettledown—?"heasked."Oh,onlythewinter.Iamavagrantreally:oramigrant.Imustmigrate.Doyou think a cuckoo inAfrica and a cuckoo in Essex is oneAND the samebird?Anyhow,IknowImustoscillatebetweennorthandsouth,sooscillateIdo.It'sjustmynature.Allpeopledon'thavethesameneeds.""Perhapsnot," saidAaron,whohad risen andwas sittingon the sideof thebed."Iwouldverymuchliketotrylifeinanothercontinent,amonganotherrace.IfeelEuropebecoming likeacage tome.Europemaybeall right inherself.ButIfindmyselfchafing.AnotheryearIshallgetout.IshallleaveEurope.Ibegintofeelcaged.""Iguessthereareothersthatfeelcaged,aswellasyou,"saidAaron."Iguessthereare.""Andmaybetheyhaven'tachancetogetout."Lillywassilentamoment.Thenhesaid:"Well,Ididn'tmakelifeandsociety.Icanonlygomyownway."Aarontoowassilent.Adeepdisappointmentwassettlingoverhisspirit."Willyoubealoneallwinter?""JustmyselfandTanny,"heanswered."Butpeoplealwaysturnup.""Andthennextyear,whatwillyoudo?""Whoknows?Imaysail faroff. Ishould like to. Ishould like to tryquiteanew life-mode. This is finished in me—and yet perhaps it is absurd to gofurther.I'mrathersickofseekers.Ihateaseeker.""What," said Aaron rather sarcastically—"those who are looking for a newreligion?""Religion—andlove—andallthat.It'sadiseasenow.""Oh,Idon'tknow,"saidAaron."Perhaps thelackof loveandreligionis thedisease.""Ah—bah!Thegrinding theoldmillstonesof loveandGod iswhat ailsus,whenthere'snomoregristbetweenthestones.We'vegroundloveverysmall.Time to forget it. Forget the verywords religion, andGod, and love—thenhaveashotatanewmode.Buttheverywordsrivetusdownanddon'tletusmove.Rivets,andwecan'tgetthemout.""Andwhereshouldwebeifwecould?"saidAaron."Wemightbegintobeourselves,anyhow."

"And what does that mean?" said Aaron. "Being yourself—what does itmean?""Tome,everything.""Andtomostfolks,nothing.They'vegottohaveagoal.""Thereisnogoal.Iloathegoalsmorethananyotherimpertinence.Gaols,theyare.Bah—jailsandjailers,gaolsandgaolers—-""Whereveryougo,you'llfindpeoplewiththeirnosestiedtosomegoal,"saidAaron."Theirwagonhitchedtoastar—whichgoesroundandroundlikeanassinagin,"laughedLilly."Bedamnedtoit."Aarongothimselfdressed,andthetwomenwentout, tookatramandwentintothecountry.Aaroncouldnothelpit—Lillyputhisbackup.Theycametoalittle innnearabridge,whereabroadstreamrustledbrightandshallow.Itwasasunnywarmday,andAaronandLillyhadatableoutsideunderthethintreesatthetopofthebankabovetheriver.Theyellowleaveswerefalling—theTuscanskywasturquoiseblue.Inthestreambelowthreenakedboysstilladventurouslybathed,andlayflatontheshingleinthesun.Awagonwithtwopale,loving,velvetyoxendrewslowlydownthehill,lookingateachstepasifthey were going to come to rest, to move no more. But still they steppedforward. Till they came to the inn, and there they stood at rest. Two oldwomenwere picking the last acorns under three scrubby oak-trees,whilst agirlwith bare feet drove her two goats and a sheep up from thewater-sidetowardsthewomen.Thegirlworeadressthathadbeenblue,perhapsindigo,but which had faded to the beautiful lavender-purple colour which is socommon,andwhichalwaysremindedLillyofpurpleanemonesinthesouth.The twofriendssat in thesunanddrankredwine. Itwasmidday.Fromthethin,squarebelfryontheoppositehillthebellshadrung.Theoldwomenandthe girl squatted under the trees, eating their bread and figs.The boysweredressing, fluttering into their shirts on the stream's shingle. A big girl wentpast,withsomebody'sdinnertiedinaredkerchiefandperchedonherhead.Itwasoneofthemostprecioushours:thehourofpause,noon,andthesun,andthequietacceptanceoftheworld.Atsuchatimeeverythingseemstofallintoatruerelationship,afterthestrainofworkandofurge.AaronlookedatLilly,andsawthesameodd,distantlookonhisfaceasonthefaceofsomeanimalwhenitliesawakeandalert,yetperfectlyatonewithitssurroundings. It was something quite different from happiness: an alertenjoymentofrest,anintenseandsatisfyingsenseofcentrality.Asadogwhenitbasksinthesunwithoneeyeopenandwinking:orarabbitquitestillandwide-eyed,withafaintly-twitchingnose.Notpassivity,butalertenjoymentofbeingcentral,life-centralinone'sownlittlecircumambientworld.

Theysatthusstill—orlayunderthetrees—foranhourandahalf.ThenLillypaidthebill,andwenton."WhatamIgoingtodothiswinter,doyouthink?"Aaronasked."Whatdoyouwanttodo?""Nay,that'swhatIwanttoknow.""Doyouwantanything?Imean,doessomethingdriveyoufrominside?""Ican'tjustrest,"saidAaron."Can'tyousettledowntosomething?—toajob,forinstance?""I'venotfoundthejobIcouldsettledownto,yet,"saidAaron."Whynot?""It'sjustmynature.""Areyouaseeker?Haveyougotadivineurge,orneed?""HowdoIknow?"laughedAaron."PerhapsI'vegotaDAMNEDurge,atthebottomofme.I'msureit'snothingdivine.""Verywellthen.Now,inlife,thereareonlytwogreatdynamicurges—doyoubelieveme—?""HowdoIknow?"laughedAaron."Doyouwanttobebelieved?""No,Idon'tcareastraw.Onlyforyourownsake,you'dbetterbelieveme.""Allrightthen—whataboutit?""Well,then,thereareonlytwogreatdynamicurgesinLIFE:loveandpower.""Loveandpower?"saidAaron."Idon'tseepowerassoveryimportant.""Youdon'tseebecauseyoudon't look.But that'snot thepoint.Whatsortofurgeisyoururge?Isittheloveurge?""Idon'tknow,"saidAaron."Yes,youdo.Youknowthatyouhavegotanurge,don'tyou?""Yes—"ratherunwillinglyAaronadmittedit."Wellthen,whatisit?Isitthatyouwanttolove,ortobeobeyed?""Abitofboth.""All right—abitofboth.Andwhatareyoulookingfor in love?—Awomanwhom you can love, andwhowill love you, out and out and all in all andhappyeveraftersortofthing?""That'swhatIstartedoutfor,perhaps,"laughedAaron."Andnowyouknowit'sallmyeye!"AaronlookedatLilly,unwillingtoadmitit.Lillybegantolaugh.

"Youknowitwellenough,"hesaid."It'soneofyour lost illusions,myboy.Well, then,whatnext?Is itaGodyou'reafter?DoyouwantaGodyoucanstrivetoandattain,throughlove,andlivehappyeverafter,countlessmillionsofeternities,immortalityandallthat?Isthisyourlittledodge?"Again Aaron looked at Lilly with that odd double look of mockery andunwillingnesstogivehimselfaway."Allrightthen.You'vegotalove-urgethaturgesyoutoGod;haveyou?Thengo and join the Buddhists in Burmah, or the newest fangled Christians inEurope.Goandstickyourhead inabushofNirvanaorspiritualperfection.Trotoff.""Iwon't,"saidAaron."Youmust.Ifyou'vegotalove-urge,thengiveititsfulfilment.""Ihaven'tgotalove-urge.""Youhave.Youwant togetexcited in love.Youwant tobecarriedaway inlove.Youwanttowhooshoff inanicelittle lovewhooshandloveyourself.Don'tdenyit.Iknowyoudo.Youwantpassiontosweepyouoffonwingsoffiretillyousurpassyourself,andliketheswoopingeagleswooprightintothesun.Iknowyou,mylove-boy.""Notanymore—notanymore.I'vebeenhadtoooften,"laughedAaron."Bah,it'salessonmenneverlearn.Nomatterhowsicktheymakethemselveswithlove,theyalwaysrushformore,likeadogtohisvomit.""Well,whatamItodothen,ifI'mnottolove?"criedAaron."Youwant to go on, frompassion to passion, from ecstasy to ecstasy, fromtriumphtotriumph,tillyoucanwhooshawayintoglory,beyondyourself,allbondsloosenedandhappyeverafter.EitherthatorNirvana,oppositesideofthemedal.""There'sprobablymorehatethanloveinme,"saidAaron."That'stherecoilofthesameurge.Theanarchist,thecriminal,themurderer,heisonlytheextremeloveractingontherecoil.Butitislove:onlyinrecoil.Itfliesback,thelove-urge,andbecomesahorror.""Allrightthen.I'macriminalandamurderer,"saidAaron."No,you'renot.Butyou'vea love-urge.Andperhapsontherecoil justnow.But listen to me. It's no good thinking the love-urge is the one and only.Niente!Youcanwhooshifyoulike,andgetexcitedandcarriedawaylovingawoman,orhumanity,orGod.Swoopawayinthelovedirectiontillyouloseyourself.Butthat'swhereyou'rehad.Youcan'tloseyourself.Youcantry.Butyoumightjustaswelltrytoswallowyourself.You'llonlybiteyourfingersoffintheattempt.Youcan'tloseyourself,neitherinwomannorhumanitynorin

God.You'vealwaysgotyourselfonyourhandsintheend:andaveryrawandjaded and humiliated and nervous-neurasthenic self it is, too, in the end.Averynastythingtowakeuptoisone'sownrawselfafteranexcessivelove-whoosh.LookevenatPresidentWilson:helove-whooshedforhumanity,andfoundintheendhe'donlygotaverysorryselfonhishands."So leaveoff.Leaveoff,myboy.Leaveoff love-whooshing.Youcan't loseyourself, so stop trying.The responsibility is on your own shoulders all thetime,andnoGodwhichmanhaseverstruckcantakeitoff.YouAREyourselfandsoBEyourself.Sticktoitandabidebyit.Passionornopassion,ecstasyor no ecstasy, urge or no urge, there's no goal outside you, where you canconsummatelikeaneagleflyingintothesun,oramothintoacandle.There'snogoaloutsideyou—andthere'snoGodoutsideyou.NoGod,whomyoucangettoandrestin.None.It'sacaseof:'Trot,trottomarket,tobuyapennybun,Andtrot,trotbackagain,asfastasyoucanrun.'But there's noGod outside you,whom you can rise to or sink to or swoopawayto.Youcan'tevengumyourselftoadivineNirvanamoon.Becauseallthetimeyou'vegot toeatyourdinneranddigest it.Thereisnogoaloutsideyou.None."Thereisonlyonething,yourownveryself.Soyou'dbettersticktoit.Youcan'tbeanybiggerthanjustyourself,soyouneedn'tdragGodin.You'vegotone job, and no more. There inside you lies your own very self, like agerminating egg, your precious Easter egg of your own soul. There it is,developing bit by bit, from one single egg-cell which you were at yourconception in your mother's womb, on and on to the strange and peculiarcomplication inunitywhichnever stops till youdie—if then.You'vegot aninnermost, integralunique self, andsince it's theonly thingyouhavegotoreverwillhave,don'tgotryingtoloseit.You'vegottodevelopit,fromtheegginto the chicken, and from the chicken into the one-and-only phoenix, ofwhichtherecanonlybeoneatatimeintheuniverse.Therecanonlybeoneofyou at a time in the universe—andone ofme.So don't forget it.Your ownsingle oneness is your destiny. Your destiny comes fromwithin, from yourown self-form.And you can't know it beforehand, neither your destiny noryourself-form.Youcanonlydevelopit.Youcanonlysticktoyourownveryself,andNEVERbetrayit.Andbysosticking,youdeveloptheoneandonlyphoenixof yourown self, andyouunfoldyourowndestiny, as a dandelionunfoldsitselfintoadandelion,andnotintoastickofcelery."Remember this,myboy:you'venevergot todenytheHolyGhostwhichisinsideyou,yourownsoul'sself.Never.Oryou'llcatch it.Andyou'venevergottothinkyou'lldodgetheresponsibilityofyourownsoul'sself,byloving

or sacrificing or Nirvaning—or even anarchising and throwing bombs. Youneverwill...."Aaron was silenced for a moment by this flood of words. Then he saidsmiling:"SoI'dbettersittightonmysoul,tillithatches,hadI?""Oh,yes. Ifyour soul'surgeurgesyou to love, then love.But alwaysknowthatwhat you are doing is the fulfilling of your own soul's impulse. It's nogood trying to act by prescription: not a bit. And it's no use getting intofrenzies.Ifyou'vegottogoinforloveandpassion,goinforthem.Buttheyaren'tthegoal.They'reameremeans:alife-means,ifyouwill.Theonlygoalisthefulfillingofyourownsoul'sactivedesireandsuggestion.Bepassionateasmuchaseveritisyournaturetobepassionate,anddeeplysensualasfarasyoucanbe.Small soulshaveasmall sensuality,deepsoulsadeepone.Butremember,all the time, the responsibility isuponyourownhead, it all restswithyourownlonelysoul,theresponsibilityforyourownaction.""Ineversaiditdidn't,"saidAaron."Youneversaiditdid.Youneveraccepted.Youthoughttherewassomethingoutside,tojustifyyou:God,oracreed,oraprescription.Butremember,yoursoulinsideyouisyouronlyGodhead.Itdevelopsyouractionswithinyouasatreedevelopsitsownnewcells.Andthecellspushonintobudsandboughsandflowers.Andtheseareyourpassionandyouractsandyourthoughtsandexpressions,yourdevelopingconsciousness.Youdon'tknowbeforehand,andyoucan't.Youcanonlysticktoyourownsoulthroughthickandthin."YouareyourownTreeofLife,rootsandlimbsandtrunk.Somewherewithinthe wholeness of the tree lies the very self, the quick: its own innate HolyGhost.AndthisHolyGhostputsforthnewbuds,andpushespastoldlimits,and shakesoff awholebodyofdying leaves.And theold limits hatebeingempassed,andtheoldleaveshatetofall.Buttheymust,ifthetree-soulsaysso...."Theyhadsatagainduring thisharangue,underawhitewall.Aaron listenedmoretothevoicethanthewords.Itwasmorethesoundvaluewhichenteredhissoul,thetone,thestrangespeech-musicwhichsankintohim.Thesensehehardlyheeded.Andyetheunderstood,heknew.Heunderstood,ohsomuchmore deeply than if he had listened with his head. And he answered anobjectionfromthebottomofhissoul."But you talk," he said, "as ifwewere like trees, alone by ourselves in theworld.Wearen't.Ifwelove,itneedsanotherpersonthanourselves.Andifwehate,andevenifwetalk.""Quite," said Lilly. "And that's just the point. We've got to love and hate

moreover—and even talk. But we haven't got to fix on any one of thesemodes,andsaythat'stheonlymode.Itissuchimbecilitytosaythatloveandlovealonemust rule. It issoobviouslynot thecase.Yetwe tryandmake itso.""Ifeelthat,"saidAaron."It'sallalie.""It'sworse. It's a half lie. But listen. I told you therewere two urges—twogreatlife-urges,didn'tI?Theremaybemore.Butitcomesonmesostrongly,now, that there are two: love, and power. And we've been trying to workourselves, at least as individuals, from the love-urge exclusively, hating thepower-urge, and repressing it.And now I findwe've got to accept the verythingwe'vehated."We'veexhaustedourlove-urge,forthemoment.Andyetwetrytoforceittocontinue working. So we get inevitably anarchy and murder. It's no good.We'vegottoacceptthepowermotive,acceptitindeepresponsibility,doyouunderstandme? It is a great life motive. It was that great dark power-urgewhichkeptEgyptso intensely living forsomanycenturies. It isavastdarksourceoflifeandstrengthinusnow,waitingeithertoissueintotrueaction,ortoburst intocataclysm.Power—thepower-urge.Thewill-to-power—butnotinNietzsche'ssense.Notintellectualpower.Notmentalpower.Notconsciouswill-power. Not even wisdom. But dark, living, fructifying power. Do youknowwhatImean?""Idon'tknow,"saidAaron."Takewhatyou call love, for example. In the realwayof love, thepositiveaim is tomake theotherperson—orpersons—happy. Itdevotes itself to theotheror toothers.But change themode.Let theurgebe theurgeofpower.Thenthegreatdesire isnothappiness,neitherof thebelovednorofoneself.Happiness isonlyoneofmanystates,and it ishorrible to thinkof fixingusdowntoonestate.Theurgeofpowerdoesnotseekforhappinessanymorethanforanyotherstate.Iturgesfromwithin,darkly,forthedisplacingoftheoldleaves,theinceptionofthenew.Itispowerfulandself-central,notseekingitscentreoutside,insomeGodorsomebeloved,butactingindomitablyfromwithinitself."Andofcoursetheremustbeonewhourges,andonewhoisimpelled.Justasinlovethereisabelovedandalover:Themanissupposedtobethelover,thewomanthebeloved.Now,intheurgeofpower,itisthereverse.Thewomanmustsubmit,butdeeply,deeplysubmit.Nottoanyfoolishfixedauthority,nottoanyfoolishandarbitrarywill.Buttosomethingdeep,deeper.Tothesoulinitsdarkmotionofpowerandpride.Wemust reverse thepoles.Thewomanmustnowsubmit—butdeeply,deeply,andrichly!Nosubservience.Noneofthat.Noslavery.Adeep,unfathomablefreesubmission."

"You'llnevergetit,"saidAaron."Youwill,ifyouabandontheloveideaandthelovemotive,andifyoustandapart, and never bully, never force from the conscious will. That's whereNietzschewaswrong.Hiswastheconsciousandbenevolentwill,infact,thelove-will. But the deep power-urge is not conscious of its aims: and it iscertainly not consciously benevolent or love-directed.—Whatever elsehappens, somewhere, sometime, the deep power-urge in man will have toissueforthagain,andwomanwillsubmit,livingly,notsubjectedly.""Sheneverwill,"persistedAaron."Anythingelsewillhappen,butnotthat.""Shewill,"saidLilly,"oncemandisengageshimselffromthelove-mode,andstandsclear.Oncehestandsclear,andtheothergreaturgebeginstoflowinhim,thenthewomanwon'tbeabletoresist.Herownsoulwillwishtoyielditself.""Womanyield—?"Aaronre-echoed."Woman—andman too.Yield to thedeeppower-soul in the individualman,andobey implicitly. I don't gobackonwhat I saidbefore. I dobelieve thatevery man must fulfil his own soul, every woman must be herself, herselfonly,notsomeman'sinstrument,orsomeembodiedtheory.Butthemodeofour being is such that we can only live and have our being whilst we areimplicit in one of the great dynamicmodes.WeMUSTeither love, or rule.Andoncethelove-modechanges,aschangeitmust,forwearewornoutandbecomingevilinitspersistence,thentheothermodewilltakeplaceinus.Andthere will be profound, profound obedience in place of this love-crying,obediencetotheincalculablepower-urge.Andmenmustsubmittothegreatersoul in a man, for their guidance: and women must submit to the positivepower-soulinman,fortheirbeing.""You'llnevergetit,"saidAaron."Youwill,when allmenwant it.Allmen say, theywant a leader. Then letthemintheirsoulssubmittosomegreatersoulthantheirs.Atpresent,whenthey say theywant a leader, theymean theywant an instrument, likeLloydGeorge. A mere instrument for their use. But it's more than that. It's thereverse. It's the deep, fathomless submission to the heroic soul in a greaterman.You,Aaron,you toohave theneed to submit.You, too,have theneedlivinglytoyieldtoamoreheroicsoul,togiveyourself.Youknowyouhave.Andyouknow it isn't love. It is life-submission.Andyouknow it.Butyoukickagainst thepricks.Andperhapsyou'dratherdie thanyield.Andso,dieyoumust.Itisyouraffair."Therewasalongpause.ThenAaronlookedupintoLilly'sface.Itwasdarkandremote-seeming.ItwaslikeaByzantineeikonatthemoment.

"AndwhomshallIsubmitto?"hesaid."Yoursoulwilltellyou,"repliedtheother.THEEND

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