Chapter XVII.

by Aldous Huxley

　　Ivor brought his hands down with a bang on to the final chord ofhis rhapsody. There was just a hint in that triumphant harmonythat the seventh had been struck along with the octave by thethumb of the left hand; but the general effect of splendid noiseemerged clearly enough. Small details matter little so long asthe general effect is good. And, besides, that hint of theseventh was decidedly modern. He turned round in his seat andtossed the hair back out of his eyes."There," he said. "That's the best I can do for you, I'mafraid."Murmurs of applause and gratitude were heard, and Mary, her largechina eyes fixed on the performer, cried out aloud, "Wonderful!"and gasped for new breath as though she were suffocating.Nature and fortune had vied with one another in heaping on IvorLombard all their choicest gifts. He had wealth and he wasperfectly independent. He was good looking, possessed anirresistible charm of manner, and was the hero of more amoroussuccesses than he could well remember. His accomplishments wereextraordinary for their number and variety. He had a beautifuluntrained tenor voice; he could improvise, with a startlingbrilliance, rapidly and loudly, on the piano. He was a goodamateur medium and telepathist, and had a considerable first-handknowledge of the next world. He could write rhymed verses withan extraordinary rapidity. For painting symbolical pictures hehad a dashing style, and if the drawing was sometimes a littleweak, the colour was always pyrotechnical. He excelled inamateur theatricals and, when occasion offered, he could cookwith genius. He resembled Shakespeare in knowing little Latinand less Greek. For a mind like his, education seemedsupererogatory. Training would only have destroyed his naturalaptitudes."Let's go out into the garden," Ivor suggested. "It's awonderful night.""Thank you," said Mr. Scogan, "but I for one prefer these stillmore wonderful arm-chairs." His pipe had begun to bubble oozilyevery time he pulled at it. He was perfectly happy.Henry Wimbush was also happy. He looked for a moment over hispince-nez in Ivor's direction and then, without saying anything,returned to the grimy little sixteenth-century account bookswhich were now his favourite reading. He knew more about SirFerdinando's household expenses than about his own.The outdoor party, enrolled under Ivor's banner, consisted ofAnne, Mary, Denis, and, rather unexpectedly, Jenny. Outside itwas warm and dark; there was no moon. They walked up and downthe terrace, and Ivor sang a Neapolitan song: "Stretti,stretti"--close, close--with something about the little Spanishgirl to follow. The atmosphere began to palpitate. Ivor put hisarm round Anne's waist, dropped his head sideways onto hershoulder, and in that position walked on, singing as he walked.It seemed the easiest, the most natural, thing in the world.Denis wondered why he had never done it. He hated Ivor."Let's go down to the pool," said Ivor. He disengaged hisembrace and turned round to shepherd his little flock. They madetheir way along the side of the house to the entrance of the yew-tree walk that led down to the lower garden. Between the blankprecipitous wall of the house and the tall yew trees the path wasa chasm of impenetrable gloom. Somewhere there were steps downto the right, a gap in the yew hedge. Denis, who headed theparty, groped his way cautiously; in this darkness, one had anirrational fear of yawning precipices, of horrible spikedobstructions. Suddenly from behind him he heard a shrill,startled, "Oh!" and then a sharp, dry concussion that might havebeen the sound of a slap. After that, Jenny's voice was heardpronouncing, "I am going back to the house." Her tone wasdecided, and even as she pronounced the words she was meltingaway into the darkness. The incident, whatever it had been, wasclosed. Denis resumed his forward groping. From somewherebehind Ivor began to sing again, softly:"Phillis plus avare que tendreNe gagnant rien a refuser,Un jour exigea a SilvandreTrente moutons pour un baiser."The melody drooped and climbed again with a kind of easy languor;the warm darkness seemed to pulse like blood about them."Le lendemain, nouvelle affaire:Pour le berger le troc fut bon...""Here are the steps," cried Denis. He guided his companions overthe danger, and in a moment they had the turf of the yew-treewalk under their feet. It was lighter here, or at least it wasjust perceptibly less dark; for the yew walk was wider than thepath that had led them under the lea of the house. Looking up,they could see between the high black hedges a strip of sky and afew stars."Car il obtint de la bergere..."Went on Ivor, and then interrupted himself to shout, "I'm goingto run down," and he was off, full speed, down the invisibleslope, singing unevenly as he went:"Trente baisers pour un mouton."The others followed. Denis shambled in the rear, vainlyexhorting everyone to caution: the slope was steep, one mightbreak one's neck. What was wrong with these people, he wondered?They had become like young kittens after a dose of cat-nip. Hehimself felt a certain kittenishness sporting within him; but itwas, like all his emotions, rather a theoretical feeling; it didnot overmasteringly seek to express itself in a practicaldemonstration of kittenishness."Be careful," he shouted once more, and hardly were the words outof his mouth when, thump! there was the sound of a heavy fall infront of him, followed by the long "F-f-f-f-f" of a breathindrawn with pain and afterwards by a very sincere, "Oo-ooh!"Denis was almost pleased; he had told them so, the idiots, andthey wouldn't listen. He trotted down the slope towards theunseen sufferer.Mary came down the hill like a runaway steam-engine. It wastremendously exciting, this blind rush through the dark; she feltshe would never stop. But the ground grew level beneath her feet,her speed insensibly slackened, and suddenly she was caught by anextended arm and brought to an abrupt halt."Well," said Ivor as he tightened his embrace, "you're caughtnow, Anne."She made an effort to release herself. "It's not Anne. It'sMary."Ivor burst into a peal of amused laughter. "So it is!" heexclaimed. "I seem to be making nothing but floaters thisevening. I've already made one with Jenny." He laughed again,and there was something so jolly about his laughter that Marycould not help laughing too. He did not remove his encirclingarm, and somehow it was all so amusing and natural that Mary madeno further attempt to escape from it. They walked along by theside of the pool, interlaced. Mary was too short for him to beable, with any comfort, to lay his head on her shoulder. Herubbed his cheek, caressed and caressing, against the thick,sleek mass of her hair. In a little while he began to singagain; the night trembled amorously to the sound of his voice.When he had finished he kissed her. Anne or Mary: Mary or Anne.It didn't seem to make much difference which it was. There weredifferences in detail, of course; but the general effect was thesame; and, after all, the general effect was the important thing.Denis made his way down the hill."Any damage done?" he called out."Is that you, Denis? I've hurt my ankle so--and my knee, and myhand. I'm all in pieces.""My poor Anne," he said. "But then," he couldn't help adding,"it was silly to start running downhill in the dark.""Ass!" she retorted in a tone of tearful irritation; "of courseit was."He sat down beside on the grass, and found himself breathing thefaint, delicious atmosphere of perfume that she carried alwayswith her."Light a match," she commanded. "I want to look at my wounds."He felt in his pockets for the match-box. The light spurted andthen grew steady. Magically, a little universe had been created,a world of colours and forms--Anne's face, the shimmering orangeof her dress, her white, bare arms, a patch of green turf--andround about a darkness that had become solid and utterly blind.Anne held out her hands; both were green and earthy with herfall, and the left exhibited two or three red abrasions."Not so bad," she said. But Denis was terribly distressed, andhis emotion was intensified when, looking up at her face, he sawthat the trace of tears, involuntary tears of pain, lingered onher eyelashes. He pulled out his handkerchief and began to wipeaway the dirt from the wounded hand. The match went out; it wasnot worth while to light another. Anne allowed herself to beattended to, meekly and gratefully. "Thank you," she said, whenhe had finished cleaning and bandaging her hand; and there wassomething in her tone that made him feel that she had lost hersuperiority over him, that she was younger than he, had become,suddenly, almost a child. He felt tremendously large andprotective. The feeling was so strong that instinctively he puthis arm about her. She drew closer, leaned against him, and sothey sat in silence. Then, from below, soft but wonderfullyclear through the still darkness, they heard the sound of Ivor'ssinging. He was going on with his half-finished song:"Le lendemain Phillis plus tendre,Ne voulant deplaire au berger,Fut trop heureuse de lui rendreTrente moutons pour un baiser."There was a rather prolonged pause. It was as though time werebeing allowed for the giving and receiving of a few of thosethirty kisses. Then the voice sang on:"Le lendemain Phillis peu sageAurait donne moutons et chienPour un baiser que le volageA Lisette donnait pour rien."The last note died away into an uninterrupted silence."Are you better?" Denis whispered. "Are you comfortable likethis?"She nodded a Yes to both questions."Trente moutons pour un baiser." The sheep, the woolly mutton--baa, baa, baa...? Or the shepherd? Yes, decidedly, he felthimself to be the shepherd now. He was the master, theprotector. A wave of courage swelled through him, warm as wine.He turned his head, and began to kiss her face, at first ratherrandomly, then, with more precision, on the mouth.Anne averted her head; he kissed the ear, the smooth nape thatthis movement presented him. "No," she protested; "no, Denis.""Why not?""It spoils our friendship, and that was so jolly.""Bosh!" said Denis.She tried to explain. "Can't you see," she said, "it isn't...itisn't our stunt at all." It was true. Somehow she had neverthought of Denis in the light of a man who might make love; shehad never so much as conceived the possibilities of an amorousrelationship with him. He was so absurdly young, so...so...shecouldn't find the adjective, but she knew what she meant."Why isn't it our stunt?" asked Denis. "And, by the way, that'sa horrible and inappropriate expression.""Because it isn't.""But if I say it is?""It makes no difference. I say it isn't.""I shall make you say it is.""All right, Denis. But you must do it another time. I must goin and get my ankle into hot water. It's beginning to swell."Reasons of health could not be gainsaid. Denis got upreluctantly, and helped his companion to her feet. She took acautious step. "Ooh!" She halted and leaned heavily on his arm."I'll carry you," Denis offered. He had never tried to carry awoman, but on the cinema it always looked an easy piece ofheroism."You couldn't," said Anne."Of course I can." He felt larger and more protective than ever."Put your arms round my neck," he ordered. She did so and,stooping, he picked her up under the knees and lifted her fromthe ground. Good heavens, what a weight! He took fivestaggering steps up the slope, then almost lost his equilibrium,and had to deposit his burden suddenly, with something of a bump.Anne was shaking with laughter. "I said You couldn't, my poorDenis.""I can," said Denis, without conviction. "I'll try again.""It's perfectly sweet of you to offer, but I'd rather walk,thanks." She laid her hand on his shoulder and, thus supported,began to limp slowly up the hill."My poor Denis!" she repeated, and laughed again. Humiliated, hewas silent. It seemed incredible that, only two minutes ago, heshould have been holding her in his embrace, kissing her.Incredible. She was helpless then, a child. Now she hadregained all her superiority; she was once more the far-offbeing, desired and unassailable. Why had he been such a fool asto suggest that carrying stunt? He reached the house in a stateof the profoundest depression.He helped Anne upstairs, left her in the hands of a maid, andcame down again to the drawing-room. He was surprised to findthem all sitting just where he had left them. He had expectedthat, somehow, everything would be quite different--it seemedsuch a prodigious time since he went away. All silent and alldamned, he reflected, as he looked at them. Mr. Scogan's pipestill wheezed; that was the only sound. Henry Wimbush was stilldeep in his account books; he had just made the discovery thatSir Ferdinando was in the habit of eating oysters the wholesummer through, regardless of the absence of the justifying R.Gombauld, in horn-rimmed spectacles, was reading. Jenny wasmysteriously scribbling in her red notebook. And, seated in herfavourite arm-chair at the corner of the hearth, Priscilla waslooking through a pile of drawings. One by one she held them outat arm's length and, throwing back her mountainous orange head,looked long and attentively through half-closed eyelids. Shewore a pale sea-green dress; on the slope of her mauve-powdereddecolletage diamonds twinkled. An immensely long cigarette-holder projected at an angle from her face. Diamonds wereembedded in her high-piled coiffure; they glittered every timeshe moved. It was a batch of Ivor's drawings--sketches of SpiritLife, made in the course of tranced tours through the otherworld. On the back of each sheet descriptive titles werewritten: "Portrait of an Angel, 15th March '20;" "Astral Beingsat Play, 3rd December '19;" "A Party of Souls on their Way to aHigher Sphere, 21st May '21." Before examining the drawing onthe obverse of each sheet, she turned it over to read the title.Try as she could--and she tried hard--Priscilla had never seen avision or succeeded in establishing any communication with theSpirit World. She had to be content with the reportedexperiences of others."What have you done with the rest of your party?" she asked,looking up as Denis entered the room.He explained. Anne had gone to bed, Ivor and Mary were still inthe garden. He selected a book and a comfortable chair, andtried, as far as the disturbed state of his mind would permithim, to compose himself for an evening's reading. The lamplightwas utterly serene; there was no movement save the stir ofPriscilla among her papers. All silent and all damned, Denisrepeated to himself, all silent and all damned...It was nearly an hour later when Ivor and Mary made theirappearance."We waited to see the moon rise," said Ivor."It was gibbous, you know," Mary explained, very technical andscientific."It was so beautiful down in the garden! The trees, the scent ofthe flowers, the stars..." Ivor waved his arms. "And when themoon came up, it was really too much. It made me burst intotears." He sat down at the piano and opened the lid."There were a great many meteorites," said Mary to anyone whowould listen. "The earth must just be coming into the summershower of them. In July and August..."But Ivor had already begun to strike the keys. He played thegarden, the stars, the scent of flowers, the rising moon. Heeven put in a nightingale that was not there. Mary looked on andlistened with parted lips. The others pursued their occupations,without appearing to be seriously disturbed. On this very Julyday, exactly three hundred and fifty years ago, Sir Ferdinandohad eaten seven dozen oysters. The discovery of this fact gaveHenry Wimbush a peculiar pleasure. He had a natural piety whichmade him delight in the celebration of memorial feasts. Thethree hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the seven dozenoysters...He wished he had known before dinner; he would haveordered champagne.On her way to bed Mary paid a call. The light was out in Anne'sroom, but she was not yet asleep."Why didn't you come down to the garden with us?" Mary asked."I fell down and twisted my ankle. Denis helped me home."Mary was full of sympathy. Inwardly, too, she was relieved tofind Anne's non-appearance so simply accounted for. She had beenvaguely suspicious, down there in the garden--suspicious of what,she hardly knew; but there had seemed to be something a littlelouche in the way she had suddenly found herself alone with Ivor.Not that she minded, of course; far from it. But she didn't likethe idea that perhaps she was the victim of a put-up job."I do hope you'll be better to-morrow," she said, and shecommiserated with Anne on all she had missed--the garden, thestars, the scent of flowers, the meteorites through whose summershower the earth was now passing, the rising moon and itsgibbosity. And then they had had such interesting conversation.What about? About almost everything. Nature, art, science,poetry, the stars, spiritualism, the relations of the sexes,music, religion. Ivor, she thought, had an interesting mind.The two young ladies parted affectionately.