thread must be tied at both ends before it can restrain anything.
Facetious.
“Hullo, Beatrice! Here we are again!”
When we were sitting at the marble-topped table my plans began to come apart.
“Did you enjoy yourself last night?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Then, out of the unendurable compulsion to know; with heart beat and damp hand with plea and anger——
“What were you doing?”
She was wearing, I remember, a suit, grey, some sort of smoothed flannel with a vertical stripe, alternately green and white. She had a blouse on beneath it with some throat and chest showing. Two fine gold chains fell down the glossy skin and vanished into the treasury. What was there at the end, between the Hesperides? A cross? A locket with a curl of hair? An aquamarine to shake and glimmer there, a perfection secret and unattainable?
“What were you doing?”
The contrast between the formal suit, the masculinity of the lapels, the neatness of the waist—and the soft body that sat in it—don’t you know what you do to me? But there were changes, too, a faint hint of pink now over each cheekbone and under the long lashes a level look. Suddenly the air between us was filled with comprehension—understanding on the small-change level. This was not worded, did not need to be. She knew and I knew; but still I could not keep the fatal word back. It vibrated in my head, was unstoppable as a sneeze, came out with fury and contempt and pain.
“Dancing?”
The hints of pink were definite now. The round chin lifted. The thread stretched and broke.
“Well, really——”
She lifted off the chair, took her books.
“I’m late. I must go.”
“Beatrice!”
I had to run after her as she walked along the pavement. I hung by her, walking sideways.
“I’m sorry. Only I— hate dancing—hate it! And the thought of you——”
We were stopped and half turned to each other.
“ Were you dancing?”
There were three steps up to the front door, curved iron railings descending them on either side. Neither of us had the right vocabulary. She wanted to tell me, that assuming what she sensed was correct then I still had no right to insist on knowing. I wanted to cry—look how I burn! There are flames shooting out of my head and my loins and my heart! She wanted to say: however I may have half unconsciously appraised you as a mate—and of course you seemed impossible, only slightly amended by your recent behaviour—however much I have exercised my normal function of female living and allowed you to approach thus far; nevertheless, the rules of the game should have been observed; whereas you have broken them and affronted my dignity.
So we stood, she on the lower step, I, hand on the rails, red tie blown by my own violence over my right shoulder.
“Beatrice! Were you——?”
She had such clear eyes, such untroubled eyes, grey, honest because the price of dishonesty had never been offered to her. I looked into them, sensed their merciless and remote purity. She was contained in herself. Nothing had ever come to trouble her pool. If I held out my hand, desperate and pleading, inarticulate and hot out of raw youth and all the tides that bundled me along, what could she do but examine it and me and wait and wonder what I wanted?
“Were you?”
Indignation and hauteur; but both scaled down because the thread had been after all so hair-thin and to make much of the offence would imply that I had threatened her freedom.
“Maybe.”
And so she took herself away wonderfully into the house.
How big is a feeling? Where is the dial that registers in degrees? I found my way back across South London, trying to come up out of my mind. I said that there was no need to exaggerate; you are not an adult, I said—there will be far worse things than this. There will be times when you will say—did I ever think I was in love? All that long ago? He was in love. Romeo was. Lear died of a broken heart. But where is the means of comparison?
Facetious.
“Hullo, Beatrice! Here we are again!”
When we were sitting at the marble-topped table my plans began to come apart.
“Did you enjoy yourself last night?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Then, out of the unendurable compulsion to know; with heart beat and damp hand with plea and anger——
“What were you doing?”
She was wearing, I remember, a suit, grey, some sort of smoothed flannel with a vertical stripe, alternately green and white. She had a blouse on beneath it with some throat and chest showing. Two fine gold chains fell down the glossy skin and vanished into the treasury. What was there at the end, between the Hesperides? A cross? A locket with a curl of hair? An aquamarine to shake and glimmer there, a perfection secret and unattainable?
“What were you doing?”
The contrast between the formal suit, the masculinity of the lapels, the neatness of the waist—and the soft body that sat in it—don’t you know what you do to me? But there were changes, too, a faint hint of pink now over each cheekbone and under the long lashes a level look. Suddenly the air between us was filled with comprehension—understanding on the small-change level. This was not worded, did not need to be. She knew and I knew; but still I could not keep the fatal word back. It vibrated in my head, was unstoppable as a sneeze, came out with fury and contempt and pain.
“Dancing?”
The hints of pink were definite now. The round chin lifted. The thread stretched and broke.
“Well, really——”
She lifted off the chair, took her books.
“I’m late. I must go.”
“Beatrice!”
I had to run after her as she walked along the pavement. I hung by her, walking sideways.
“I’m sorry. Only I— hate dancing—hate it! And the thought of you——”
We were stopped and half turned to each other.
“ Were you dancing?”
There were three steps up to the front door, curved iron railings descending them on either side. Neither of us had the right vocabulary. She wanted to tell me, that assuming what she sensed was correct then I still had no right to insist on knowing. I wanted to cry—look how I burn! There are flames shooting out of my head and my loins and my heart! She wanted to say: however I may have half unconsciously appraised you as a mate—and of course you seemed impossible, only slightly amended by your recent behaviour—however much I have exercised my normal function of female living and allowed you to approach thus far; nevertheless, the rules of the game should have been observed; whereas you have broken them and affronted my dignity.
So we stood, she on the lower step, I, hand on the rails, red tie blown by my own violence over my right shoulder.
“Beatrice! Were you——?”
She had such clear eyes, such untroubled eyes, grey, honest because the price of dishonesty had never been offered to her. I looked into them, sensed their merciless and remote purity. She was contained in herself. Nothing had ever come to trouble her pool. If I held out my hand, desperate and pleading, inarticulate and hot out of raw youth and all the tides that bundled me along, what could she do but examine it and me and wait and wonder what I wanted?
“Were you?”
Indignation and hauteur; but both scaled down because the thread had been after all so hair-thin and to make much of the offence would imply that I had threatened her freedom.
“Maybe.”
And so she took herself away wonderfully into the house.
How big is a feeling? Where is the dial that registers in degrees? I found my way back across South London, trying to come up out of my mind. I said that there was no need to exaggerate; you are not an adult, I said—there will be far worse things than this. There will be times when you will say—did I ever think I was in love? All that long ago? He was in love. Romeo was. Lear died of a broken heart. But where is the means of comparison?
Similar Books
