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

Rosie. It seemed to him that he had been a loutish cad as well as an imbecile.

What should he do about it? He sat for a long time wondering.

In the end he decided that the best thing would be to go and tell Rosie all about it, all about everything.

About Mrs. Viveash too? Yes, about Mrs. Viveash too. He would get over Mrs. Viveash more easily and more rapidly if he did. And he would begin to try and find out about Rosie. He would explore her. He would discover all the other things besides an incapacity to learn physiology that were in her. He would discover her, he would quicken his affection for her into something livelier and more urgent. And they would begin again; more satisfactorily this time; with knowledge and understanding; wise from their experience.

Shearwater got up from his chair before the writing-table, lurched pensively towards the door, bumping into the revolving bookcase and the armchair as he went, and walked down the passage to the drawing-room. Rosie did not turn her head as he came in, but went on reading without changing her position, her slippered feet still higher than her head, her legs still charmingly avowing themselves.

Shearwater came to a halt in front of the empty fireplace. He stood there with his back to it, as though warming himself before an imaginary flame. It was, he felt, the safest, the most strategic point from which to talk.

“What are you reading?” he asked.

“Le Sopha,” said Rosie.

“What’s that?”

“What’s that?” Rosie scornfully echoed. “Why, it’s one of the great French classics.”

“Who by?”

“Crébillon the younger.”

“Never heard of him,” said Shearwater. There was a silence. Rosie went on reading.

“It just occurred to me,” Shearwater began again in his rather ponderous, infelicitous way, “that you mightn’t be very happy, Rosie.”

Rosie looked up at him and laughed. “What put that into your head?” she asked. “I’m perfectly happy.”

Shearwater was left a little at a loss. “Well, I’m very glad to hear it,” he said. “I only thought⁠ ⁠… that perhaps you might think⁠ ⁠… that I rather neglected you.”

Rosie laughed again. “What is all this about?” she said.

“I have it rather on my conscience,” said Shearwater. “I begin to see⁠ ⁠… something has made me see⁠ ⁠… that I’ve not.⁠ ⁠… I don’t treat you very well.⁠ ⁠…”

“But I don’t n⁠—notice it, I assure you,” put in Rosie, still smiling.

“I leave you out too much,” Shearwater went on with a kind of desperation, running his fingers through his thick brown hair. “We don’t share enough together. You’re too much outside my life.”

“But after all,” said Rosie, “we are a civ⁠—vilized couple. We don’t want to live in one another’s pockets, do we?”

“No, but we’re really no more than strangers,” said Shearwater. “That isn’t right. And it’s my fault. I’ve never tried to get into touch with your life. But you did your best to understand mine⁠ ⁠… at the beginning of our marriage.”

“Oh, then⁠—n!” said Rosie, laughing. “You found out what a little idiot I was.”

“Don’t make a joke of it,” said Shearwater. “It isn’t a joke. It’s very serious. I tell you, I’ve come to see how stupid and inconsiderate and un-understanding I’ve been with you. I’ve come to see quite suddenly. The fact is,” he went on with a rush, like an uncorked fountain, “I’ve been seeing a woman recently whom I like very much, and who doesn’t like me.” Speaking of Mrs. Viveash, unconsciously he spoke her language. For Mrs. Viveash people always euphemistically “liked” one another rather a lot, even when it was a case of the most frightful and excruciating passion, the most complete abandonments. “And somehow that’s made me see a lot of things which I’d been blind to before⁠—blind deliberately, I suppose. It’s made me see, among other things, that I’ve really been to blame towards you, Rosie.”

Rosie listened with an astonishment which she perfectly disguised. So James was embarking on his little affairs, was he? It seemed incredible, and also, as she looked at her husband’s face⁠—the face behind its bristlingly manly mask of a harassed baby⁠—also rather pathetically absurd. She wondered who it could be. But she displayed no curiosity. She would find out soon enough.

“I’m sorry you should have been unhappy about it,” she said.

“It’s finished now.” Shearwater made a decided little gesture.

“Ah, no!” said Rosie. “You should persevere.” She looked at him, smiling.

Shearwater was taken aback by this display of easy detachment. He had imagined the conversation so very differently, as something so serious, so painful and, at the same time, so healing and soothing, that he did not know how to go on. “But I thought,” he said hesitatingly, “that you⁠ ⁠… that we⁠ ⁠… after this experience⁠ ⁠… I would try to get closer to you.⁠ ⁠…” (Oh, it sounded ridiculous!)⁠ ⁠… “We might start again, from a different place, so to speak.”

“But, cher ami,” protested Rosie, with the inflection and in the preferred tongue of Mr. Mercaptan, “you can’t seriously expect us to do the Darby and Joan business, can you? You’re distressing yourself quite unnecessarily on my account. I don’t find you neglect me or anything like it. You have your life⁠—naturally. And I have mine. We don’t get in one another’s way.”

“But do you think that’s the ideal sort of married life?” asked Shearwater.

“It’s obviously the most civ⁠—vilized,” Rosie answered, laughing.

Confronted by Rosie’s civilization, Shearwater felt helpless.

“Well, if you don’t want,” he said. “I’d hoped⁠ ⁠… I’d thought.⁠ ⁠…”

He went back to his study to think things over. The more he thought them over, the more he blamed himself. And incessantly the memory of Mrs. Viveash tormented him.

XIX

After leaving Mr. Mercaptan, Lypiatt had gone straight home. The bright day seemed to deride him. With its shining red omnibuses, its parasols, its muslin girls, its young-leaved trees, its bands at the street corners, it was too much of a garden party to be tolerable. He wanted to be alone. He took a cab back to the studio. He couldn’t afford it, of course; but what did that matter,