Dear Lovers! If it were not for you, how dreary the world would be! Never shall a pair of you pass me without a kindly discreet glance and a murmured wish, “Be happy”. How my heart warmed to an old French poet as we walked slowly on the Boulevard, and the lovers in the soft evening air passed us by, hand so close in hand, bodies so amorously near, eyes so sparkling and alive! Now and then, in the intoxicating air of the spring and the tolerant kindliness of the Parisians, a pair would feel so exuberant and so enthusiastic and so moved with each other’s perfections, that they would have to stop and exchange a long kiss, perfunctorily hidden by a quite inadequate tree-trunk. Nobody interrupted them, nobody scowled, no policeman arrested them for indecency. And the old poet paused, and laid his hand on my arm, and said: “Mon ami, I grow old! I am nearly sixty. And sometimes as I pass along the streets and see these warm young people I find myself thinking: ‘How impudique! Why is this permitted? Why do they intrude their passions on me?’ And then I remember that I too was young, and I too passed eagerly and happily with one or other of my young mistresses whom I thought so beautiful, each of whom I loved with so immortal a love! And I look at the lovers passing and I say to myself: ‘Allez-y, mes enfants, allez-y, soyez heureux!’ ”
Dear Lovers! Let us never forget that you are the sweetness of the bitter world.
And Elizabeth and George lingered through the sunny hours; and before the afternoon became too chill – for April is cold in England – they went back slowly through the long glades of the Park, they too hand in hand like the lovers on the Boulevard, they too with bodies amorously near, they too with eyes sparkling and alive, they too pausing to join their lips when the loveliness of life and the ecstasy of loving drew them together in a kiss.
They were so happy they did not know they were tired.
5
IT is fascinating to observe how people organize and disorganize their lives, fascinating to see how an impulse of vitality sends them off on a certain line, how they wobble, err, suffer, recover themselves. What is the most banal street, the most tedious place you know? Think how fascinating if only you knew the real lives of those tedious people!
There are two centres or poles of activity in every adult life – the economic and the sexual. Hunger and Death, the enemies. Your whole adult life depends on how you deal with the two primitive foes, Hunger and Death. Never mind how much the conditions of collective human life seem to have altered them, they are there; you can never really get away from Hunger and Death, from the need to eat and the will to live again.
Thus, two problems are created – the economic and the sexual. There is no cut-and-dried solution of either. Existence is tolerable – I will not say “happy”, though I believe in happiness – to the extent that as an individual you are successful in solving these two problems. Certain traditional solutions are presented to us all in youth, and the swiftness with which we see their foolishness is an almost unerring test of intelligence. When we have seen through them, a new and delicate problem presents itself – we have to create our own happiness underneath or in despite of the Laws (or rules for collective life) and at the same time preserve intact the sense of Justice, or that which is due to each.
The primitive, the proletarian, the common man and woman solution is merely one of quantity. Get all the grub and copulation you want and more than you want, and ipso facto you will be happy. Put money in thy purse. Excellent lago, what a fool you are! Noble Caliban, what a silly beast! Savages, the heroes of Homer, and working-men gorge on the flesh of beeves. To sack a town and rape all the women was the sexual ideal of centuries of civilized savages. To do the same thing with money sneakingly, instead of with the sword openly, is the actual ideal of Dr. Frank Crane’s world-famous business men. The judgement of the wiser world is upon them all. Let them join the megatherium and the wild ass.
Then you have the Rudyard Kipling or British Public School solution, Not so far removed from the other as you might think, for it is a harnessing of the same primitive instincts to the service of a group – the nation – instead of to the service of the individual. Whatever is done for the Empire is right. Not Truth and Justice, but British Truth and British Justice. Odious profanation! You are the servant of the Empire; never mind whether you are rich or poor, do what the Empire tells you, and so long as the Empire is rich and powerful you ought to be happy. Woman? A rag, a bone, and a hank of hair. Get rid of the sexual problem by teaching men to despise women, either by open scorn or by putting them on the pedestal of chastity. Of course, they’re valuable as possessions. Oh, quite! There can be no world peace because the man who has the most money gets the best woman, as the German Kaiser said at the gathering of the nations. As if the nations were a set of Kiplingesque characters bidding against each other for an expensive tart! How despicable, how odious!
No, each of us has to work out the problems for himself, and, I repeat, on the correct solution of both depends happiness in life. I do not pretend to be able to teach what is your solution. I think I know what is mine; but that is not necessarily yours. But I am quite sure that the quantitative and the British Public School solutions are wrong…
The struggle with Hunger, or the economic problem, leads to situations of astonishing “human interest”, as Balzac recognized. But we are not much concerned with it here. It was highly important in the case of Isabel: very little in the case of Elizabeth and George. They were content with very little, which they obtained quite easily – Elizabeth from her parents, George by various odd jobs which occupied only a comparatively small part of his time. Each wanted to avoid the slavery of working eight hours a day at a stated wage, for some one else, though both were willing to work sixteen hours a day on their own, at what they wanted to do. Neither had the slightest ambition to dominate others through wealth. Of course, you may say they solved the economic problem by dodging it. However, as far as they are concerned as individuals, that was a solution.
But this “dodging solution” (if you like to call it such) involved the sexual problem too. It was quite obvious that George was incapable of supporting a woman and children on his perfunctorily performed jobs, while his painting was rather a liability than an asset. On the other hand, it was equally obvious that Elizabeth was not rich enough to afford the luxury of an artist husband and a family. It therefore followed that they could not afford children; and since they didn’t want them, this was a misfortune they contemplated with calm. But, since they didn’t want children, it followed that there was no need to get married. Why get married, except for the sake of the unfortunate little bastard?
All of which they talked out very fully before they ever lay together. You may say, of course, that this is very wicked and “unnatural”, that if every one acted in this way the human race would soon come to a full stop. I shall not make the obvious retort of “a good job, too,” but merely say that I observe no danger of under-population in Europe. Since the population of England is about three times the amount which the land of England can feed, I am inclined to think that George and Elizabeth should be regarded as a national hero and heroine in this respect…
If you are as quick-witted as you ought to be, you will already have noticed one big difference between the George-Elizabeth ménage (I don’t mean the legal irregularity, which is of no importance) and the ménages of George Augustus-Isabel, Dear Mamma-dear Papa, Ma-and-Pa Hartly. “They talked it out very fully before they ever lay together.” You get the point? They used their intelligence, they actually used their intelligence, before embarking on a joint sexual experience. That’s the great break in the generations. Trying to use some intelligence in life, instead of blindly following instincts and the collective imbecility of the ages as embodied in social and legal codes. Isabel “married for money” and got what she deserved, viz, bankruptcy. But she had been obliquely taught that it was a girl’s duty to use men’s sexual passion as a means of acquiring property. Whoring within the law. The Trade Union of married women. George Augustus was grea
tly attracted by Isabel and wanted to lie with her. Why not? My God! why not? But he had never thought about the problems. He didn’t want children; Isabel didn’t want children. Not really. But they had been taught that if a man and woman wanted to lie together it was horribly wicked to do so unless they were “married.” The parson, the public ceremonies, and the signatures made “sacred” what was otherwise inexpressibly wrong and sinful. But in the code on which George Augustus and Isabel were reared, “marriage” meant “a dear little baby” nine months after the wedding bells. All right for those who go into it with open eyes. Perfect. Charming. I’ll be godfather every ten months. J’adore les enfants. But all wrong, all so rottenly wrong, if you go into it like a couple of ninnies, mess up your sexual life, disappoint the man, disgust the woman, and produce an infant you can’t look after properly…
Which is precisely what George Augustus and Isabel did, and what their parents did before them…
Now, the marriage of Moliere’s time was jolly sensible so far as it went. You, Eraste, love Lisette? Good. You, Lisette, love Eraste? Admirable. You wish to crown your flame? Most natural and delightful. But you know that means infants? Perfect. How much money have you got, Eraste? Nothing? Ah!… But your father approves? Will give ten thousand crowns if Lisette’s father will give another five thousand? Delicious. Quite a different situation. Your father approves, Lisette? Yes? Quick, a notary. Bless you, my children!
That was blunt, bluff common-sense. Pm sorry for Lisette, but not for Lisette’s children.
The only trouble was that Lisette and Eraste were not very happy sexually – hence the amants of Lisette and the amies of Eraste. So you dropped into promiscuity, and Eraste didn’t know if Lisette’s later brats were his; and Lisette didn’t know how many dear little bastards Eraste was scattering about the world. All of which made for nastiness, cantankerousness, and hypocrisy.
The simple process of dissociating sex life from the philoprogenitive instinct was performed by the War Generation – at least on the grand scale, for isolated practitioners had long existed. The march of Science (how delightful clichés are!) had brought certain engines within the reach of all; and sensible people profited by them. The old alternative of burning or marrying disappeared. And the following, far better, proposition arose, it was perfectly possible for man or woman to live a satisfactory sex life without having children. Hence, by the scientific process of trial and error, it became possible for each to seek the really satisfactory lover; while those who were philoprogenitively inclined might marry (en attendant mieux) for the sake of the children. Thus there was a return to the wise promiscuity of the Ancients (if the Ancients ever did anything so sensible, which I greatly doubt), which was a great advance on humbug, domestic tyranny, furtive promiscuity, and whoring. One definite result, which we see today, is an undeniable decline in the number of whores – the first time this has occurred since the Edict of Milan.
Unfortunately the pre-war “engines” were rather crude and not wholly reliable…
George and Elizabeth, then, were either extremely sensible or disgustingly immoral – I don’t mind what your judgement is, I am recording facts. I don’t, however, attempt to disguise my own prejudice, which is that intelligence makes for a far better life than “Luv” and “God”, those euphuisms for stupidity and ignorance. In a manner of speaking they were pioneers. At any rate, they thought they were, which is all that matters here. They really thought they had worked out a more sensible, more intelligent, more humane relationship between the sexes. But there were certain rather important little snags they overlooked. Like most bright young things, they were very cocksure of themselves, a good bit too cocksure. And then, while one doesn’t at all deny that they were pretty bright, and on the right track, their knowledge was unhappily theoretical, chiefly derived from George’s reading and meditations. It’s a confoundedly dangerous thing for two virgins to take on the job of initiating each other into a complicated art they only know theoretically. Dangerous, in that high hopes may be dashed, rather lovely emotions sadly frustrated, and a beautiful relationship spoiled. There are dangers in meeting the undeniably right person too soon in life. Two handsome young married people, obviously deeply in love – what a charming spectacle, how delightful!
Wait! You wait! Not very long, either…
You haven’t forgotten Fanny and the young man from Cambridge…
Well, Elizabeth and George worked out their scheme, and for a considerable time it all worked admirably. But for the war and the upset of every one’s mind and life and character, it might have weathered the small storms of Fanny and the young man – and perhaps other Fannies and other young men – and still have gone on working. Elizabeth abandoned her Hampstead boarding-house and found a large room, which did as a studio, in Bloomsbury. She wrote her parents in Manchester that she did this for the sake of economy and to be nearer her “work” – whatever that might mean. The economy consisted in the fact that when she spent the night with George at his “studio” she was obviously not wearing out her own bedclothes. Elizabeth’s mother paid her a surprise’ visit. Most luckily George had gone away for the week-end, and Elizabeth was “discovered” calmly painting by herself. She behaved with the admirable dissimulation which comes so naturally to women, swiftly whipped away one or two objects (such as a tobacco pipe and pouch, The Psychology of Sex inscribed “To darling Elizabeth from George”) which might have betrayed a certain intimacy with a male, and sent George a long warning telegram. Mrs. Paston stayed three days. Of course, she suspected “something”. Elizabeth looked about ten times prettier, was much more smartly dressed, talked differently, used all sorts of new phrases, and was obviously very happy, so happy that even three days of her mother failed to depress her completely. Elizabeth treated her char-lady with reasonable humanity, so when Mrs. Paston severely cross-examined her in secret about Elizabeth, the char-lady just went beautifully stupid and stood by Elizabeth nobly. “Oh no, ma’am, I never see nothin’ wrong.”
“Oh yes, ma’am, Miss Elizabeth’s such a nice young lady.”
“I’m only here of mornings, ma’am.” So Mrs. Paston, baffled but somewhat suspicious – what right had Elizabeth to look so well and happy and pretty away from her dear parents? – had to return home and present a blank report.
So that alarm died down.
Elizabeth became inordinately proud of being no longer a virgin. You might have thought she was the only devirginated young woman in London. But, like King Midas, she burned to share her secret, to make somebody else envious. So one week when George had run over to Paris about some pictures, she invited Fanny to tea, and after a tremendous amount of preparation confessed the lovely secret. Partly to Elizabeth’s disappointment and partly to her relief, Fanny took the news as something very ordinary.
“I’m really surprised you waited so long, my dear.”
“But you’re nearly as old as I am!”
“Oh, but, darling, didn’t you know? I’ve had two or three affairs. Only, I didn’t say anything to you. I thought you’d be shocked.”
“Shocked?” Elizabeth laughed scornfully, though she was a bit surprised. “Why on earth should I be shocked? I think people should be free to have all the love affairs they want.”
“Do tell me who he is!”
Elizabeth blushed slightly and hesitated.
“No, I won’t tell you now, but you’ll meet him soon.”
“But, Elizabeth, I hope you’re careful? You won’t go and have a baby?”
Elizabeth laughed scornfully again.
“Have a baby? Of course not! Why ever do you think I’m so silly? George and I talked it – ”
“Oh! His name’s ‘George’, is it?”
“Yes. Did I let that out? Yes, George Winterbourne. Well, we talked it all out, and we’ve got a perfectly good arrangement. George says we’re too young to have children, so why get married; and anyway we’re too poor. If we want children later on, we can always get married. I said
I wouldn’t tie myself down with any man – I don’t want anybody else’s name. I told George that if I wanted other lovers I should have them, and if he wanted any one else he was to have her. But, of course, when there’s a relationship as firmly established as ours, one doesn’t want any one else.”
Fanny smiled.
As a matter of fact, Elizabeth had not said anything of the sort, when George drew up his Triumphal Scheme of the Perfect Sex Relationship. She had been rather timid and uncertain at first. But George’s discourses and the books on physiology and psychology and sex which he made her read, and her own exultation at being no longer a virgin, had sent her spinning in the other direction. She had, in a few months, far out-distanced George in “freedom”. Her argument was rational and quite defensible; indeed, it was a corollary to George’s own views, though he hadn’t seen it. Because you were very fond of one person, she argued, that was no reason why you shouldn’t be attracted by others. Monogamy was established to tyrannize women and to make sure offspring were “legitimate” and to provide for them and the mother. But where women are free and there is no offspring, what on earth is the good of an artificial and forced fidelity? Directly one has to promise fidelity, directly an effort of will is made to “remain faithful”, a false position is set up. The effort of keeping such a promise is the surest assurance that it will be broken sooner or later. On the other hand, while you are in love with someone, well, you’re in love, and you either don’t want anyone else, or if you do, you’re probably only too happy to get back speedily to the person you do really care for.
There was logic, and a good deal of sense, in this, George had to admit. But he also had to admit to himself that he didn’t altogether like the idea of Elizabeth “going with” somebody else. Nor, for that matter, would Elizabeth have liked George “going with” another girl. But she deceived herself unknowingly. At that time she was very much under the influence of a Swedish book she had read, a book devoted to the Future of the Race. This was the work of an earnest-minded virgin of fifty who laid it down as an indisputable axiom that there must be complete frankness between the sexes. “The old notion of sexual fidelity must go,” declared this enthusiastic writer, “and only from the golden sun-bath of divinely nude freedom can rise the glorious new race,” etc. etc. Elizabeth didn’t know the authoress was an old maid, and she was annoyed with George for making fun of the “golden sun-bath of divinely nude freedom”.
Death of a Hero Page 19