Kingham laughed derisively ‘A lot you care about anybody’s happiness,’ he said, ‘particularly his! The truth is that you want to make the best of both worlds — be respectable and vicious at the same time. At all costs, no frankness! It’s a case of the misplaced fig-leaf, as usual.’
And then there was a terrible scene, a whole series of terrible scenes, because Grace did not want to have a child by him.
‘Our only excuse,’ he raged at her, ‘the only thing that might justify us — and you won’t hear of it. It’s to be vice for vice’s sake, is it? The uncontaminated aesthetic doctrine.’
At other times, becoming strangely solicitous for the welfare of Grace’s children, he reproached her with being a bad, neglectful mother ‘And you knows it’s true,’ she said to Catherine, with remorseful conviction ‘It’s quite true I do neglect them.’
She invited Catherine to accompany her and the two youngest to the Zoo, the very next afternoon. Over the heads of little Pat and Mittie, among the elephants and apes, the bears and the screaming parrots, she talked to Grace about her love and her unhappiness. And every now and then Pat or Mittie would interrupt with a question.
‘Mummy, why do fish swim?’
Or ‘How do you make tortoises?’
‘You know, you’re a great comfort,’ said Grace to Catherine, as they parted ‘I don’t know what I should do without you.’
The next time she came, she brought Catherine a present, not a powder-puff this time, not gloves or ribbons, but a copy of Dostoievsky’s Letters from the Underworld ‘You must read it,’ she insisted ‘You absolutely must. It’s so damnably true’ Grace’s life during this period was one of almost uninterrupted misery I say ‘almost uninterrupted’, for there were occasions when Kingham seemed to grow tired of violent emotions, of suffering, and the infliction of suffering, moments when he was all tenderness and an irresistible charm. For these brief spells of happiness, Grace was only too pathetically grateful. Her love, which an absolutely consistent ill-treatment might finally perhaps have crushed and eradicated, was revived by these occasional kindnesses into fresh outflowerings of a passionate adoration. Each time she hoped, she almost believed, that the happiness was going to be permanent. Bringing with her a few select aphorisms of Nietzsche, a pocket Leopardi, or the reproduction of one of Goya’s Desastres de la Guerra, she would come and tell Catherine how happy she was,” how radiantly, miraculously happy. Almost she believed that, this time, her happiness was going to last for ever. Almost, but never quite. There was always a doubt, an unexpressed, secret, and agonizing fear. And always the doubt was duly justified, the fear was proved to be but too well founded. After two or three days’ holiday from his emotional orgy — two or three days of calm and kindness — Kingham would appear before her, scowling, his face dark, his eyes angry and accusing Grace looked at him and her heart would begin to beat with a painful irregularity and violence, she felt suddenly almost sick with anxious anticipation. Sometimes he burst out at once. Sometimes — and that was much worse — he kept her in a state of miserable suspense, that might be prolonged for hours, even for days, sulking in a gloomy silence and refusing, when Grace asked him, to tell her what was the matter. If she ventured to approach him in one of these moods with a kiss or a soothing caress, he pushed her angrily away.
The excuses which he found for these renewals of tempest after calm were of the most various nature. One of the periods of happiness ended by his reproaching her with having been too tenderly amorous (too devilishly concupiscent) when he made love to her. On another occasion it was her crime to have remarked, two days before he chose actually to reproach her for it, that she liked the critical essays of Dryden (‘Such an intolerable piece of humbug and affectation,’ he complained ‘Just because it’s the fashion to admire these stupid, boring classical writers. Mere hypocrisy, that’s what it is’ And so on ) Another time he was furious because she had insisted on taking a taxi all the way to Hampton Court. True, she had proposed from the first to pay for it. None the less, when the time came for paying, he had felt constrained in mere masculine decency to pull out his pocket-book. For one painful moment he had actually thought that she was going to accept his offer. He avenged himself for that moment of discomfort by accusing her of stupid and heartless extravagance.
‘There’s something extraordinarily coarse,’ he told her, ‘something horribly thick-skinned and unfeeling about people who have been born and brought up with money. The idea of spending a couple of pounds on a mere senseless caprice, when there are hundreds of thousands of people with no work, living precariously, or just not dying, on state charity! The idea!’
Grace, who had proposed the excursion because she thought that Hampton Court was the most romantic place in the world, and because it would be so wonderful to be two and lovers by the side of the Long Water, in the deep embrasures of the windows, before the old grey minors, before the triumphing Mantegnas — Grace was appalled that reality should have turned out so cruelly different from her anticipatory dreams. And meanwhile yet another moment of happiness had irrevocably passed. It was not surprising that Grace should have come to look tired and rather ill. She was paler than in the past and perceptibly thinner. Rimmed with dark circles of fatigue, her eyes seemed to have grown larger and of a paler grey. Her face was still the face of a nice but rather ugly little girl — but of a little girl most horribly ill-treated, hopelessly and resignedly miserable. Confronted by this perfect resignation to unhappiness, Catherine became impatient ‘Nobody’s got any business to be so resigned,’ she said ‘Not nowadays, at any rate. We’ve got beyond the. Patient Griselda stage’
But the trouble was that Grace hadn’t got beyond it. She loved abjectly. When Catherine urged and implored her to break with Kingham, she only shook her head ‘But you’re unhappy,’ Catherine insisted ‘There’s no need for you to tell me that,’ said Grace, and the tears came into her eyes. Do you suppose I don’t know it?’
‘Then why don’t you leave him?’ asked Catherine ‘Why on earth don’t you?’
‘Because I can’t’ And after she had cried a little, she went on in a voice that was still unsteady and broken by an occasional sob ‘It’s as though there were a kind of devil in me, driving me on against my will. A kind of dark devil’ She had begun to think in terms of Kingham even about herself. The case seemed hopeless. We went abroad that summer, to the seaside, in. Italy. In the lee of that great limestone mountain which rises suddenly, like the mountain of Paradise, out of the Pomptine marshes and the blue plains of the Mediterranean, we bathed and basked and were filled with the virtue of the life-giving sun. It was here, on the flanks of this mountain, that the enchantress Circe had her palace Circeus Mons, Monte Circeo — the magic of her name has lingered, through Roman days, to the present. In coves at the mountain’s foot stand the rums of imperial villas, and walking under its western precipices you come upon the ghost of a Roman seaport, with the fishponds of Lucullus dose at hand, like bright eyes looking upwards out of the plain. At dawn, before the sun has filled all space with the quivering gauzes of heat and the colourless brightness of excessive light, at dawn and again at evening, when the air once more grows limpid and colour and distant form are re-born, a mountain shape appeals, far off, across the blue gulf of Terracina, a mountain shape and a plume of white unwavering smoke Vesuvius. And once, climbing before sunrise to the crest of our Circean hill, we saw them both — Vesuvius to the southward, across the pale sea and northwards, beyond the green marshes, beyond the brown and ilex-dark Alban hills, the great symbolical dome of the world, St Peter’s, glittering above the mists of the horizon. We stayed at Monte Circeo for upwards of two months, time enough to become brown as Indians and to have forgotten, or at least to have become utterly careless of, the world outside. We saw no newspapers, discouraged all correspondents by never answering their letters, which we hardly even took the trouble to lead, lived, in a word, the life of savages in the sun, at the edge of a tepid sea. All our friends a
nd relations might have died, England been overwhelmed by war, pestilence and famine, all books, pictures, music destroyed irretrievably out of the world — at Monte Circeo we should not have cared a pin.
But the time came at last when it was necessary to return to London and make a little money. We loaded our bodies with unaccustomed garments, crammed our feet — our feet that had for so long enjoyed the liberty of sandals — into their imprisoning shoes, took the omnibus to Terracina and climbed into the train.
‘Well,’ I said, when we had managed at last to squeeze ourselves into the two vacant places which the extraordinary exuberance of a party of Neapolitans had painfully restricted, ‘we’re going back to civilization’
Catherine sighed and looked out of the window at the enchantress’s mountain beckoning across the plain ‘One might be excused,’ she said, ‘for making a little mistake and thinking it was hell we were going back to’
It was a dreadful journey. The compartment was crowded and the Neapolitans fabulously large, the weather hot, the tunnels frequent, and the smoke peculiarly black and poisonous. And with the physical there came a host of mental discomforts. How much money would there be in the bank when we got home? What bills would be awaiting us? Should I be able to get my book on Mozart finished by Christmas, as I had promised?
In what state should I find my invalid sister? Would it be necessary to pay a visit to the dentist? What should we do to placate all the people to whom we had never written? Wedged between the Neapolitans, I wondered. And looking at Catherine, I could see by the expression on her face that she was similarly preoccupied. We were like Adam and Eve when the gates of the garden closed behind them.
At Genoa the Neapolitans got out and were replaced by passengers of more ordinary volume. The pressure in the compartment was somewhat relaxed. We were able to secure a couple of contiguous places. Conversation became possible.
‘I’ve been so much wondering,’ said Catherine, when at last we were able to talk, ‘what’s been happening all this time to poor little Grace. You know, I really ought to have written to her’ And she looked at me with an expression in which consciousness of guilt was mingled with reproach.
‘After all,’ I said, responding to her expression rather than to her words, ‘it wasn’t my fault if you were too lazy to write. Was it?’
‘Yes, it was,’ Catherine answered ‘Just as much yours as mine. You ought to have reminded me to write, you ought to have insisted. Instead of which you set the example and encouraged my laziness’
I shrugged my shoulders ‘One can’t argue with women’
‘Because they’re almost always in the right,’ said Catherine ‘But that isn’t the point Poor Grace is the point What’s happened to her, do you suppose? And that dreadful Kingham — what has he been up to? I wish I’d written.’
At Monte Circeo, it is true, we had often spoken of Grace and Kingham. But there, in the annihilating sunshine, among the enormous and, for northern eyes, the almost unreal beauties of that mythological landscape, they had seemed as remote and as unimportant as everything and everybody else in our other life Grace suffered. We knew it, no doubt, theoretically, but not, so to speak, practically — not personally, not with sympathetic realization. In the sun it had been hardly possible to realize anything beyond our own wellbeing. Expose a northern body to the sun and the soul within it seems to evaporate. The inrush from the source of physical life drives out the life of the spirit. The body must become inured to light and life before the soul can condense again into active existence. When we had talked of Grace at Monte Circeo, we had been a pair of almost soulless bodies in the sun. Our clothes, our shoes, the hideous discomfort of the tram gave us back our souls. We talked of Grace now with rediscovered sympathy, speculating rattier anxiously on her fate ‘I feel that in some way we’re almost responsible for her,’ said Catherine ‘Oh, I wish I’d written to her! And why didn’t she write to me?’
I propounded a comforting theory ‘She probably hasn’t been with Kingham that the whole thing has died down by the time we get home.’
‘I wonder,’ said Catherine. We were destined to discover the truth, or at least some portion of it, sooner than we had expected. The first person I saw as I stepped out of the tram at Modane was John Peddley. He was standing on the platform some ten or fifteen yards away, scanning, with eyes that sharply turned this way and that, the faces of the passengers descending from the express. His glances were searching, quick, decisive. He might have been a detective posted there on the frontier to intercept the escape of a criminal. No crook, you felt, no gentleman cracksman, however astute, could hope to sneak or swagger past those all-seeing hunter’s eyes. It was that thought, the realization that the thing was hopeless, that made me check my first impulse, which was to flee — out of the station, anywhere — to hide — in the luggage-van, the lavatory, under a seat. No, the game was obviously up. There was no possible escape. Sooner or later, whatever I might do now, I should have to present myself at the custom-house, he would catch me there, infallibly. And the train was scheduled to wait for two and a half hours.
‘We’re in for it,’ I whispered to Catherine, as I helped her down on to the platform. She followed the direction of my glance and saw our waiting danger.
‘Heaven help us,’ she ejaculated with an unaccustomed piety, then added in another tone ‘But perhaps that means that Grace is here I shall go and ask him.’
‘Better not,’ I implored, still cherishing a foolish hope that we might somehow slip past him unobserved ‘Better not.’
But in that instant, Peddley turned round and saw us. His large, brown, handsome face beamed with sudden pleasure, he positively ran to meet us.
Those two and a half hours in John Peddley’s company at Modane confirmed for me a rather curious fact, of winch, hitherto, I had been only vaguely and inarticulately aware the fact that one may be deeply and sympathetically interested in the feelings of individuals whose thoughts and opinions — all the products, in a word, of their intellects — are utterly indifferent, even wearisome and repulsive. We read the Autobiography of Alfieri, the Journals of Benjamin Robert Haydon, and read them with a passionate interest. But Alfieri’s tragedies, but Haydon’s historical pictures, all the things which, for the men themselves, constituted their claim on the world’s attention, have simply ceased to exist, so far as we are concerned. Intellectually and artistically, these men were more than half dead. But emotionally they lived.
Mutatis mutandis, it was the same with John Peddley I had known him, till now, only as a relater of facts, an expounder of theories — as an intellect, in short, one of the most appallingly uninteresting intellects ever created I had known him only in his public capacity, so to speak, as the tireless lecturer of club smoking-rooms and dinner-tables I had never had a glimpse of him in private life. It was not to be wondered at, for, as I have said before, at ordinary times and when things were running smoothly, Peddley had no private life more complicated than the private life of his body. His feelings towards the majority of his fellow-beings were the simple emotions of the huntsman pleasure when he had caught his victim and could talk him to death, pain and a certain slight resentment when the prey escaped him. Towards his wife he felt the desires of a healthy man in early middle life, coupled with a real but rather unimaginative, habit born affection. It was an affection which took itself and its object, Grace, altogether too much for granted. In his own way, Peddley loved his wife, and it never occurred to him to doubt that she felt in the same way towards him, it seemed to him the natural inevitable thing, like having children and being fond of them, having a house and servants and coming home in the evening from the office to find dinner awaiting one. So inevitable, that it was quite unnecessary to talk or even to think about it, natural to the point of being taken publicly for granted, like the possession of a bank balance.
I had thought it impossible that Peddley should ever develop a private life, but I had been wrong I had not foreseen the possibility
of his receiving a shock violent enough to shake him out of complacency into self-questioning, a shock of sufficient strength to shiver the comfortable edifice of his daily, taken-for-granted life. That shock he had now received. It was a new and unfamiliar Peddley who now came running towards us ‘I’m so glad, I’m so particularly glad to see you,’ he said, as he approached us ‘Quite extraordinarily glad, you know.’
I have never had my hand so warmly shaken as it was then. Nor had Catherine, as I could see by the way she winced, as she abandoned her fingers to his crushing cordiality ‘You’re the very man particularly wanted to see,’ he went on, turning back to me. He stooped and picked up a couple of our suitcases ‘Let’s make a dash for the douane,’ he said ‘And then, when we’ve got those wretched formalities well over, we can have a bit of a talk.’
We followed him. Looking at Catherine, I made a grimace. The prospect of that bit of a talk appalled me Catherine gave me an answering look, then quickened her pace so as to come up with the energetically hurrying Peddley ‘Is Grace with you here?’ she asked Peddley halted, a suit-case in each hand ‘Well,’ he said, slowly and hesitatingly, as though it were possible to have metaphysical doubts about the correct answer to this question, ‘well, as a matter of fact, she isn’t. Not really’ He might have been discussing the problem of the Real Presence. As if reluctant to speak about the matter any further, he turned away and hurried on towards the custom-house, leaving Catherine’s next question—’ Shall we find her in London when we get back?’ — without an answer. The bit of a talk, when it came, was very different from what I had gloomily anticipated ‘Do you think your wife would mind,’ Peddley whispered to me, when the douanier had done with us and we were making our way towards the station restaurant, ‘if I had a few words with you alone?’
Complete Works of Aldous Huxley Page 391