‘In our feelings, I mean.’
‘It’s true G.B. and I don’t care for each other much—
we’re enemies in a way, I grant you—but he hasn’t tried to murder me yet.’
‘And I’ve not been hanged, but only lost an eye accidentally,’ said Jonathan, with a bitterness he could not suppress.
‘Ah, Jonathan,’ said Chuff sadly. In an effort to return their talk to a safe subject, he added: ‘I suppose human vices stay pretty much the same down the centuries.’
‘And if so, human virtues are pretty much the same too,’ said Jonathan, brightening. ‘I mean, the old virtues are still valid, they only need to be differently expressed.’
‘You’re an incorrigible optimist, Jonathan.’
‘Courage and honesty and goodwill,’ said Jonathan, becoming more and more cheerful: ‘They only need an adaptation of form.’
‘And what about chastity, eh?’ said Chuff sardonically.
‘We need a fresh conception.’
‘In more senses than one.’
‘Don’t pretend to be a cynic, Chuff.’
‘No pretence, I’m afraid’
This young man says he’s come all the way from the North to see you,’ said Sister, entering abruptly. ‘Two minutes only, mind.’
‘Mr Mellor!’ exclaimed Jonathan in surprise.
‘I got a lift,’ said the young man, shamefaced.
Chuff surveyed him with keen displeasure. Indeed his appearance could only be described as scruffy. He was unshaven—which was forgivable; but his dirty face and hands were less excusable. His hair was unbrushed and untidy, his sprawling sideburns looked artificial, like theatrical wool; his short jacket of alleged suéde was a good deal stained; his jeans were crumpled. But all this was nothing compared with the goodwill, and the effort, revealed by his presence.
‘One of my Lorimer students. Chuff, who took part in the Demonstration,’ said Jonathan. ‘Mr Mellor, this is my cousin, C. H. F. Morcar.’
‘How do you do,’ said Chuff stiffly. Mellor sniffed and looked defiant.
‘We heard you’d been carted off to hospital, Mr Oldroyd, but at first we didn’t know which. Are you hurt, then?’
‘My cousin has lost an eye,’ said Chuff, coldly furious. Mellor blenched.
‘It was an accident,’ said Jonathan hastily. ‘One of the banner poles struck my head in its fall.’
‘Who threw the pole into the air?’ demanded Chuff.
‘Nobody knows,’ said Mellor.
He spoke in such hurried confusion that both Chuff and Jonathan became at once convinced that he had thrown it up himself.
‘It was an accident,’ repeated Jonathan soothingly.
‘What do you achieve by these silly demonstrations?’ said Chuff. He spoke with contempt, because he found relief for his distress over Jonathan’s disaster, in accusation.
‘Nothing yet,’ said Mellor grimly.
‘The struggle continues,’ said Jonathan with a sigh.
‘What struggle?’ demanded his hearers sharply.
‘Self against Unself,’ said Jonathan.
This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader
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Copyright © Phyllis Bentley 1969
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