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

she would like to cry. But James only laughed and said, “Nonsense!” and pulled his arm clumsily from underneath her. “You go to sleep,” he said, and kissed her on the forehead. Then he got out of bed, and she heard him bumping clumsily about in the darkness. “Damn!” he said once. Then he found the door, opened, and was gone.

She thought of those long stories she used to make up when she went shopping. The fastidious lady; the poets; all the adventures.

Toto’s hands were wonderful.

She saw, she heard Mr. Mercaptan reading his essay. Poor father, reading aloud from the Hibbert Journal!

And now the Cossack, covered with blood. He, too, might read aloud from the Hibbert Journal⁠—only backwards, so to speak. She had a bruise on her arm. “You think there’s nothing inherently wrong and disgusting in it?” he had asked. “There is, I tell you.” He had laughed and kissed her and stripped off her clothes and caressed her. And she had cried, she had struggled, she had tried to turn away; and in the end she had been overcome by a pleasure more piercing and agonizing than anything she had ever felt before. And all the time Coleman had hung over her, with his bloodstained beard, smiling into her face, and whispering, “Horrible, horrible, infamous and shameful.” She lay in a kind of stupor. Then, suddenly there had been that ringing. The Cossack had left her. And now she was awake again, and it was horrible, it was shameful. She shuddered; she jumped out of bed and began as quickly as she could to put on her clothes.

“Really, really, won’t you come?” Mrs. Viveash was insisting. She was not used to people saying no when she asked, when she insisted. She didn’t like it.

“No.” Coleman shook his head. “You may be having the last supper. But I have a date here with the Magdalen.”

“Oh, a woman,” said Viveash. “But why didn’t you say so before?”

“Well, as I’d left the door open,” said Coleman, “I thought it was unnecessary.”

“Fie,” said Mrs. Viveash. “I find this very repulsive. Let’s go away.” She plucked Gumbril by the sleeve.

“Goodbye,” said Coleman, politely. He shut the door after them and turned back across the little hall.

“What! Not thinking of going?” he exclaimed, as he came in. Rosie was sitting down on the edge of the bed pulling on her shoes.

“Go away,” she said. “You disgust me.”

“But that’s splendid,” Coleman declared. “That’s all as it should be, all as I intended.” He sat down beside her on the divan. “Really,” he said, admiringly, “what exquisite legs!”

Rosie would have given anything in the world to be back again in Bloxam Gardens. Even if James did live in his books all the time.⁠ ⁠… Anything in the world.

“This time,” said Mrs. Viveash, “we simply must go through Piccadilly Circus.”

“It’ll only be about two miles farther.”

“Well, that isn’t much.”

Gumbril leaned out and gave the word to the driver.

“And besides, I like driving about like this,” said Mrs. Viveash. “I like driving for driving’s sake. It’s like the Last Ride Together. Dear Theodore!” She laid her hand on his.

“Thank you,” said Gumbril, and kissed it.

The little cab buzzed along down the empty Mall. They were silent. Through the thick air one could see the brightest of the stars. It was one of those evenings when men feel that truth, goodness and beauty are one. In the morning, when they commit their discovery to paper, when others read it written there, it looks wholly ridiculous. It was one of those evenings when love is once more invented for the first time. That, too, seems a little ridiculous, sometimes, in the morning.

“Here are the lights again,” said Mrs. Viveash. “Hop, twitch, flick⁠—yes, genuinely an illusion of jollity, Theodore. Genuinely.”

Gumbril stopped the cab. “It’s after half-past eight,” he said. “At this rate we shall never get anything to eat. Wait a minute.”

He ran into Appenrodt’s, and came back in a moment with a packet of smoked salmon sandwiches, a bottle of white wine and a glass.

“We have a long way to go,” he explained, as he got into the taxi.

They ate their sandwiches, they drank their wine. The taxi drove on and on.

“This is positively exhilarating,” said Mrs. Viveash, as they turned into the Edgware Road.

Polished by the wheels and shining like an old and precious bronze, the road stretched before them, reflecting the lamps. It had the inviting air of a road which goes on forever.

“They used to have such good peepshows in this street,” Gumbril tenderly remembered: “Little back shops where you paid twopence to see the genuine mermaid, which turned out to be a stuffed walrus, and the tattooed lady, and the dwarf, and the living statuary, which one always hoped, as a boy, was really going to be rather naked and thrilling, but which was always the most pathetic of unemployed barmaids, dressed in the thickest of pink Jaeger.”

“Do you think there’d be any of those now?” asked Mrs. Viveash.

Gumbril shook his head. “They’ve moved on with the march of civilization. But where?” He spread out his hands interrogatively. “I don’t know which direction civilization marches⁠—whether north towards Kilburn and Golders Green, or over the river to the Elephant, to Clapham and Sydenham and all those other mysterious places. But, in any case, high rents have marched up here; there are no more genuine mermaids in the Edgware Road. What stories we shall be able to tell our children!”

“Do you think we shall ever have any?” Mrs. Viveash asked.

“One can never tell.”

“I should have thought one could,” said Mrs. Viveash. Children⁠—that would be the most desperate experiment of all. The most desperate, and perhaps the only one having any chance of being successful. History recorded cases.⁠ ⁠… On the other hand, it recorded other cases that proved the opposite. She had often thought of this experiment. There were so many obvious reasons for not making it. But some day, perhaps⁠—she always put it off, like that.

The cab had turned off the main road into quieter and darker