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

quarrel with Myra about something that was really, when he came to think of it, not of enormous importance. It was stupid to quarrel with anyone about anything; and with Myra and about this, particularly so. In this white dress patterned with flowing arabesques of black she looked, he thought, more than ever enchanting. There had been times in the past.⁠ ⁠… The past leads on to the present.⁠ ⁠… No; but in any case she was excellent company.

“Well,” he said, sighing decisively, “let’s go and send my wire.”

Mrs. Viveash made no comment, and traversing Jermyn Street they walked up the narrow passage under the lee of Wren’s bald barn of St. James’s, to the post office.

“I shall pretext a catastrophe,” said Gumbril, as they entered; and going to the telegraph desk he wrote: “Slight accident on way to station not serious at all but a little indisposed come same train tomorrow.” He addressed the form and handed it in.

“A little what?” asked the young lady behind the bars, as she read it through, prodding each successive word with the tip of her blunt pencil.

“A little indisposed,” said Gumbril, and he felt suddenly very much ashamed of himself. “A little indisposed,”⁠—no, really, that was too much. He’d withdraw the telegram, he’d go after all.

“Ready?” asked Mrs. Viveash, coming up from the other end of the counter where she had been buying stamps.

Gumbril pushed a florin under the bars.

“A little indisposed,” he said, hooting with laughter, and he walked towards the door leaning heavily on his stick and limping. “Slight accident,” he explained.

“What is the meaning of this clownery?” Mrs. Viveash inquired.

“What indeed?” Gumbril had limped up to the door and stood there, holding it open for her. He was taking no responsibility for himself. It was the clown’s doing, and the clown, poor creature, was non compos, not entirely there, and couldn’t be called to account for his actions. He limped after her towards Piccadilly.

“Giudicato guarabile in cinque giorni,” Mrs. Viveash laughed. “How charming that always is in the Italian papers. The fickle lady, the jealous lover, the stab, the colpo di rivoltella, the mere Anglo-Saxon black eye⁠—all judged by the house surgeon at the Misericordia curable in five days. And you, my poor Gumbril, are you curable in five days?”

“That depends,” said Gumbril. “There may be complications.”

Mrs. Viveash waved her parasol; a taxi came swerving to the pavement’s edge in front of them. “Meanwhile,” she said, “you can’t be expected to walk.”

At Verrey’s they lunched off lobsters and white wine. “Fish suppers,” Gumbril quoted jovially from the Restoration, “fish suppers will make a man hop like a flea.” Through the whole meal he clowned away in the most inimitable style. The ghost of a governess cart rolled along the twiddly lanes of Robertsbridge. But one can refuse to accept responsibility; a clown cannot be held accountable. And besides, when the future and the past are abolished, when it is only the present instant, whether enchanted or unenchanted, that counts, when there are no causes or motives, no future consequences to be considered, how can there be responsibility, even for those who are not clowns? He drank a great deal of hock, and when the clock struck two and the train had begun to snort out of Charing Cross, he could not refrain from proposing the health of Viscount Lascelles. After that he began telling Mrs. Viveash about his adventure as a Complete Man.

“You should have seen me,” he said, describing his beard.

“I should have been bowled over.”

“You shall see me, then,” said Gumbril. “Ah, what a Don Giovanni. La ci darem la mano, La mi dirai di si, Vieni, non e lontano, Partiam, ben mio, da qui. And they came, they came. Without hesitation. No ‘vorrei e non vorrei,’ no ‘mi trema un poco il cor.’ Straight away.”

“Felice, io so, sarei,” Mrs. Viveash sang very faintly under her breath, from a remote bed of agony.

Ah, happiness, happiness; a little dull, someone had wisely said, when you looked at it from outside. An affair of duets at the cottage piano, of collecting specimens, hand in hand, for the hortus siccus. A matter of integrity and quietness.

“Ah, but the history of the young woman who was married four years ago,” exclaimed Gumbril with clownish rapture, “and remains to this day a virgin⁠—what an episode in my memoirs!” In the enchanted darkness he had learned her young body. He looked at his fingers; her beauty was a part of their knowledge. On the tablecloth he drummed out the first bars of the Twelfth Sonata of Mozart. “And even after singing her duet with the Don,” he continued, “she is still virgin. There are chaste pleasures, sublimated sensualities. More thrillingly voluptuous,” with the gesture of a restaurant-keeper who praises the speciality of the house, he blew a treacly kiss, “than any of the grosser deliriums.”

“What is all this about?” asked Mrs. Viveash.

Gumbril finished off his glass. “I am talking esoterically,” he said, “for my own pleasure, not yours.”

“But tell me more about the beard,” Mrs. Viveash insisted. “I liked the beard so much.”

“All right,” said Gumbril, “let us try to be unworthy with coherence.”

They sat for a long time over their cigarettes; it was half past three before Mrs. Viveash suggested they should go.

“Almost time,” she said, looking at her watch, “to have tea. One damned meal after another. And never anything new to eat. And every year one gets bored with another of the old things. Lobster, for instance, how I used to adore lobster once! But today⁠—well, really, it was only your conversation, Theodore, that made it tolerable.”

Gumbril put his hand to his heart and bowed. He felt suddenly extremely depressed.

“And wine: I used to think Orvieto so heavenly. But this spring, when I went to Italy, it was just a bad muddy sort of Vouvray. And those soft caramels they call Fiats; I used to eat those till I was sick. I was at the sick stage