becomes true.'
'The secret knowledge?'
'Yes.'
'What, for instance?'
'Take actual fire. It will bore you. Do you want to hear?'
'Go on.'
'This is what I was taught. The true fire is invisible. Flame,
and the red fire we see burning, has its back to us. It is running
away from us. Does that mean anything to you?'
'Yes.'
'Well then, the yellowness of sunshine--light itself--that is only
the glancing aside of the real original fire. You know that is
true. There would be no light if there was no refraction, no bits
of dust and stuff to turn the dark fire into visibility. You know
that's a fact. And that being so, even the sun is dark. It is
only his jacket of dust that makes him visible. You know that too.
And the true sunbeams coming towards us flow darkly, a moving
darkness of the genuine fire. The sun is dark, the sunshine
flowing to us is dark. And light is only the inside-turning away
of the sun's directness that was coming to us. Does that interest
you at all?'
'Yes,' she said dubiously.
'Well, we've got the world inside out. The true living world of
fire is dark, throbbing, darker than blood. Our luminous world
that we go by is only the reverse of this.'
'Yes, I like that,' she said.
'Well! Now listen. The same with love. This white love that we
have is the same. It is only the reverse, the whited sepulchre of
the true love. True love is dark, a throbbing together in
darkness, like the wild-cat in the night, when the green screen
opens and her eyes are on the darkness.'
'No, I don't see that,' she said in a slow, clanging voice.
'You, and your beauty--that is only the inside-out of you. The
real you is the wild-cat invisible in the night, with red fire
perhaps coming out of its wide, dark eyes. Your beauty is your
whited sepulchre.'
'You mean cosmetics,' she said. 'I've got none on today--not even
powder.'
He laughed.
'Very good,' he said. 'Consider me. I used to think myself small
but handsome, and the ladies used to admire me moderately, never
very much. A trim little fellow, you know. Well, that was just
the inside-out of me. I am a black tom-cat howling in the night,
and it is then that fire comes out of me. This me you look at is
my whited sepulchre. What do you say?'
She was looking into his eyes. She could see the darkness swaying
in the depths. She perceived the invisible, cat-like fire stirring
deep inside them, felt it coming towards her. She turned her face
aside. Then he laughed, showing his strong white teeth, that
seemed a little too large, rather dreadful.
She rose to go.
'Well,' she said. 'I shall have the summer in which to think about
the world inside-out. Do write if there is anything to say. Write
to Thoresway. Good-bye!'
'Ah, your eyes!' he said. 'They are like jewels of stone.'
Being away from the Count, she put him out of her mind. Only she
was sorry for him a prisoner in that sickening Voynich Hall. But
she did not write. Nor did he.
As a matter of fact, her mind was now much more occupied with her
husband. All arrangements were being made to effect his exchange.
From month to month she looked for his return. And so she thought
of him.
Whatever happened to her, she thought about it, thought and thought
a great deal. The consciousness of her mind was like tablets of
stone weighing her down. And whoever would make a new entry into
her must break these tablets of stone piece by piece. So it was
that in her own way she thought often enough of the Count's world
inside-out. A curious latency stirred in her consciousness that
was not yet an idea.
He said her eyes were like jewels of stone. What a horrid thing to
say! What did he want her eyes to be like? He wanted them to
dilate and become all black pupil, like a cat's at night. She
shrank convulsively from the thought, and tightened her breast.
He said her beauty was her whited sepulchre. Even that, she knew
what he meant. The invisibility of her he wanted to love. But ah,
her pearl-like beauty was so dear to her, and it was so famous in
the world.
He said her white love was like moonshine, harmful, the reverse of
love. He meant Basil, of course. Basil always said she was the
moon. But then Basil loved her for that. The ecstasy of it! She
shivered, thinking of her husband. But it had also made her nerve-
worn, her husband's love. Ah, nerve-worn.
What then would the Count's love be like? Something so secret and
different. She would not be lovely and a queen to him. He hated
her loveliness. The wild-cat has its mate. The little wild-cat
that he was. Ah!
She caught her breath, determined not to think. When she thought
of Count Dionys she felt the world slipping away from her. She
would sit in front of a mirror, looking at her wonderful cared-for
face that had appeared in so many society magazines. She loved it
so, it made her feel so vain. And she looked at her blue-green
eyes--the eyes of the wild-cat on a bough. Yes, the lovely blue-
green iris drawn tight like a screen. Supposing it should relax.
Supposing it should unfold, and open out the dark depths, the dark,
dilated pupil! Supposing it should?
Never! She always caught herself back. She felt she might be
killed before she could give way to that relaxation that the Count
wanted of her. She could not. She just could not. At the very
thought of it some hypersensitive nerve started with a great twinge
in her breast; she drew back, forced to keep her guard. Ah no,
Monsieur le Comte, you shall never take her ladyship off her guard.
She disliked the thought of the Count. An impudent little fellow.
An impertinent little fellow! A little madman, really. A little
outsider. No, no. She would think of her husband: an adorable,
tall, well-bred Englishman, so easy and simple, and with the amused
look in his blue eyes. She thought of the cultured, casual trail
of his voice. It set her nerves on fire. She thought of his
strong, easy body--beautiful, white-fleshed, with the fine
springing of warm-brown hair like tiny flames. He was the
Dionysos, full of sap, milk and honey, and northern golden wine:
he, her husband. Not that little unreal Count. Ah, she dreamed of
her husband, of the love-days, and the honeymoon, the lovely,
simple intimacy. Ah, the marvellous revelation of that intimacy,
when he left himself to her so generously. Ah, she was his wife
for this reason, that he had given himself to her so greatly, so
generously. Like an ear of corn he was there for her gathering--
her husband, her own, lovely, English husband. Ah, when would he
come again, when would he come again!
She had letters from him--and how he loved her. Far away, his life
was all hers. All hers, flowing to her as the beam flows from
a
white star right down to us, to our heart. Her lover, her husband.
He was now expecting to come home soon. It had all been arranged.
'I hope you won't be disappointed in me when I do get back,' he
wrote. 'I am afraid I am no longer the plump and well-looking
young man I was. I've got a big scar at the side of my mouth, and
I'm as thin as a starved rabbit, and my hair's going grey. Doesn't
sound attractive, does it? And it isn't attractive. But once I
can get out of this infernal place, and once I can be with you
again, I shall come in for my second blooming. The very thought of
being quietly in the same house with you, quiet and in peace, makes
me realize that if I've been through hell, I have known heaven on
earth and can hope to know it again. I am a miserable brute to
look at now. But I have faith in you. You will forgive my
appearance, and that alone will make me feel handsome.'
She read this letter many times. She was not afraid of his scar or
his looks. She would love him all the more.
Since she had started making shirts--those two for the Count had
been an enormous labour, even though her maid had come to her
assistance forty times: but since she had started making shirts,
she thought she might continue. She had some good suitable silk:
her husband liked silk underwear.
But she still used the Count's thimble. It was gold outside and
silver inside, and was too heavy. A snake was coiled round the
base, and at the top, for pressing the needle, was inlet a semi-
translucent apple-green stone, perhaps jade, carved like a scarab,
with little dots. It was too heavy. But then she sewed so slowly.
And she liked to feel her hand heavy, weighted. And as she sewed
she thought about her husband, and she felt herself in love with
him. She thought of him, how beautiful he was, and how she would
love him now he was thin: she would love him all the more. She
would love to trace his bones, as if to trace his living skeleton.
The thought made her rest her hands in her lap and drift into a
muse. Then she felt the weight of the thimble on her finger, and
took it off, and sat looking at the green stone. The ladybird.
The ladybird. And if only her husband would come soon, soon. It
was wanting him that made her so ill. Nothing but that. She had
wanted him so badly. She wanted now. Ah, if she could go to him
now, and find him, wherever he was, and see him and touch him and
take all his love.
As she mused, she put the thimble down in front of her, took up a
little silver pencil from her work-basket, and on a bit of blue
paper that had been the band of a small skein of silk she wrote the
lines of the silly little song
'Wenn ich ein Voglein war'
Und auch zwei Fluglein hatt'
Flag' ich zu dir--'
That was all she could get on her bit of pale-blue paper.
'If I were a little bird
And had two little wings
I'd fly to thee--
Silly enough, in all conscience. But she did not translate it, so
it did not seem quite so silly.
At that moment her maid announced Lady Bingham--her husband's
sister. Daphne crumpled up the bit of paper in a flurry, and in
another minute Primrose, his sister, came in. The newcomer was not
a bit like a primrose, being long-faced and clever, smart, but not
a bit elegant, in her new clothes.
'Daphne dear, what a domestic scene! I suppose it's rehearsal.
Well, you may as well rehearse, he's with Admiral Burns on the
Ariadne. Father just heard from the Admiralty: quite fit. He'll
be here in a day or two. Splendid, isn't it? And the war is going
to end. At least it seems like it. You'll be safe of your man
now, dear. Thank heaven when it's all over. What are you sewing?'
'A shirt,' said Daphne.
'A shirt! Why, how clever of you. I should never know which end
to begin. Who showed you?'
'Millicent.'
'And how did SHE know? She's no business to know how to sew
shirts: nor cushions nor sheets either. Do let me look. Why, how
perfectly marvellous you are!--every bit by hand too. Basil isn't
worth it, dear, really he isn't. Let him order his shirts in
Oxford Street. Your business is to be beautiful, not to sew
shirts. What a dear little pin-poppet, or rather needle-woman! I
say, a satire on us, that is. But what a darling, with mother-of-
pearl wings to her skirts! And darling little gold-eyed needles
inside her. You screw her head off, and you find she's full of
pins and needles. Woman for you! Mother says won't you come to
lunch tomorrow. And won't you come to Brassey's to tea with me at
this minute. Do, there's a dear. I've got a taxi.'
Daphne bundled her sewing loosely together.
When she tried to do a bit more, two days later, she could not find
her thimble. She asked her maid, whom she could absolutely trust.
The girl had not seen it. She searched everywhere. She asked her
nurse--who was now her housekeeper--and footman. No, nobody had
seen it. Daphne even asked her sister-in-law.
'Thimble, darling? No, I don't remember a thimble. I remember a
dear little needle-lady, whom I thought such a precious satire on
us women. I didn't notice a thimble.'
Poor Daphne wandered about in a muse. She did not want to believe
it lost. It had been like a talisman to her. She tried to forget
it. Her husband was coming, quite soon, quite soon. But she could
not raise herself to joy. She had lost her thimble. It was as if
Count Dionys accused her in her sleep of something, she did not
quite know what.
And though she did not really want to go to Voynich Hall, yet like
a fatality she went, like one doomed. It was already late autumn,
and some lovely days. This was the last of the lovely days. She
was told that Count Dionys was in the small park, finding
chestnuts. She went to look for him. Yes, there he was in his
blue uniform stooping over the brilliant yellow leaves of the sweet
chestnut tree, that lay around him like a fallen nimbus of glowing
yellow, under his feet, as he kicked and rustled, looking for the
chestnut burrs. And with his short, brown hands he was pulling out
the small chestnuts and putting them in his pockets. But as she
approached he peeled a nut to eat it. His teeth were white and
powerful.
'You remind me of a squirrel laying in a winter store,' said she.
'Ah, Lady Daphne--I was thinking and did not hear you.'
'I thought you were gathering chestnuts--even eating them.'
'Also!' he laughed. He had a dark, sudden charm when he laughed,
showing his rather large white teeth. She was not quite sure
whether she found him a little repulsive.
'Were you REALLY thinking?' she said, in her slow, resonant way.
'Very truly.'
'And weren't you enjoying the chestnut a bit?'
'Very much. Like sweet milk. Excellent, excellent.' He had the
fragments of the nut betw
een his teeth, and bit them finely. 'Will
you take one too.' He held out the little, pointed brown nuts on
the palm of his hand.
She looked at them doubtfully.
'Are they as tough as they always were?' she said.
'No, they are fresh and good. Wait, I will peel one for you.'
They strayed about through the thin clump of trees.
'You have had a pleasant summer; you are strong?'
'Almost QUITE strong,' said she. 'Lovely summer, thanks. I
suppose it's no good asking you if you have been happy?'
'Happy?' He looked at her direct. His eyes were black, and seemed
to examine her. She always felt he had a little contempt of her.
'Oh yes,' he said, smiling. 'I have been very happy.'
'So glad.'
They drifted a little farther, and he picked up an apple-green
chestnut burr out of the yellow-brown leaves, handling it with
sensitive fingers that still suggested paws to her.
'How did you succeed in being happy?' she said.
'How shall I tell you? I felt that the same power which put up the
mountains could pull them down again--no matter how long it took.'
'And was that all?'
'Was it not enough?'
'I should say decidedly too little.'
He laughed broadly, showing the strong, negroid teeth.
'You do not know all it means,' he said.
'The thought that the mountains were going to be pulled down?' she
said. 'It will be so long after my day.'
'Ah, you are bored,' he said. 'But I--I found the God who pulls
things down: especially the things that men have put up. Do they
not say that life is a search after God, Lady Daphne? I have found
my God.'
'The god of destruction,' she said, blanching.
'Yes--not the devil of destruction, but the god of destruction.
The blessed god of destruction. It is strange'--he stood before
her, looking up at her--'but I have found my God. The god of
anger, who throws down the steeples and the factory chimneys. Ah,
Lady Daphne, he is a man's God, he is a man's God. I have found my
God, Lady Daphne.'
'Apparently. And how are you going to serve him?'
A naive glow transfigured his face.
'Oh, I will help. With my heart I will help while I can do nothing
with my hands. I say to my heart: Beat, hammer, beat with little
strokes. Beat, hammer of God, beat them down. Beat it all down.'
Her brows knitted, her face took on a look of discontent.
'Beat what down?' she asked harshly.
'The world, the world of man. Not the trees--these chestnuts, for
example'--he looked up at them, at the tufts and loose pinions of
yellow--'not these--nor the chattering sorcerers, the squirrels--
nor the hawk that comes. Not those.'
'You mean beat England?' she said.
'Ah, no. Ah, no. Not England any more than Germany--perhaps not
as much. Not Europe any more than Asia.'
'Just the end of the world?'
'No, no. No, no. What grudge have I against a world where little
chestnuts are so sweet as these! Do you like yours? Will you take
another?'
'No, thanks.'
'What grudge have I against a world where even the hedges are full
of berries, bunches of black berries that hang down, and red
berries that thrust up. Never would I hate the world. But the
world of man. Lady Daphne'--his voice sank to a whisper--'I HATE
IT. Zzz!' he hissed. 'Strike, little heart! Strike, strike, hit,
smite! Oh, Lady Daphne!'--his eyes dilated with a ring of fire.
'What?' she said, scared.
'I believe in the power of my red, dark heart. God has put the
hammer in my breast--the little eternal hammer. Hit--hit--hit! It
hits on the world of man. It hits, it hits! And it hears the thin
sound of cracking. The thin sound of cracking. Hark!'
The Ladybird Page 4