They hurried across the Charing Cross Road, where great buses rolled and rocked, crammed with people. Her heels clicked sharply on the pavement, as they walked east. They crossed Holborn, and passed the Museum. And neither of them said anything.
When they came to the corner, she held out her hand.
“Look!” she said. “Don’t come any further: don’t trouble.”
“I’ll walk round with you: unless you’d rather not.”
“No — But do you want to bother?”
“It’s no bother.”
So they pursued their way through the high wind, and turned at last into the old, beautiful square. It seemed dark and deserted, dark like a savage wilderness in the heart of London. The wind was roaring in the great bare trees of the centre, as if it were some wild dark grove deep in a forgotten land.
Josephine opened the gate of the square garden with her key, and let it slam to behind him.
“How wonderful the wind is!” she shrilled. “Shall we listen to it for a minute?”
She led him across the grass past the shrubs to the big tree in the centre. There she climbed up to a seat. He sat beside her. They sat in silence, looking at the darkness. Rain was blowing in the wind. They huddled against the big tree-trunk, for shelter, and watched the scene.
Beyond the tall shrubs and the high, heavy railings the wet street gleamed silently. The houses of the Square rose like a cliff on this inner dark sea, dimly lighted at occasional windows. Boughs swayed and sang. A taxi-cab swirled round a corner like a cat, and purred to a standstill. There was a light of an open hall door. But all far away, it seemed, unthinkably far away. Aaron sat still and watched. He was frightened, it all seemed so sinister, this dark, bristling heart of London. Wind boomed and tore like waves ripping a shingle beach. The two white lights of the taxi stared round and departed, leaving the coast at the foot of the cliffs deserted, faintly spilled with light from the high lamp. Beyond there, on the outer rim, a policeman passed solidly.
Josephine was weeping steadily all the time, but inaudibly. Occasionally she blew her nose and wiped her face. But he had not realized. She hardly realized herself. She sat near the strange man. He seemed so still and remote — so fascinating.
“Give me your hand,” she said to him, subduedly.
He took her cold hand in his warm, living grasp. She wept more bitterly. He noticed at last.
“Why are you crying?” he said.
“I don’t know,” she replied, rather matter-of-fact, through her tears.
So he let her cry, and said no more, but sat with her cold hand in his warm, easy clasp.
“You’ll think me a fool,” she said. “I don’t know why I cry.”
“You can cry for nothing, can’t you?” he said.
“Why, yes, but it’s not very sensible.”
He laughed shortly.
“Sensible!” he said.
“You are a strange man,” she said.
But he took no notice.
“Did you ever intend to marry Jim Bricknell?” he asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“I can’t imagine it,” he said.
“Why not?”
Both were watching blankly the roaring night of mid-London, the phantasmagoric old Bloomsbury Square. They were still hand in hand.
“Such as you shouldn’t marry,” he said.
“But why not? I want to.”
“You think you do.”
“Yes indeed I do.”
He did not say any more.
“Why shouldn’t I?” she persisted. “I don’t know — ”
And again he was silent.
“You’ve known some life, haven’t you?” he asked.
“Me? Why?”
“You seem to.”
“Do I? I’m sorry. Do I seem vicious? — No, I’m not vicious. — I’ve seen some life, perhaps — in Paris mostly. But not much. Why do you ask?”
“I wasn’t thinking.”
“But what do you mean? What are you thinking?”
“Nothing. Nothing.”
“Don’t be so irritating,” said she.
But he did not answer, and she became silent also. They sat hand in hand.
“Won’t you kiss me?” came her voice out of the darkness.
He waited some moments, then his voice sounded gently, half mocking, half reproachful.
“Nay!” he said.
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to.”
“Why not?” she asked.
He laughed, but did not reply.
She sat perfectly still for some time. She had ceased to cry. In the darkness her face was set and sullen. Sometimes a spray of rain blew across it. She drew her hand from his, and rose to her feet.
“Ill go in now,” she said.
“You’re not offended, are you?” he asked.
“No. Why?”
They stepped down in the darkness from their perch.
“I wondered.”
She strode off for some little way. Then she turned and said:
“Yes, I think it is rather insulting.”
“Nay,” he said. “Not it! Not it!”
And he followed her to the gate.
She opened with her key, and they crossed the road to her door.
“Good-night,” she said, turning and giving him her hand.
“You’ll come and have dinner with me — or lunch — will you? When shall we make it?” he asked.
“Well, I can’t say for certain — I’m very busy just now. I’ll let you know.”
A policeman shed his light on the pair of them as they stood on the step.
“All right,” said Aaron, dropping back, and she hastily opened the big door, and entered.
CHAPTER VIII. A PUNCH IN THE WIND
The Lillys had a labourer’s cottage in Hampshire — pleasant enough. They were poor. Lilly was a little, dark, thin, quick fellow, his wife was strong and fair. They had known Robert and Julia for some years, but Josephine and Jim were new acquaintances, — fairly new.
One day in early spring Lilly had a telegram, “Coming to see you arrive 4:30 — Bricknell.” He was surprised, but he and his wife got the spare room ready. And at four o’clock Lilly went off to the station. He was a few minutes late, and saw Jim’s tall, rather elegant figure stalking down the station path. Jim had been an officer in the regular army, and still spent hours with his tailor. But instead of being a soldier he was a sort of socialist, and a red-hot revolutionary of a very ineffectual sort.
“Good lad!” he exclaimed, as Lilly came up. “Thought you wouldn’t mind.”
“Not at all. Let me carry your bag.” Jim had a bag and a knapsack.
“I had an inspiration this morning,” said Jim. “I suddenly saw that if there was a man in England who could save me, it was you.”
“Save you from what?” asked Lilly, rather abashed.
“Eh — ?” and Jim stooped, grinning at the smaller man.
Lilly was somewhat puzzled, but he had a certain belief in himself as a saviour. The two men tramped rather incongruously through the lanes to the cottage.
Tanny was in the doorway as they came up the garden path.
“So nice to see you! Are you all right?” she said.
“A-one!” said Jim, grinning. “Nice of you to have me.”
“Oh, we’re awfully pleased.”
Jim dropped his knapsack on the broad sofa.
“I’ve brought some food,” he said.
“Have you! That’s sensible of you. We can’t get a great deal here, except just at week-ends,” said Tanny.
Jim fished out a pound of sausages and a pot of fish paste.
“How lovely the sausages,” said Tanny. “We’ll have them for dinner tonight — and we’ll have the other for tea now. You’d like a wash?”
But Jim had already opened his bag, taken off his coat, and put on an old one.
“Thanks,” he said.
Lilly made the tea, and at le
ngth all sat down.
“Well how unexpected this is — and how nice,” said Tanny.
“Jolly — eh?” said Jim.
He ate rapidly, stuffing his mouth too full.
“How is everybody?” asked Tanny.
“All right. Julia’s gone with Cyril Scott. Can’t stand that fellow, can you? What?”
“Yes, I think he’s rather nice,” said Tanny. “What will Robert do?”
“Have a shot at Josephine, apparently.”
“Really? Is he in love with her? I thought so. And she likes him too, doesn’t she?” said Tanny.
“Very likely,” said Jim.
“I suppose you’re jealous,” laughed Tanny.
“Me!” Jim shook his head. “Not a bit. Like to see the ball kept rolling.”
“What have you been doing lately?”
“Been staying a few days with my wife.”
“No, really! I can’t believe it.”
Jim had a French wife, who had divorced him, and two children. Now he was paying visits to this wife again: purely friendly. Tanny did most of the talking. Jim excited her, with his way of looking in her face and grinning wolfishly, and at the same time asking to be saved.
After tea, he wanted to send telegrams, so Lilly took him round to the village post-office. Telegrams were a necessary part of his life. He had to be suddenly starting off to keep sudden appointments, or he felt he was a void in the atmosphere. He talked to Lilly about social reform, and so on. Jim’s work in town was merely nominal. He spent his time wavering about and going to various meetings, philandering and weeping.
Lilly kept in the back of his mind the Saving which James had come to look for. He intended to do his best. After dinner the three sat cosily round the kitchen fire.
“But what do you really think will happen to the world?” Lilly asked Jim, amid much talk.
“What? There’s something big coming,” said Jim.
“Where from?”
“Watch Ireland, and watch Japan — they’re the two poles of the world,” said Jim.
“I thought Russia and America,” said Lilly.
“Eh? What? Russia and America! They’ll depend on Ireland and Japan. I know it. I’ve had a vision of it. Ireland on this side and Japan on the other — they’ll settle it.”
“I don’t see how,” said Lilly.
“I don’t see HOW — But I had a vision of it.”
“What sort of vision?”
“Couldn’t describe it.”
“But you don’t think much of the Japanese, do you?” asked Lilly.
“Don’t I! Don’t I!” said Jim. “What, don’t you think they’re wonderful?”
“No. I think they’re rather unpleasant.”
“I think the salvation of the world lies with them.”
“Funny salvation,” said Lilly. “I think they’re anything but angels.”
“Do you though? Now that’s funny. Why?”
“Looking at them even. I knew a Russian doctor who’d been through the Russo-Japanese war, and who had gone a bit cracked. He said he saw the Japs rush a trench. They threw everything away and flung themselves through the Russian fire and simply dropped in masses. But those that reached the trenches jumped in with bare hands on the Russians and tore their faces apart and bit their throats out — fairly ripped the faces off the bone. — It had sent the doctor a bit cracked. He said the wounded were awful, — their faces torn off and their throats mangled — and dead Japs with flesh between the teeth — God knows if it’s true. But that’s the impression the Japanese had made on this man. It had affected his mind really.”
Jim watched Lilly, and smiled as if he were pleased.
“No — really — !” he said.
“Anyhow they’re more demon than angel, I believe,” said Lilly.
“Oh, no, Rawdon, but you always exaggerate,” said Tanny.
“Maybe,” said Lilly.
“I think Japanese are fascinating — fascinating — so quick, and such FORCE in them — ”
“Rather! — eh?” said Jim, looking with a quick smile at Tanny.
“I think a Japanese lover would be marvellous,” she laughed riskily.
“I s’d think he would,” said Jim, screwing up his eyes.
“Do you hate the normal British as much as I do?” she asked him.
“Hate them! Hate them!” he said, with an intimate grin.
“Their beastly virtue,” said she. “And I believe there’s nobody more vicious underneath.”
“Nobody!” said Jim.
“But you’re British yourself,” said Lilly to Jim.
“No, I’m Irish. Family’s Irish — my mother was a Fitz-patrick.”
“Anyhow you live in England.”
“Because they won’t let me go to Ireland.”
The talk drifted. Jim finished up all the beer, and they prepared to go to bed. Jim was a bit tipsy, grinning. He asked for bread and cheese to take upstairs.
“Will you have supper?” said Lilly. He was surprised, because Jim had eaten strangely much at dinner.
“No — where’s the loaf?” And he cut himself about half of it. There was no cheese.
“Bread’ll do,” said Jim.
“Sit down and eat it. Have cocoa with it,” said Tanny.
“No, I like to have it in my bedroom.”
“You don’t eat bread in the night?” said Lilly.
“I do.”
“What a funny thing to do.”
The cottage was in darkness. The Lillys slept soundly. Jim woke up and chewed bread and slept again. In the morning at dawn he rose and went downstairs. Lilly heard him roaming about — heard the woman come in to clean — heard them talking. So he got up to look after his visitor, though it was not seven o’clock, and the woman was busy. — But before he went down, he heard Jim come upstairs again.
Mrs. Short was busy in the kitchen when Lilly went down.
“The other gentleman have been down, Sir,” said Mrs. Short. “He asked me where the bread and butter were, so I said should I cut him a piece. But he wouldn’t let me do it. I gave him a knife and he took it for himself, in the pantry.”
“I say, Bricknell,” said Lilly at breakfast time, “why do you eat so much bread?”
“I’ve got to feed up. I’ve been starved during this damned war.”
“But hunks of bread won’t feed you up.”
“Gives the stomach something to work at, and prevents it grinding on the nerves,” said Jim.
“But surely you don’t want to keep your stomach always full and heavy.”
“I do, my boy. I do. It needs keeping solid. I’m losing life, if I don’t. I tell you I’m losing life. Let me put something inside me.”
“I don’t believe bread’s any use.”
During breakfast Jim talked about the future of the world.
“I reckon Christ’s the finest thing time has ever produced,” said he; “and will remain it.”
“But you don’t want crucifixions ad infinitum,” said Lilly.
“What? Why not?”
“Once is enough — and have done.”
“Don’t you think love and sacrifice are the finest things in life?” said Jim, over his bacon.
“Depends WHAT love, and what sacrifice,” said Lilly. “If I really believe in an Almighty God, I am willing to sacrifice for Him. That is, I’m willing to yield my own personal interest to the bigger creative interest. — But it’s obvious Almighty God isn’t mere Love.”
“I think it is. Love and only love,” said Jim. “I think the greatest joy is sacrificing oneself to love.”
“To SOMEONE you love, you mean,” said Tanny.
“No I don’t. I don’t mean someone at all. I mean love — love — love. I sacrifice myself to love. I reckon that’s the highest man is capable of.”
“But you can’t sacrifice yourself to an abstract principle,” said Tanny.
“That’s just what you can do. And that’s the beauty of it. Who
represents the principle doesn’t matter. Christ is the principle of love,” said Jim.
“But no!” said Tanny. “It MUST be more individual. It must be SOMEBODY you love, not abstract love in itself. How can you sacrifice yourself to an abstraction.”
“Ha, I think Love and your Christ detestable,” said Lilly — ”a sheer ignominy.”
“Finest thing the world has produced,” said Jim.
“No. A thing which sets itself up to be betrayed! No, it’s foul. Don’t you see it’s the Judas principle you really worship. Judas is the real hero. But for Judas the whole show would have been manque.”
“Oh yes,” said Jim. “Judas was inevitable. I’m not sure that Judas wasn’t the greatest of the disciples — and Jesus knew it. I’m not sure Judas wasn’t the disciple Jesus loved.”
“Jesus certainly encouraged him in his Judas tricks,” said Tanny.
Jim grinned knowingly at Lilly.
“Then it was a nasty combination. And anything which turns on a Judas climax is a dirty show, to my thinking. I think your Judas is a rotten, dirty worm, just a dirty little self-conscious sentimental twister. And out of all Christianity he is the hero today. When people say Christ they mean Judas. They find him luscious on the palate. And Jesus fostered him — ” said Lilly.
“He’s a profound figure, is Judas. It’s taken two thousand years to begin to understand him,” said Jim, pushing the bread and marmalade into his mouth.
“A traitor is a traitor — no need to understand any further. And a system which rests all its weight on a piece of treachery makes that treachery not only inevitable but sacred. That’s why I’m sick of Christianity. — At any rate this modern Christ-mongery.”
“The finest thing the world has produced, or ever will produce — Christ and Judas — ” said Jim.
“Not to me,” said Lilly. “Foul combination.”
It was a lovely morning in early March. Violets were out, and the first wild anemones. The sun was quite warm. The three were about to take out a picnic lunch. Lilly however was suffering from Jim’s presence.
“Jolly nice here,” said Jim. “Mind if I stay till Saturday?”
There was a pause. Lilly felt he was being bullied, almost obscenely bullied. Was he going to agree? Suddenly he looked up at Jim.
“I’d rather you went tomorrow,” he said.
Tanny, who was sitting opposite Jim, dropped her head in confusion.
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 311