Tono-Bungay, H. G. Wells [reading like a writer .TXT] 📗

table, staring blankly. But presently her half-averted face began to haunt me as she had sat at the table, and her arm and the long droop of her shoulder. III

The next day I did an unexampled thing. I sent a telegram to my uncle, “Bad temper not coming to business,” and set off for Highgate and Ewart. He was actually at work⁠—on a bust of Millie, and seemed very glad for any interruption.

“Ewart, you old fool,” I said, “knock off and come for a day’s gossip. I’m rotten. There’s a sympathetic sort of lunacy about you. Let’s go to Staines and paddle up to Windsor.”

“Girl?” said Ewart, putting down a chisel.

“Yes.”

That was all I told him of my affair.

“I’ve got no money,” he remarked, to clear up ambiguity in my invitation.

We got a jar of shandy-gaff, some food, and, on Ewart’s suggestion, two Japanese sunshades in Staines; we demanded extra cushions at the boathouse and we spent an enormously soothing day in discourse and meditation, our boat moored in a shady place this side of Windsor. I seem to remember Ewart with a cushion forward, only his heels and sunshade and some black ends of hair showing, a voice and no more, against the shining, smoothly-streaming mirror of the trees and bushes.

“It’s not worth it,” was the burden of the voice. “You’d better get yourself a Millie, Ponderevo, and then you wouldn’t feel so upset.”

“No,” I said decidedly, “that’s not my way.”

A thread of smoke ascended from Ewart for a while, like smoke from an altar.

“Everything’s a muddle, and you think it isn’t. Nobody knows where we are⁠—because, as a matter of fact we aren’t anywhere. Are women property⁠—or are they fellow-creatures? Or a sort of proprietary goddesses? They’re so obviously fellow-creatures. You believe in the goddess?”

“No,” I said, “that’s not my idea.”

“What is your idea?”

“Well⁠—”

“H’m,” said Ewart, in my pause.

“My idea,” I said, “is to meet one person who will belong to me⁠—to whom I shall belong⁠—body and soul. No half-gods! Wait till she comes. If she comes at all.⁠ ⁠… We must come to each other young and pure.”

“There’s no such thing as a pure person or an impure person.⁠ ⁠… Mixed to begin with.”

This was so manifestly true that it silenced me altogether.

“And if you belong to her and she to you, Ponderevo⁠—which end’s the head?”

I made no answer except an impatient “Oh!”

For a time we smoked in silence.⁠ ⁠…

“Did I tell you, Ponderevo, of a wonderful discovery I’ve made?” Ewart began presently.

“No,” I said, “what is it?”

“There’s no Mrs. Grundy.”

“No?”

“No! Practically not. I’ve just thought all that business out. She’s merely an instrument, Ponderevo. She’s borne the blame. Grundy’s a man. Grundy unmasked. Rather lean and out of sorts. Early middle age. With bunchy black whiskers and a worried eye. Been good so far, and it’s fretting him! Moods! There’s Grundy in a state of sexual panic, for example⁠—‘For God’s sake cover it up! They get together⁠—they get together! It’s too exciting! The most dreadful things are happening!’ Rushing about⁠—long arms going like a windmill. ‘They must be kept apart!’ Starts out for an absolute obliteration of everything absolute separations. One side of the road for men, and the other for women, and a hoarding⁠—without posters⁠—between them. Every boy and girl to be sewed up in a sack and sealed, just the head and hands and feet out until twenty-one. Music abolished, calico garments for the lower animals! Sparrows to be suppressed⁠—ab-so-lutely.”

I laughed abruptly.

“Well, that’s Mr. Grundy in one mood⁠—and it puts Mrs. Grundy⁠—She’s a much-maligned person, Ponderevo⁠—a rake at heart⁠—and it puts her in a most painful state of fluster⁠—most painful! She’s an amenable creature. When Grundy tells her things are shocking, she’s shocked⁠—pink and breathless. She goes about trying to conceal her profound sense of guilt behind a haughty expression.⁠ ⁠…

“Grundy, meanwhile, is in a state of complete whirlabout. Long lean knuckly hands pointing and gesticulating! ‘They’re still thinking of things⁠—thinking of things! It’s dreadful. They get it out of books. I can’t imagine where they get it! I must watch! There’re people over there whispering! Nobody ought to whisper!⁠—There’s something suggestive in the mere act! Then, pictures! In the museum⁠—things too dreadful for words. Why can’t we have pure art⁠—with the anatomy all wrong and pure and nice⁠—and pure fiction pure poetry, instead of all this stuff with allusions⁠—allusions?⁠ ⁠… Excuse me! There’s something up behind that locked door! The keyhole! In the interests of public morality⁠—yes, Sir, as a pure good man⁠—I insist⁠—I’ll look⁠—it won’t hurt me⁠—I insist on looking⁠—my duty⁠—M’m’m⁠—the keyhole!’ ”

He kicked his legs about extravagantly, and I laughed again.

“That’s Grundy in one mood, Ponderevo. It isn’t Mrs. Grundy. That’s one of the lies we tell about women. They’re too simple. Simple! Woman are simple! They take on just what men tell ’em.”

Ewart meditated for a space. “Just exactly as it’s put to them,” he said, and resumed the moods of Mr. Grundy.

“Then you get old Grundy in another mood. Ever caught him nosing, Ponderevo? Mad with the idea of mysterious, unknown, wicked, delicious things. Things that aren’t respectable. Wow! Things he mustn’t do!⁠ ⁠… Anyone who knows about these things, knows there’s just as much mystery and deliciousness about Grundy’s forbidden things as there is about eating ham. Jolly nice if it’s a bright morning and you’re well and hungry and having breakfast in the open air. Jolly unattractive if you’re off colour. But Grundy’s covered it all up and hidden it and put mucky shades and covers over it until he’s forgotten it. Begins to fester round it in his mind. Has dreadful struggles⁠—with himself about impure thoughts.⁠ ⁠… Then you set Grundy with hot ears⁠—curious in undertones. Grundy on the loose, Grundy in a hoarse whisper and with furtive eyes and convulsive movements⁠—making things indecent. Evolving⁠—in dense vapours⁠—indecency!

“Grundy sins. Oh, yes, he’s a hypocrite. Sneaks round a corner and sins ugly. It’s Grundy and his dark corners that make vice, vice! We artists⁠—we have no vices.

“And then he’s frantic with repentance. And wants to be cruel to