Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 11
IT WAS just adorable of you to come."
Ruth was getting out of the car. They kissed.
"Why, Phyllis! How sweet you look! Gracious: I thought this was a Picnic, and here you are in a dance frock. For Heaven's sake lead me to hot water. Those awful Pullmans; I'm simply speckled with cinders. I feel gritty all over."
That, of course, must be Miss Clyde, on the front seat.
"How do you do! After all these years! I don't suppose we'd have known each other. But we ought to, George admires your work so much."
They shook hands. It was a hard, capable little hand, calloused like a boy's. Phyllis knew now that she remembered the grey-green eyes: agates, gold-flecked, with light behind them. Eyes softly shadowed underneath, as though from too much eagerness to understand; eyes dipped in darkness. The small shy child of long ago, who stood apart from games. How many strange moments had both been through since last they met?
George was getting out the suitcases. He was afraid to watch Phyllis and Joyce greet. When a finely adjusted balance hovers in equilibrium you don't breathe on the scales.
"We were on the same train," cried Ruth, "and never recognized each other."
Ben felt the twinge of anxiety common to the husband who hears his wife tell an unnecessary fib. Ruth had said this once before already, in the car, so perhaps it was important. Her allusion to Pullmans, also, was based (he suspected) on the erroneous notion that Miss Clyde had ridden in a day coach. But he liked to back Ruth up, if he knew what she was heading for.
"I guess we've all changed," he said mildly. "The old house hasn't, it looks just the same."
"Miss Clyde's brought her paint box," George said. "She's going to do a picture."
"Oh, yes, and we have another—why, that's fine, Miss Clyde—we have another artist here too, Mr. Martin. You must all come in and meet him."
She stood holding the screen door aside, welcoming them in. George, coming last, saw how her cheerful smile faded to expressionless blank when the guests had passed. She had relapsed into automatic Hostess. How lonely she must be to look like that. I wish it was over, he thought. His mind felt like a spider that has caught several large flies at once: the delicate web was in danger of breaking.
They entered the hall.
"It isn't changed a bit!" Ruth said. "Exactly as I remember it—except it seems smaller. That old table, for instance, that used to be just enormous. Well, hot water first. I can sentimentalize much better when I'm clean."
George was thinking: Ruth's probably the kind of woman who always twists the toothpaste tube crooked, but her babble will help us around corners.
"I hope Miss Clyde won't mind being in the little sitting room downstairs: you see we're just camping out here, you must all make yourselves at home."
Joyce tried to frame some appropriate reply to Phyllis's clear, faintly hostile voice. She was in the tranced uneasiness of revisit. Coming from the station she had been trying to realize the Island again: her mind was startled by the permanence of the physical world. Things she had not thought of for so long—things that she had apparently been carrying, unawares, in memory—were still there, unaltered, reproaching her own instability. The planks of the station platform, the old scow rotting in the mud, the road of crushed oyster shells, the same vacancy of sand and sky.
In the car she and George were both achingly mute. There seemed to be a sheet of glass between them. The Brooks emitted cheerful chatter from the back seat, George replied with bustling geniality, his only mask. How wonderful if they could just have made this ride in silence; she had a feeling that all sorts of lovely meanings were escaping her. There was the notch of blue light where the road slipped over a prickling horizon of pines. How just right were the slopes of the puppy-coloured sand hills, the tasselled trees against the pure lazy air, the coloured veining of the fields. Now, now; here, here; I'm here and now, she had to remind herself. It's God's world, whatever that can mean. Golly, you must be careful how you make fun of religion: it's a form of art. She imagined a painting of that aisle of sandy road, climbing through the tall resiny grove. Religion would be a good name for it.—George had never seemed so far away as now when she sat beside him. Would it always be like that? Oh, teach yourself not to love things, she thought. Be indifferent. It's love that causes suffering, it's tenderness that weighs heavy on the heart. How ridiculous to say that God loves the world. He doesn't give a damn about it, really. That's why He's so cheerful . . . such a competent artist. His hand doesn't shake. Still, I don't think I want to meet Him. It's a mistake to meet artists you admire; they're always disappointing.
"I shouldn't have come here," she said. "I love it too much. Those trees. They look so surprised. I have a guilty passion for pine trees."
Driving the faithful car had strengthened George. Even the paltriest has an encouraged sense of competence with that steady tattoo underneath his feet. The artist that lay printed like a fossil in George's close-packed heart—the artist that only Joyce had ever relished—always responded to the drum of the engine. He adored the car; when he drove alone to the Island (sending the family by train) he sang to her most of the way. This was his guilty passion. Now it was the car's rhyming vitality that came to his rescue. He broke the glass. He cut himself, but he got through.
"Any kind of love is too much," he said.
Then he was grieved to find himself uttering such a cheap oracle; but it comforted Joyce because she saw it was a symptom. It showed that he was trying to tell the truth. She did not dare look at him: she was too conscious of the others behind them, who seemed as massively attentive as an audience in a theatre. Then in a wave of annoyance, Surely I have a right to look where I want? She did so. She could see the confidential tilt of his eyebrow so plainly, she knew he was hers for the taking. Nothing but themselves could stand between them.
"How queer: that's just what I was thinking," she told the eyebrow.
"Oh, do you believe in telepathy?" chirped Ruth. "Ben sometimes knows exactly what I'm thinking without my saying a word."
It can't happen often, George thought.
"What were you laughing at?" he found time to ask her, as the others were descending from the car.
"I was just thinking, there's not much danger of my meeting God, because I'm not pure in heart."
"Oh, I shall be perfectly comfortable anywhere," she said.
The single swathe of sunshine carved the hall, dividing it into two dusks as the word Now divides one's mind. All, all unchanged: the series of hemispherical bronze gongs at the dining-room door, the wakeful asthma of the tall clock, the wide banistered stairway with its air of waiting to creak. The soft, gold-sliced shadow trembled with small sounds, and light voices of children drifted down from above. If this was still real, then what was her life of to-day? Why pretend any longer to make the world seem reasonable? It was all a delightful ironic farce with an audience applauding the wrong moments and the Author gritting his teeth in the wings. What use was Time if it availed so little?
The broad stream of sunlight flowed through the house like a steady ripple of Lethe, washing away the sandy shelves of trivial Now, dissolving little edges of past and future into its current, drawing all Time together in one clear onward sluice. What are we waiting for, she wondered. What is everyone waiting for, always? She was painfully aware of George standing near her. It was not silence that sundered them, but their grotesque desire to speak.
"George," Phyllis was saying, "you give Ben a drink or something while I take the ladies"
In the shadow beyond the table there was a clicking sound. Through the wide opening of the dining-room double doors two figures crawled, on all fours, with a toy train. Janet was in her pyjamas, ready for bed. Martin's hand moved the engine across the floor. They came into the stripe of sunset.
"Wait a minute!" cried Janet. "Here's one of the passengers."
"Put him in," said Martin. "And then the train goes round a sharp curve and smashes into a lot of people, bing!"
"Quick, I'll telephone for a nambulance. You adbretized Perfect Safety on this railroad. It said so in your booklet."
"Well, if people will sit down for a Picnic right on the main line"
"Goodness, what a nasinine thing to do."
"They were using the hot rails to fry their bacon on."
"Here's the doctor. Are there any children hurt?"
"Children all safe," said Martin, looking carefully through the wreckage. "A lot of grown-ups badly damaged."
"Here's the pistol. Put them out of their misery."
"Bang-bang-bang!"
"They didn't suffer much. I'll go for the wrecking train."
"Janet!" exclaimed Phyllis. "What are you doing, running about the house in your pyjamas. And you've got sniffles already."
The two players looked up; but they could see nothing outside their tunnel of brightness. The voice seemed like imagination.
"Of course the railroad company will have to pay money for those valuable lives," said Martin regretfully.
"I'll get the blocks, we can build a norphan asylum for the surveyors."
"Not surveyors, survivors."
"Janet! Say good-night to Mr. Martin and run upstairs."
This time the command was unmistakable. Janet became aware of tall ominous figures emerging from the surrounding dusk.
"Good-night!" she cried hastily, and ran.
"I'm afraid Janet's manners are terrible," Phyllis said. "She ought to have shaken hands, but I don't like to call her back now, she'll catch more cold."
Two other forms appeared at the top of the stairs.
"Is to-morrow the Picnic?" they called anxiously.
Martin was still sitting on the floor, musing over the disaster. Janet halted halfway up and shouted. "He says you said Damn the Picnic."
Sylvia and Rose burst into snivels. There was a moment of difficult pause. Martin realized that something was happening and began collecting the train.
"You promised the Picnic for to-morrow," he said, looking up from where he was kneeling.
"Yes, yes, to-morrow, don't worry," George shouted to the children.
"Mr. Martin's been awfully kind at keeping them amused," said Phyllis. "Mr. Martin, Mr. and Mrs. Brook, Miss Clyde.—George, turn on the light, Mr. Martin can't see us."
The button clicked, the bulbs jumped to attention, mere loops of pale wire beside the orange shaft of sun. Martin scrambled suddenly to his feet.
"How do you do," he said.
"What stunning towels," Ruth remarked as Phyllis was pointing out the hot-water tap. The embroidery of Phyllis's maiden initials was luxuriously illegible, in some sort of Old High German character. "Surely those didn't come with the house?"
"No; they're mine; all that's left of my trousseau. What George calls my pre-war towels."
But Ruth was too busy in her own thoughts to pursue little jokes.
"Your artist man is rather extraordinary," she said. "Why should any one so attractive need to be so bashful?"
"He's not really bashful.—There, I think you'll find everything you need."
The light twinkled on a tray of yellowish glasses on the sideboard. George unlocked the cupboard, took out a bottle, and split open a new box of cigarettes with his thumbnail. There's a consolation in having these small things to do, he thought. Meanwhile, what am I really thinking of? I suppose she's washing her hands. It's awkward having her downstairs. She'll want to change. . . . I don't believe she's got a mirror in there. We can hardly expect her to use the bookcase panes.
"Excuse me a moment," he said. "Ben, pour the tonic. It's good stuff." Mr. Martin was still standing by the door uncertainly, holding the toy engine. Heavens, does the fellow have to be moved round like a chess man? He's so difficult to talk to, somehow. George made a cordial gesture, indicating that Mr. Martin might as well join Ben at the sideboard. Martin crossed the room obediently.
The anxious host glanced into the sitting room. Yes: Phyllis, with her usual skill, had turned the desk into a dressing table: there was a fresh doily on it, a vase of flowers, and the mirror from his own bureau upstairs. Already, though she hadn't entered it yet, the room was no longer his but Joyce's. It had become private, precious, and strange. Here, in the very centre of his own muddled affairs, was suddenly a kernel of unattainable magic. Why in God's name had Phyllis put her in his room? It was too savagely ironic. In my heart, in my mind, in my very bed, and I can't even speak to her. It's too farcical. If I didn't have to keep it secret we could all laugh about it. Secrecy is the only poison.
He carried in Joyce's suitcase and paint box, put them on the couch, and fled.
"Well, Ben, I saved my last bottle for this party. It'll help us live through the Picnic. Mr. Martin, aren't you drinking?"
"What is it?" asked Martin.
"Try it and see. You don't need to worry. It's real."
Ben held up his glass, prolonging anticipation. The fine vatted aroma of the rye cheered his nostrils. Here at least was one trifle which helps assuage the immense tedium of life.
"Funny to see the old place again," he said. "How well I remember those coloured panes. Well . . ."
"Never drink without a sentiment," said George.
"All right: stained glass windows."
"Good enough. Stained glass windows."
"Is this your first visit?" Ben began politely; but the other guest was still coughing and gagging. His eyes were full of tears.
Not used to good stuff, George thought. You don't get much of this genuine rye nowadays. He and Ben waited, rather embarrassed, until the other had stopped patting his chest. Ben lit a cigarette and blew a ring.
Martin's face brightened. He put out his finger and hooked the floating twirl.
"That's lovely!" he said. "How do you do it?"
Ben was pleased at this tribute to his only social accomplishment.
"Why, it's quite easy. Get a big mouthful of smoke, purse your lips in a circle, like the hole in a doughnut, and raise your tongue suddenly to push the smoke out."
"Do it again."
Ben looked so comic, shaping his mouth, Martin couldn't help laughing.
"You look like a catfish. Can you do it too?"
"Not so well as Ben. Gosh, didn't you ever see any one blow smoke rings before?"
"No. My father doesn't smoke."
Ben looked a little perplexed. He had an uneasy feeling that perhaps the artist was making fun of them in some obscure way.
Phyllis called from the stairs. "George, will you come up and speak to the children? They want to be reassured about the Picnic."
"Do I have to finish this medicine?" Martin asked.
George grinned at him, rather tickled by this drollery.
"You must do as you think best. Make yourselves at home, you fellows. I'll be back in a minute."
"Don't you like it?" said Ben.
"No."
"Well, I can help you."
"It was nice of you to blow a smoke ring to amuse me."
There was silence, which Ben concluded by taking the other glass of whisky.
"Happy days," he said.
"To-morrow will be a happy day," Martin said. "We're going to be reassured by a Picnic."
"Have a cigarette," was all that Ben could think of.
"Who were the ladies you brought with you?"
"Well, one of them's my wife."
"Which, the pretty one?"
Ben poured himself another slug. He felt he needed it. He had a strong desire to laugh, but there was sincere inquiry in Mr. Martin's eyes. He really wanted to know.
"Ask them," he said.
Phyllis came into the room.
"It'll soon be dinner time. You people all ready?"
Martin held out his arms. It was so nearly the substance of her dream, she moved forward to enter his embrace. Ben's face of surprise checked her in time. She took Martin's hands.
"Mr. Martin is my guest of honour," she explained lightly.
"He seems to be," said Ben, and finished his glass.
They stood a moment. Then Martin said, "You didn't look at them."
"At what?"
"My hands. I mean, are they clean enough?"
Janet and Sylvia were already in the two cots on the balcony; but their eyes were waiting for George, with that look of entreating expectancy worn by those who look upward from bed. In the lustrous garden air crickets were beginning to wheedle. The rickety old porch seemed an alcove of simpleness divided from the absurd tangled emotions of the house. But even here was passion: the little white trousered figures sprang up, their strenuous arms clutched him, their eyes were dark with anxiety. With horror he saw how they appealed to him as omnipotent all-arranging arbiter. Him, the poor futile bungler! They crushed him with the impossible burden of their faith.
"Yes, we'll have the Picnic to-morrow. Now you go to sleep and get a good rest."
"Mother forgot to hear our prayers."
He stood impatient as they lengthily rehearsed, one after the other, their confident innocent petitions. The clear voices chirruped, but he shut their words from his mind, as regardless as God. Would they never finish? To hear these dear meaningless desiderations was too tender a torment. He tried to think of other things—of anything—of the sea; of washing his hands and putting on a clean collar; of the striped brown and silver tie that he intended to wear to-morrow (Joyce had never seen it); and what on earth are we going to do to amuse these people after dinner?
". . . and Mother and Daddy and all friends kind and dear; and let to-morrow be a nice day for the Picnic. . . ."
Poor little devils, he thought; they seem as far away from me as if they were kittens or puppies. People pretend that children are just human beings of a smaller size, but I think they're something quite different. They live in a world with only three dimensions, a physical world immersed in the moment, a reasonable world, a world without that awful sorcery of a fourth measurement that makes us ill at ease. What is it their world lacks? Is it self-consciousness, is it beauty, is it sex? (Three names for the same thing, perhaps.) Little Sylvia with her full wet eyes, what torments of desire she would arouse some day in some deluded stripling.
Strange world of theirs: a world that has no awareness of good and evil; a world merely pretty, whereas ours is beautiful. A world that knows what it wants; whereas we are never quite sure. . . .
He looked at them with amazement. Where did they come from, how did they get there? They were more genuine than himself, they would still be in this incredible life long after he had been shovelled out of it. How soon would they begin to see through the furious pettiness of parents? See that we do everything we punish them for attempting, that we torture them for our own weakness, set their teeth on edge for the taste of our own green grapes?
He tucked them in, gave each rounded hill of blanket a consoling pat, and left them. Joyce was standing in the passage. She had changed her clothes and was wearing a plain grey linen dress. He wanted to tell her that she was one of the unbelievably rare women who never have a pink strap of ribbon running loose across one shoulder. There must be some solution of that problem? A man would have abolished it long ago. But she's on her way to the bathroom, I suppose; it'll be more polite if I just stand aside and let her pass without saying anything. Besides, we can't talk here, right outside Ruth's door.
But she did not move. Evidently she had been watching his little scene with the children. In a flicker of the mind he wondered whether his part in it had looked creditable. He was afraid it had. For now, to her at any rate, he hankered to be known as the troubled imbecile he really was.
"And you wonder why I envy you," she said.
He didn't answer. He was busy reminding himself that that was what her eyes were like. It is only a few times that any man has the chance or the will to search the innermost bravery of other human faces. He had thought much about her eyes, had imagined the fine glory of telling them about themselves. Foreigners, he would call them; bright aliens not quite at home in the daily disasters of earth's commonplace. Foreigners, but he was on the pier waiting for them. They seemed to know that life is a precious thing and that we are always in danger of marring it. He imagined them as they would be if their shadow of questioning were skimmed away; if they were flooded with the light of complete surrender, of reckless trust. But how can these things be said? There is no code, he thought: so perhaps the wise presently abandon attempt to communicate. The gulf surrounds us all; only here and there on the horizon a reversed ensign shows where some stout spirit founders in silence. Or now and then, in the casual palaver of the day, slips out some fantastic phrase to show how man rises from clay to potter, can even applaud the nice malice of his own comedy.
He had got beyond the point where he could talk to her in trivialities. He must say all or nothing.
"Lucky children," she said. "I wish I had someone to hear my prayers.—If I had, I might say some."
"I didn't hear them. I wasn't listening; I couldn't. Oh, Joyce, Joyce, there's so much I want to say, and your eyes keep interrupting me."
He thrilled a little at himself, and felt better. For he had his Moments: unforeseen felicities when he said the humorous and necessary word: and when his Moments came he could not help gloating over them. She gloated too, for she relished that innocent glee when he congratulated his own mind. When himself was his own guest of honour, and he stood genially at the front door.
So she smiled. What other woman could ever reward a lucky phrase with such magic of wistful applause?
"I apologize for them. They didn't mean to be rude."
She was so young and straight in her plain frock, so blessedly unconscious of herself. He thought of her fine strong body, the ungiven body that was so much her own, near him again after all the miracles of life that divide flesh from flesh and then bring it again within grasp; her sweet uncommanded beauty, irrelevant perhaps, yet so thrillingly a symbol of her essence. The noble body, poor blasphemed perfection, worshipped in the dead husks of statue and painting and yet so feared in its reality. He had to remind himself that it was irrelevant. How could any man with a full quota of biology help dream of mastering that cool, unroused detachment?
Ah, he had already had all of her that was imperishable: her dreams, her thoughts, her poor secret honesties. She had given him these, and nothing could spoil them. He had agreed with himself that his love was merely for her mind. (Distressing thought!) It was only the ridiculous need of keeping this passion to themselves that darkened and inflamed it. If it could be announced it would instantly become the purest thing on earth. It would be robbed of its sting. He imagined an engraved card:—
Mr. and Mrs. George Granville
have the honour to announce
the betrothal of Mr. Granville's mind
to that of Miss Joyce Clyde
Nothing Carnal
Admit impediments."
"Joyce, let's make our announcement at this party."
"What announcement?" She looked startled.
"Why, that our minds are engaged."
Her hand, in his, tightened a little, reproachfully.
"George, before you go down. Who is this Mr. Martin?"
"I don't really know; some friend of Phyl's. I never saw him before. She says he's going to do a portrait of her. I think he's kidding her."
He turned toward the stairs and then called her back.
"Listen," he said softly. "When I say something, after dinner, about putting the car away, that's your cue. Slip away and come with me. I want to show you something."