Antic Hay, Aldous Huxley [whitelam books .txt] 📗

and slightly ironic curiosity that was frankly mingled with admiration.

“You’re lucky,” said Mrs. Viveash. “We poor decayed gentlewomen⁠—you see what we’re reduced to.” And she handed him a florin.

Slowly the taxi-man unbuttoned his coat and put the coin away in an inner pocket. He watched her as she crossed the dirty street, placing her feet with a meticulous precision one after the other in the same straight line, as though she were treading a knife edge between goodness only knew what invisible gulfs. Floating she seemed to go, with a little spring at every step and the skirt of her summery dress⁠—white it was, with a florid pattern printed in black all over it⁠—blowing airily out around her swaying march. Decayed gentlewomen indeed! The driver started his machine with an unnecessary violence; he felt, for some reason, positively indignant.

Between the broad double-doors through which the horses passed to their fodder and repose were little narrow human doors⁠—for the Yahoos, Lypiatt used to say in his large allusive way; and when he said it he laughed with the loud and bell-mouthed cynicism of one who sees himself as a misunderstood and embittered Prometheus. At one of these little Yahoo doors Mrs. Viveash halted and rapped as loudly as a small and stiff-hinged knocker would permit. Patiently she waited; several small and dirty children collected to stare at her. She knocked again and again waited. More children came running up from the farther end of the mews; two young girls of fifteen or sixteen appeared at a neighbouring doorway and immediately gave tongue in whoops of mirthless, hyena-like laughter.

“Have you ever read about the pied piper of Hamelin?” Mrs. Viveash asked the nearest child. Terrified, it shrank away. “I thought not,” she said, and knocked again.

There was a sound, at last, of heavy feet slowly descending steep stairs; the door opened.

“Welcome to the palazzo!” It was Lypiatt’s heroic formula of hospitality.

“Welcome at last,” Mrs. Viveash corrected, and followed him up a narrow, dark staircase that was as steep as a ladder. He was dressed in a velveteen jacket and linen trousers that should have been white, but needed washing. He was dishevelled and his hands were dirty.

“Did you knock more than once?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder.

“More than twenty times,” Mrs. Viveash justifiably exaggerated.

“I’m infinitely sorry,” protested Lypiatt. “I get so deeply absorbed in my work, you know. Did you wait long?”

“The children enjoyed it, at any rate.” Mrs. Viveash was irritated by a suspicion, which was probably, after all, quite unjustified, that Casimir had been rather consciously absorbed in his work; that he had heard her first knock and plunged the more profoundly into those depths of absorption where the true artist always dwells, or at any rate ought to dwell; to rise at her third appeal with a slow, pained reluctance, cursing, perhaps, at the importunity of a world which thus noisily interrupted the flow of his inspiration. “Queer, the way they stare at one,” she went on, with a note in her dying voice of a petulance that the children had not inspired. “Does one look such a guy?”

Lypiatt threw open the door at the head of the stairs and stood there on the threshold, waiting for her. “Queer?” he repeated. “Not a bit.” And as she moved past him into the room, he laid his hand on her shoulder and fell into step with her, leaving the door to slam behind them. “Merely an example of the mob’s instinctive dislike of the aristocratic individual. That’s all. ‘Oh, why was I born with a different face?’ Thank God I was, though. And so were you. But the difference has its disadvantages; the children throw stones.”

“They didn’t throw stones.” Mrs. Viveash was too truthful, this time.

They halted in the middle of the studio. It was not a very large room and there were too many things in it. The easel stood near the centre of the studio; round it Lypiatt kept a space permanently cleared. There was a broad fairway leading to the door, and another, narrower and tortuously winding between boxes and piled-up furniture and tumbled books, gave access to his bed. There was a piano and a table permanently set with dirty plates and strewed with the relics of two or three meals. Bookshelves stood on either side of the fireplace and lying on the floor were still more books, piles on dusty piles. Mrs. Viveash stood looking at the picture on the easel (abstract again⁠—she didn’t like it), and Lypiatt, who had dropped his hand from her shoulder, had stepped back the better to see her, stood earnestly looking at Mrs. Viveash.

“May I kiss you?” he asked after a silence.

Mrs. Viveash turned towards him, smiling agonizingly, her eyebrows ironically lifted, her eyes steady and calm and palely, brightly inexpressive. “If it really gives you any pleasure,” she said. “It won’t, I may say, to me.”

“You make me suffer a great deal,” said Lypiatt, and said it so quietly and unaffectedly, that Myra was almost startled; she was accustomed, with Casimir, to noisier and more magniloquent protestations.

“I’m very sorry,” she said; and, really, she felt sorry. “But I can’t help it, can I?”

“I suppose you can’t,” he said. “You can’t,” he repeated and his voice had now become the voice of Prometheus in his bitterness. “Nor can tigresses.” He had begun to pace up and down the unobstructed fairway between his easel and the door; Lypiatt liked pacing while he talked. “You like playing with the victim,” he went on; “he must die slowly.”

Reassured, Mrs. Viveash faintly smiled. This was the familiar Casimir. So long as he could talk like this, could talk like an old-fashioned French novel, it was all right; he couldn’t really be so very unhappy. She sat down on the nearest unencumbered chair. Lypiatt continued to walk back and forth, waving his arms as he walked.

“But perhaps it’s good for one to suffer,” he went on, “perhaps it’s unavoidable and necessary. Perhaps I ought to thank you. Can an artist do anything if