The Black Laurel

by Storm Jameson

  How much longer need I stay?. . . He was surprised and thankful that, when they came back, Lise said she must go. On the staircase he held the curtain back for her, and she smiled at him without speaking, and without mockery. He felt ridiculously pleased.

  The heaviness of an August night was cool when they stepped into it from the club. By a usual deceit of the dark light the ruins were vaporous, fumes rising irregularly from the ground. They were not far from the hotel, and Edward deliberately led them a little out of their way. The street they took was destroyed on both sides, but Lise had ceased, after two days among them, to notice ruins, so insensitive (even when young) is the human animal. Only a narrow strip of the road was clear. Arnold was walking a little in front. Suddenly, his foot caught in a wire stretched across the street at ankle level, and he went down, falling awkwardly on his right arm. In the same instant Edward jumped past him, grabbed a figure darting from behind a fragment of wall and shook it violently.

  A young boy, as thin as a board and with not much more resilience. His teeth chattered as Edward shook him, and the revolver he was holding flew out of his hand. He said nothing.

  “He’s crying,” Lise said.

  So he was. The darkness was not thick enough to hide a sunken face, and feverishly bright eyes spouting tears down the sides of a bony nose, to join in one stream at its end. Edward gave up shaking him: he held him by his stick of an arm while he picked up the revolver, then kicked him energetically and said,

  “Be off. Run.”

  Released, the boy staggered, recovered himself, and bolted like a hare. In five seconds he was out of sight and hearing.

  “That was splendid,” Lise stammered.

  “Keep quiet about it, both of you,” Edward said drily. “I ought to have arrested the poor silly young brute.” He glanced at Arnold. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  His wrist was sprained or dislocated, very painful, but he felt that he had made a poor figure sprawling on the ground. He stooped to throw to one side the piece of wire torn loose when he fell over it. Edward was hurrying Lise on. He followed them. In the hotel she noticed that he was holding his wrist and made him show it. It had swelled to twice its width. He laughed at her concern, but it comforted his vanity a little. They were alone in Mrs Brett’s room: with her husband she was dining with Gary. Lise ordered him into the bedroom to sponge his wrist; running after him, she gave him a handkerchief — “Soak it in cold water and bring it to me for a bandage”— and went back into the other room, leaving him to hold his wrist under the tap.

  He heard her chattering to Edward, but she had closed the door, and he could hear only the voices, not what either said. Suddenly he began to hear distinctly; glancing at the door he saw that the catch had slipped without sound, setting it barely open.

  “Was it your brother who was one of daddie’s officers in Scotland? Major Sir Richard West. You’re rather like him.”

  “Cousin,” Edward answered.

  This was quite untrue. The lie reminded Arnold that at Oxford Edward took enormous pains to hide that he came from a little-known school; he avoided speaking of his parents, as if they had offended him by their mediocrity and suburban life. It was the one thing in Edward he did not understand or like — yet in a sense he understood it as part of his friend’s belief in a soldierly and aristocratic tradition, his affection for old houses, part, even, of his courage. He felt ashamed to be condemning in him such a trifle, and pushed it out of his mind.

  Moving the handle noisily, he went back into the sitting-room. Lise turned quickly.

  “Now let me look at your wrist.”

  She bound it up rather clumsily, and as soon as she had finished seemed to lose interest in him, and turned back to Edward with the eagerness of a child waiting to be amused. But she was not a child; she was older by a year since the day before — her dress had altered her, or her hair; or she had grown dignified suddenly. Edward treated her with an affectionate amusement, without noticing the change, so clear to Arnold that he was startled by it. For a moment he did not hear that Edward was speaking to him:

  “Do you know that your Boche friend Gerlach, Dr Lucius Gerlach, addressed a meeting of students yesterday, and told them they could save their souls only if they followed him into the wilderness where he eats his honey and locusts? To the worship in the desert, the thirst and deprivation. A stony sanctuary and a primitive altar— you see I know my authorities. You can imagine how much applause he got! Lucius the Baptist! You’d better remind him, Arnold, what happened to the first.”

  “But do you read poetry?” Lise cried.

  Edward looked at her with indulgence.

  “Why shouldn’t I, my child?”

  She blushed.

  “No reason. But you’re a soldier, and — my father only reads two books, again and again.”

  “What?”

  “One is Clarendon’s History of the Rebellion, the other is called A Pink’un and a Pelican.”

  She was simple without being unreserved or frank; she was full of reserves, but they were the reserves of intelligence and instinct: she’s not clever, he thought, it’s a sort of grace of mind. She’s not in the least trying to get Edward. He remembered the composed little girl, with unexpected flashes of rage or pride. In the same moment he thought: Of course she’s fallen for him. He was stung, and said,

  “So you think that no one who does anything reads?”

  She smiled at him with a quick malice.

  “Oh, no, I’m sure you read everything, and especially all the boring books. I read to amuse myself, and if I fall asleep that’s because it’s a bad writer.”

  “You must enjoy yourself.”

  “Oh,” she said ironically, “you despise happy people, too, do you? What a dull life you lead!”

  He was silent. The pretence he had begun with her, of being bored and sophisticated, was a nuisance. He felt vexed with himself, and he had a confused impression that she was just as embarrassed by the hostility and irony they had fallen into. Edward had been listening to them with a demure face. He said gaily,

  “Need you two quarrel? Here we are and we’ve escaped being ambushed by the skinniest victim I ever touched — and by the way, his revolver”— taking it out of his pocket — “look at it, it dates from the last war, at least. Probably his father’s.”

  He held it out lying across his hand; Lise touched it gently, looking at him with an admiring smile. Irritated, Arnold jumped up.

  “I must go,” he said. “Goodbye.”

  He walked out of the room before either of them had had time to protest. Would they have protested? By the time he reached the house he was furiously certain they had wanted to get rid of him, and he made up his mind not to go near Lise again. After all, she meant nothing to him, she would be gone at the end of the week and he had no need to see her in London. If Edward — no doubt for some good it might do his career — wanted to flatter her father’s daughter, let him.

  Both the electric bulbs in his room were broken; he undressed in the dark, standing in the window until he shivered in the current of cool air flowing into the room from the lake. He got into bed then and lay with his arms crossed behind his head. He knew that Barbe would come, and he watched the door for the moment when it opened noiselessly and she stood there, smiling like a cat stretching itself to be caressed. Her sexuality was as frank and natural as in any young handsome animal; she was charming with it, entirely without shame in her pleasures, abandoned and eager, even gentle.

  Suddenly he knew that he was going to end it. He had no reason, no feeling of responsibility even, only an intense impatience to be free — as he had been before he knew her. But where the devil had the impatience come from? Why? he wondered: what’s the matter with me? He felt ashamed and afraid of hurting her — the thought that she might be hurt hardened him against her.

  Jumping up quickly, he put on the overcoat he used in place of the dressing-gown he had lost — he lost things easily �
� and sat down on the side of the bed. Only for a moment — he was too restless to sit, and began walking about the room. The door opened.

  There was enough light — given back by the water of the lake, from that it had been drawing in all day — for them to see each other with a deceptive clearness, and he caught the look of amused surprise on her face. Her mouth, when she smiled without parting her lips, gave her more than ever, in spite of the arched forehead and high cheekbones, the look of a cat: she was watching him with her head turned sideways, as it were pricking her ears to understand him before he spoke.

  “What’s the matter, my darling? Why are you wearing your coat — are you going out?”

  “No.”

  “Then why?”

  She put her hand on his arm, with a gentle pressure. He felt guilty again, and a little angry. It was a nervous anger; he tried to dismiss it, to think of something gentle to say to her. He was frowning at her, he knew, and the effort to look at her naturally stiffened him. An expression of sadness crossed the face so near his.

  “Ah, I see what it is,” she said softly, “you’re tired of me. Why? Do you think I’m ugly?”

  “You’re extremely pretty,” he said, with difficulty.

  “Then —”

  “Barbe, I don’t know what it is, it’s not you, nothing to do with you. I just don’t want us to go on.” He stammered. He had never felt so ashamed and so vexed. “Do forgive me, I really don’t know why I’m such a fool. Do you mind very much?”

  Her face changed so quickly that he was taken aback. She had been on the edge of tears, now with half-closed eyes she was laughing at him, and without any malice or rage — frankly warm mirthful laughter, starting the dimples in her cheeks and stretching her mouth to its wide limit.

  “How ridiculous you are! Yes, ridiculous. You send me off, just as if I were a puppy, or as if I hadn’t given satisfaction, and ask me if I mind. Why don’t you say: My dear girl —” she drawled the words — “here is two pennies for you, we’re quits, now go?”

  Arnold was unable to find a single word. He liked her so much at this moment that only his habit of coolness kept him from the blunder of taking back everything he had said.

  Ceasing to laugh, she said in a soft voice,

  “But I’m not angry with you. Why should I be? You didn’t pretend you were in love with me. And if I’ve been foolish enough to fall in love with you...”

  He interrupted her.

  “You haven’t.”

  “How do you know?” she said, laughing again.

  “Barbe —”

  “Well, a little,” she smiled. “Never mind. I knew it couldn’t last. But I did think you would want me a little longer.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, why be sorry, my darling?” She began to stride up and down the room, with an air of excitement and energy. “No, it doesn’t matter, but now you must help me, you really must. You see, I want to get away — out of this country. I want to go to America, or even England. This country’s finished, I know it, my bones know it. It’s going to go down, and I’m not going to go down with it. Do you see?”

  I shall have to be honest, he thought unhappily. Brutal. The only thing she wants — and I can’t possibly help her.

  “You can’t leave Germany, Barbe.”

  “Why not?”

  “You couldn’t get in to any other country,” he said.

  “But why not? I’m not a war criminal.”

  “I know. But — at least now — no country would have you, even if you could get away, which you can’t. Surely you know that?”

  She was silent, while a desperate idea of stowing her away in Gary’s machine formed and vanished again in his mind. Moving lightly, she came and stood in front of him; the gesture she made, pushing back her hair, exaggerated everything about her that was masculine — but her gaiety, her naive sensuality, even her courage, were entirely feminine — her broad north-German cheekbones, long mouth, clumsily small nose.

  “I know you’re right. I was talking nonsense. But it’s not all nonsense. We shan’t always be unwanted — we Germans. Then I shall go away. To America. Not to live like a refugee — no! I would never be a refugee, anywhere. I shall work, I shall be a great success, I shall become famous and people will admire me and love me. . . Even you,” she said, smiling.

  What energy, he thought drily. He admired her without the least tenderness — unless it were in the light pity he felt for her. He wondered if there were many people like her in this country, with as much self-confident vigour. If there are, he thought. . . but she means to leave it.

  “Why not stay and be admired here?”

  “If I see the least hope — when the time comes for me to choose whether to stay or go,” she said firmly, “I’ll stay. If there is no hope I shall go. To stay in a country which is going down would choke me.”

  “Of course.”

  “I suppose I must go now. . . Are you quite sure?”

  Now he wanted her to stay: never had he felt this rage to lose himself in her, in her energy and the smooth shallow warmth of her body. He sat still. It would be a defeat — though he was incapable of knowing precisely how he would be defeated if he surrendered to her. He forced himself to smile at her warmly, and then to stand up and go over to the wardrobe. Behind his back she broke out into indignant cries.

  “Don’t dream of giving me things. I won’t take anything from you. Do you think I’m a little girl you have to comfort with a piece of chocolate?”

  “Really?” He came back to her with the box of fifty cigarettes and the half-dozen pieces of soap. “Do take them.”

  She looked at them with her wide brilliant smile, eyes half-closed, dimpling.

  “No. I can’t. Well — yes, I must. It’s shocking, I ought to make myself proud and refuse them, but — let me see, my darling — that’s four hundred marks, and two hundred and forty makes over six hundred. It’s a fortune. Well, thank you, darling, thank you. I won’t forget — and one of these days I’ll surprise you with a wonderful present, when I’m a rich American and you’re starving. Just remember.”

  She kissed him, holding her mouth firmly on his, and walked out quickly. She held her presents under her coat. She was still all smiles, but her face was curiously confused, as though she might at any moment cry. He closed the door behind her, and flung himself on the bed, raging. Idiot, idiot! he repeated. He fell asleep suddenly, still wearing his overcoat.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lucius had listened to Mr Scorel for an hour, with deepening attentiveness. At first, when Scorel presented himself with the letter from the American university, he was repelled: everything repelled him, Scorel’s voice, brisk, yapping, the way he spoke of Europe as a hospital full of fractious invalids, his solutions, naive and arrogant to the point of idiocy, for problems tangled in the earth of centuries (touch one of these roots, and the avalanche started off destroys whole valleys with their fields and peasants) — even his nose, pointing from the centre of his face like a derisive thumb: when he spoke impatiently, “all this nonsense I’ve been hearing about guilt and the death of society — bogeys, my dear chap, infantile bogeys, the inventions of old women and priests. Guilt? — nonsense! And why should any society collapse so long as we have the machinery to make goods and the hands to work them? Tell me that. You can’t,” it added its dry chorus of snorts to the overtone of contempt.

  Slowly, a decency and benevolence, shrewd, even harsh, thrust up like a stone in the torrent. Come, he’s a good creature, Gerlach thought. If he only talked less, and listened. He lacks humility — or is it ears?

  “To come back,” Scorel said rapidly, “there’s no reason why you should refuse this offer. It’s an excellent offer. You would have the status of a professor, a perfectly adequate salary, security, peace of body and mind. You’d be respected. And don’t think I’m talking without my book when I tell you I can arrange for you to leave at once. I can, and will. All you have to do now, my dear si
r, is to say: I’ll take it. What’s your objection? You have none, you’re afraid of not being up to it. Yes, that’s it. Precisely. Let me tell you — in America we know how to make allowances for a backwardness that isn’t the other fellow’s fault. Once over there, in civilised society, you’d catch up in no time. Don’t doubt it.”

  “I don’t,” Gerlach said gently.

  “Then why are you hanging back? What’s worrying you?”

  Was it any use talking? He hesitated, and at last said lightly,

  “You’re the third person in the last few days to take me up to a high place and offer me the chance to — to make active use of myself.”

  “Oh, if you’ve had better offers —”

  “No, no, don’t mistake me. Neither offer was better than yours. In fact, they were less good. . . To be a professor in one of your universities — what could be more honourable?”

  “And, believe me, you would have a very great success,” Scorel interrupted.

  “Perhaps. And if I were not, in the way you expect, the way you have a right to expect, successful, you would be disappointed.” He smiled. “I assure you I’m not being modest when I say that I might be quite incapable of making use of the power you would give me. A power...”

  He shrugged his shoulders, feeling himself quite helpless before the expression of disapproval on the American’s face. He repeated,

  “A power. But one I can’t use.”

  “You’re totally above my head,” Scorel said drily.

  “Well. . . you can understand that if I left Germany now, for a long time, possibly for good, it would be flight. I should be running away.”

  Scorel’s face changed.

  “Now I follow you,” he said warmly. “Not that I agree with you, mind. I precisely and totally disagree. But it’s natural you should feel like this, I honour you for it. Of course I don’t accept your refusal — except for the moment. I’ll be about here for a month or two. Here or in one of the other countries. Poland maybe, or France. When you change your mind let me know. Until I leave Europe, the offer stands.”