It is the most beautiful road in the world, in its infinite variety, in the grandeur above and the breadth below, and the marvellous rich sweetness of the deep gardens — passing as it does out of wilderness into splendour, out of splendour into wealth of colour and light and odour, and again out to the rugged strength of the loneliness beyond.
Clare and Johnstone had exchanged idle phrases for a while, until they had passed Atrani and the turn where the new way leads up to Ravello, and were fairly out on the road. They were both glad to be out together and walking, for Clare had grown stronger, and was weary of always sitting on the terrace, and Johnstone was tired of taking long walks alone, merely for the sake of being hungry afterwards, and of late had given it up altogether. Mrs. Bowring herself was glad to be alone for once, and made little or no objection, and so the two had started in the early afternoon.
Johnstone’s remark had been premeditated, for his curiosity had been aroused on the preceding day by Clare’s words and manner. But after she had given him her brief answer she said no more, and they walked on in silence for a few moments.
“Yes,” said Johnstone at last, as though he had been reflecting, “you generally say what you think. I didn’t doubt it at the time. But you seem rather hard on the men. Women are all angels, of course—”
“Not at all!” interrupted Clare. “Some of us are quite the contrary.”
“Well, it’s a generally accepted thing, you know. That’s what I mean. But it isn’t generally accepted that men are. If you take men into consideration at all, you must make some allowances.”
“I don’t see why. You are much stronger than we are. You all think that you have much more pride. You always say that you have a sense of honour which we can’t understand. I should think that with all those advantages you would be much too proud to insist upon our making allowances for you.”
“That’s rather keen, you know,” answered Brook, with a laugh. “All the same, it’s a woman’s occupation to be good, and a man has a lot of other things to do besides. That’s the plain English of it. When a woman isn’t good she falls. When a man is bad, he doesn’t — it’s his nature.”
“Oh — if you begin by saying that all men are bad! That’s an odd way out of it.”
“Not at all. Good men and bad women are the exceptions, that’s all — in the way you mean goodness and badness.”
“And how do you think I mean goodness and badness? It seems to me that you are taking a great deal for granted, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Brook, growing vague on a sudden. “Those are rather hard things to talk about.”
“I like to talk about them. How do you think I understand those two words?”
“I don’t know,” repeated Johnstone, still more vaguely. “I suppose your theory is that men and women are exactly equal, and that a man shouldn’t do what a woman ought not to do — and all that, you know. I don’t exactly know how to put it.”
“I don’t see why what is wrong for a woman should be right for a man,” said Clare. “The law doesn’t make any difference, does it? A man goes to prison for stealing or forging, and so does a woman. I don’t see why society should make any distinction about other things. If there were a law against flirting, it would send the men to prison just like the women, wouldn’t it?”
“What an awful idea!” laughed Brook.
“Yes, but in theory—”
“Oh, in theory it’s all right. But in practice we men are not wrapped in cotton and tied up with pink ribbons from the day we are born to the day we are married. I — I don’t exactly know how to explain what I mean, but that’s the general idea. Among poor people — I believe one mustn’t say the lower classes any more — well, with them it isn’t quite the same. The women don’t get so much care and looking after, when they are young, you know — that sort of thing. The consequence is, that there’s much more equality between men and women. I believe the women are worse, and the men are better — it’s my opinion, at all events. I dare say it isn’t worth much. It’s only what I see at home, you know.”
“But the working people don’t flirt!” exclaimed Clare. “They drink, and that sort of thing—”
“Yes, lots of them drink, men and women. And as for flirting — they don’t call it flirting, but in their way I dare say it’s very much the same thing. Only, in our part of the country, a man who flirts, if you call it so, gets just as bad a name as a woman. You see, they have all had about the same bringing up. But with us it’s quite different. A girl is brought up in a cage, like a turtle dove, with nothing to do except to be good, while a boy is sent to a public school when he is eleven or twelve, which is exactly the same as sending him to hell, except that he has the certainty of getting away.”
“But boys don’t learn to flirt at Eton,” observed the young girl.
“Well — no,” answered Johnstone. “But they learn everything else, except Latin and Greek, and they go to a private tutor to learn those things before they go to the university.”
“You mean that they learn to drink and gamble, and all that?” asked Clare.
“Oh — more or less — a little of everything that does no good — and then you expect us afterwards to be the same as you are, who have been brought up by your mothers at home. It isn’t fair, you know.”
“No,” answered Clare, yielding. “It isn’t fair. That strikes me as the best argument you have used yet. But it doesn’t make it right, for all that. And why shouldn’t men be brought up to be good, just as women are?”
Brook laughed.
“That’s quite another matter. Only a paternal government could do that — or a maternal government. We haven’t got either, so we have to do the best we can. I only state the fact, and you are obliged to admit it. I can’t go back to the reason. The fact remains. In certain ways, at a certain age, all men as a rule are bad, and all women, on the whole, are good. Most of you know it, and you judge us accordingly and make allowances. But you yourself don’t seem inclined to be merciful. Perhaps you’ll be less hard-hearted when you are older.”
“I’m not hard-hearted!” exclaimed Clare, indignantly. “I’m only just. And I shall always be the same, I’m sure.”
“If I were a Frenchman,” said Brook, “I should be polite, and say that I hoped so. As I’m not, and as it would be rude to say that I didn’t believe it, I’ll say nothing. Only to be what you call just, isn’t the way to be liked, you know.”
“I don’t want to be liked,” Clare answered, rather sharply. “I hate what are called popular people! “
“So do I. They are generally awful bores, don’t you know? They want to keep the thing up and be liked all the time.”
“Well — if one likes people at all, one ought to like them all the time,” objected Clare, with unnecessary contrariety.
“That was the original point,” observed Brook. “That was your objection to the man in the book — that he loved first one sister and then the other. Poor chap! The first one loved him, and the second one prayed for him! He had no luck!”
“A man who will do that sort of thing is past praying for!” retorted the young girl. “It seems to me that when a man makes a woman believe that he loves her, the best thing he can do is to be faithful to her afterwards.”
“Yes — but supposing that he is quite sure that he can’t make her happy—”
“Then he had no right to make love to her at all.”
“But he didn’t know it at first. He didn’t find out until he had known her a long time.”
“That makes it all the worse,” exclaimed Clare with conviction, but without logic.
“And while he was trying to find out, she fell in love with him,” continued Brook. “That was unlucky, but it wasn’t his fault, you know—”
“Oh yes, it was — in that book at least. He asked her to marry him before he had half made up his mind. Really, Mr. Johnstone,” she continued, almost losing her temper, “you defend the man almost as though
you were defending yourself!”
“That’s rather a hard thing to say to a man, isn’t it?”
Johnstone was young enough to be annoyed, though he was amused.
“Then why do you defend the man?” asked Clare, standing still at a turn of the road and facing him.
“I won’t, if we are going to quarrel about a ridiculous book,” he answered, looking at her. “My opinion’s not worth enough for that.”
“If you have an opinion at all, it’s worth fighting for.”
“I don’t want to fight, and I won’t fight with you,” he answered, beginning to laugh.
“With me or with any one else—”
“No — not with you,” he said with sudden emphasis.
“Why not with me?”
“Because I like you very much,” he answered boldly, and they stood looking at each other in the middle of the road.
Clare had started in surprise, and the colour rose slowly to her face, but she would not take her eyes from his. For the first time it seemed to her that he had no power over her.
“I’m sorry,” she answered. “For I don’t like you.”
“Are you in earnest?” He could not help laughing.
“Yes.” There was no mistaking her tone.
Johnstone’s face changed, and for the first time in their acquaintance he was the one to turn his eyes away.
“I’m sorry too,” he said quietly. “Shall we turn back?” he asked after a moment’s pause.
“No, I want to walk,” answered Clare.
She turned from him, and began to walk on in silence. For some time neither spoke. Johnstone was puzzled, surprised, and a little hurt, but he attributed what she had said to his own roughness in telling her that he liked her, though he could not see that he had done anything so very terrible. He had spoken spontaneously, too, without the least thought of producing an impression, or of beginning to make love to her. Perhaps he owed her an apology. If she thought so, he did, and it could do no harm to try.
“I’m very sorry, if I have offended you just now,” he said gently. “I didn’t mean to.”
“You didn’t offend me,” answered Clare. “It isn’t rude to say that one likes a person. “
“Oh — I beg your pardon — I thought perhaps—”
He hesitated, surprised by her very unexpected answer. He could not imagine what she wanted.
“Because I said that I didn’t like you?” she asked.
“Well — yes.”
“Then it was I who offended you,” answered the young girl. “I didn’t mean to, either. Only, when you said that you liked me, I thought you were in earnest, you know, and so I wanted to be quite honest, because I thought it was fairer. You see, if I had let you think that I liked you, you might have thought we were going to drift into being friends, and that’s impossible, you know — because I never did like you, and I never shall. But that needn’t prevent our walking together, and talking, and all that. At least, I don’t mean that it should. That’s the reason why I won’t turn back just yet—”
“But how in the world can you enjoy walking and talking with a man you don’t like?” asked Johnstone, who was completely at sea, and began to think that he must be dreaming.
“Well — you are awfully good company, you know, and I can’t always be sitting with my mother on the terrace, though we love each other dearly. “
“You are the most extraordinary person!” exclaimed Johnstone, in genuine bewilderment. “And of course your mother dislikes me too, doesn’t she?”
“Not at all,” answered Clare. “You asked me that before, and I told you the truth. Since then, she likes you better and better. She is always saying how nice you are.”
“Then I had better always talk to her,” suggested Brook, feeling for a clue.
“Oh, I shouldn’t like that at all!” cried the young girl, laughing.
“And yet you don’t like me. This is like twenty questions. You must have some very particular reason for it,” he added thoughtfully. “I suppose I must have done some awful thing without knowing it. I wish you would tell me. Won’t you, please? Then I’ll go away.”
“No,” Clare answered. “I won’t tell you. But I have a reason. I’m not capricious. I don’t take violent dislikes to people for nothing. Let it alone. We can talk very pleasantly about other things. Since you are good enough to like me, it might be amusing to tell me why. If you have any good reason, you know, you won’t stop liking me just because I don’t like you, will you?”
She glanced sideways at him as she spoke, and he was watching her and trying to understand her, for the revelation of her dislike had come upon him very suddenly. She was on the right as they walked, and he saw her against the light sky, above the line of the low parapet. Perhaps the light behind her dazzled him; at all events, he had a strange impression for a moment. She seemed to have the better of him, and to be stronger and more determined than he. She seemed taller than she was, too, for she was on the higher part of the road, in the middle of it. For an instant he felt precisely what she so often felt with him, that she had power over him. But he did not resent the sensation as she did, though it was quite as new to him.
Nevertheless, he did not answer her, for she had spoken only half in earnest, and he himself was not just then inclined to joke for the mere sake of joking. He looked down at the road under his feet, and he knew all at once that Clare attracted him much more than he had imagined. The sidelong glance she had bestowed upon him had fascination in it. There was an odd charm about her girlish contrariety and in her frank avowal that she did not like him. Her dislike roused him. He did not choose to be disliked by her, especially for some absurd trifle in his behaviour, which he had not even noticed when he had made the mistake, whatever it might be.
He walked along in silence, and he was aware of her light tread and the soft sound of her serge skirt as she moved. He wished her to like him, and wished that he knew what to do to change her mind. But that would not be easy, since he did not know the cause of her dislike. Presently she spoke again, and more gravely.
“I should not have said that. I’m sorry. But of course you knew that I wasn’t in earnest.”
“I don’t know why you should not have said it,” he answered. “As a matter of fact, you are quite right. I don’t like you any the less because you don’t like me. Liking isn’t a bargain with cash on delivery. I think I like you all the more for being so honest. Do you mind?”
“Not in the least. It’s a very good reason.” Clare smiled, and then suddenly looked grave again, wondering whether it would not be really honest to tell him then and there that she had overheard his last interview with Lady Fan.
But she reflected that it could only make him feel uncomfortable.
“And another reason why I like you is because you are combative,” he said thoughtfully. “I’m not, you know. One always admires the qualities one hasn’t oneself.”
“And you are not combative? You don’t like to be in the opposition? “
“Not a bit! I’m not fond of fighting. I systematically avoid a row.”
“I shouldn’t have thought that,” said Clare, looking at him again. “Do you know? I think most people would take you for a soldier.”
“Do I look as though I would seek the bubble reputation at the cannon’s mouth?” Brook laughed. “Am I full of strange oaths?”
“Oh, that’s ridiculous, you know!” exclaimed Clare. “I mean, you look as though you would fight.”
“I never would if I could help it. And so far I have managed ‘to help it’ very well. I’m naturally mild, I think. You are not, you know. I don’t mean to be rude, but I think you are pugnacious— ‘combative’ is prettier.”
“My father was a soldier,” said the girl, with some pride.
“And mine is a brewer. There’s a lot of inheritable difference between handling gunpowder and brewing mild ale. Like father, like son. I shall brew mild ale too. If you could have charged at Balaclava,
you would. By the way, it isn’t the beer that you object to? Please tell me. I shouldn’t mind at all, and I’d much rather know that it was only that.”
“How absurd!” cried Clare with scorn. “As though it made any difference!”
“Well — what is it, then?” asked Brook with sudden impatience. “You have no right to hate me without telling me why.”
“No right?” The young girl turned on him half fiercely, and then laughed. “You haven’t a standing order from Heaven to be liked by the whole human race, you know!”
“And if I had, you would be the solitary exception, I suppose,” suggested Johnstone with a rather discontented smile.
“Perhaps.”
“Is there anything I could do to make you change your mind? Because, if it were anything in reason, I’d do it.”
“It’s rather a pity that you should put in the condition of its being in reason,” answered Clare, as her lip curled. “But there isn’t anything. You may just as well give it up at once.”
“I won’t.”
“It’s a waste of time, I assure you. Besides, it’s mere vanity. It’s only because everybody likes you — so you think that I should too.”
“Between us, we are getting at my character at last,” observed Brook with some asperity. “You’ve discovered my vanity, now. By-and-by we shall find out some more good qualities.”
“Perhaps. Each one will be a step in our acquaintance, you know. Steps may lead down, as well as up. We are walking down hill on this road just now, and it’s steep. Look at that unfortunate mule dragging that cart up hill towards us! That’s like trying to be friends, against odds. I wish the man would not beat the beast like that, though! What brutes these people are!”
Her dark blue eyes fixed themselves keenly on the sight, and the pupils grew wide and angry. The cart was a hundred yards away, coming up the road, piled high with sacks of potatoes, and drawn by one wretched mule. The huge carter was sprawling on the front sacks, yelling a tuneless chant at the top of his voice. He was a black-haired man, with a hideous mouth, and his face was red with wine. As he yelled his song he flogged his miserable beast with a heavy whip, accenting his howls with cruel blows. Clare grew pale with anger as she came nearer and saw it all more distinctly. The mule’s knees bent nearly double at every violent step, its wide eyes were bright red all round, its white tongue hung out, and it gasped for breath. The road was stony, too, besides being steep, for it had been lately mended and not rolled.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 808