Those Barren Leaves, Aldous Huxley [best ereader for textbooks .txt] 📗

“Gosh!” said Lord Hovenden expressively, as they slid with locked wheels down a high street that had been planned for pack-asses and mules. From pedimented windows between the pilasters of the palaces, curious faces peered out at them. They tobogganed down, through the high renaissance, out of an arch of the Middle Ages, into the dateless and eternal fields. From Montepulciano they descended on to Lake Trasimene.

“Wasn’t there a battle here, or something?” asked Irene, when she saw the name on the map.

Lord Hovenden seemed to remember that there had indeed been something of the kind in this neighbourhood. “But it doesn’t make much difference, does it?”

Irene nodded; it certainly didn’t seem to make much difference.

“Nofing makes any difference,” said Lord Hovenden, making himself heard with difficulty in the teeth of a wind which his speedometer registered as blowing at forty-five miles an hour. “Except”⁠—the wind made him bold⁠—“except you.” And he added hastily, in case Irene might try to be severe. “Such a bore going downhill on a twiddly road like vis. One can’t risk ve slightest speed.”

But when they turned into the flat highway along the western shore of the lake, his face brightened. “Vis is more like it,” he said. The wind in their faces increased from a capful to half a gale, from half a gale to a full gale, from a full gale very nearly to a hurricane. Lord Hovenden’s spirits rose with the mounting speed. His lips curved themselves into a smile of fixed and permanent rapture. Behind the glass of his goggles his eyes were very bright. “Pretty good going,” he said.

“Pretty good,” echoed Irene. Under her mask, she too was smiling. Between her ears and the flaps of her leather cap the wind made a glorious roaring. She was happy.

The road swung round to the left following the southern shore of the lake.

“We shall soon be at Perugia,” said Hovenden regretfully. “What a bore!”

And Irene, though she said nothing, inwardly agreed with him.

They rushed on, the gale blew steadily in their faces. The road forked; Lord Hovenden turned the nose of his machine along the leftward branch. They lost sight of the blue water.

“Goodbye, Trasimene,” said Irene regretfully. It was a lovely lake; she wished she could remember what had happened there.

The road began to climb and twist; the wind abated to a mere half-gale. From the top of the hill, Irene was surprised to see the blue waters, which she had just taken leave of forever, sparkling two or three hundred feet below on the left. At the joyous sight Miss Elver clapped her hands and shouted.

“Hullo,” Irene said, surprised. “That’s odd, isn’t it?”

“Taken ve wrong road,” Hovenden explained. “We’re going norf again up ve east side of ve lake. We’ll go right round. It’s too much bore to stop and turn.”

They rushed on. For a long time neither of them spoke. Behind them Miss Elver hooted her greetings to every living creature on the road.

They were filled with happiness and joy; they would have liked to go on like this forever. They rushed on. On the north shore of the lake the road straightened itself out and became flat again. The wind freshened. Far off on their respective hills Cortona and Montepulciano moved slowly, as they rushed along, like fixed stars. And now they were on the west shore once more. Perched on its jutting peninsula Castiglione del Lago reflected itself complacently in the water. “Pretty good,” shouted Lord Hovenden in the teeth of the hurricane. “By the way,” he added, “wasn’t it Hannibal or somebody who had a battle here? Wiv elephants, or somefing.”

“Perhaps it was,” said Irene.

“Not vat it matters in ve least.”

“Not in the least.” She laughed under her mask.

Hovenden laughed too. He was happy, he was joyful, he was daring.

“Would you marry me if I asked you?” he said. The question followed naturally and by a kind of logic from what they had been saying about Hannibal and his elephants. He did not look at her as he asked the question; when one is doing sixty-seven one must keep one’s eyes on the road.

“Don’t talk nonsense,” said Irene.

“I’m not talking nonsense,” Lord Hovenden protested. “I’m asking a straightforward question. Would you marry me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know,” said Irene.

They had passed Castiglione. The fixed stars of Montepulciano and Cortona had set behind them.

“Don’t you like me?” shouted Lord Hovenden. The wind had swelled into a hurricane.

“You know I do.”

“Ven why not?”

“Because, because⁠ ⁠… Oh, I don’t know. I wish you’d stop talking about it.”

The machine rushed on. Once more they were running along the southern shore. A hundred yards before the forking of the roads, Lord Hovenden broke silence. “Will you marry me?” he asked.

“No,” said Irene.

Lord Hovenden turned the nose of his machine to the left. The road climbed and twisted, the wind of their speed abated.

“Stop,” said Irene. “You’ve taken the wrong turn again.”

But Hovenden did not stop. Instead, he pressed down the accelerator. If the car got round the corners it was more by a miracle than in obedience to the laws of Newton or of nature.

“Stop!” cried Irene again. But the car went on.

From the hilltop they looked down once more upon the lake.

“Will you marry me?” Lord Hovenden asked again. His eyes were fixed on the road in front of him. Rapturously, triumphantly he smiled. He had never felt happier, never more daring, more overflowing with strength and power. “Will you marry me?”

“No,” said Irene. She felt annoyed; how stupidly he was behaving!

They were silent for several minutes. At Castiglione del Lago he asked again. Irene repeated her answer.

“You’re not going to do this clown’s trick again, are you?” she asked as they approached the bifurcation of the roads.

“It depends if you’re going to marry me,” he answered. This time he laughed aloud; so infectiously that Irene, whose irritation was something laid on superficially over her happiness, could not help laughing too. “Are you going to?” he asked.

“No.”

Lord Hovenden turned to the left.