me to.’
There was a brief silence. Morris suddenly wished his last remark unsaid.
‘Oh damn it,’ said Riley very quietly. ‘What does it matter. It’s got to go over. I tell you, if I backed out of this thing now, I’d just hate myself.’
‘I know,’ said Morris.
‘No you don’t. You see’ – he paused, searching for words with which to frame his ideas – ‘I’ve done this sort of thing all my life, motor-bikes and cars and aeroplanes. It’s the only thing I know. I don’t go in for other things much – amusements. This is the only interest I’ve got … I suppose really it’s the only thing I live for. I’ve got nothing else. It works all right – only sometimes one seems to have missed things, somehow.’
‘It doesn’t fill one’s life – this,’ said Morris.
The other smiled. ‘It’s done well enough for me.’
Morris pursued his subject. ‘One ought to go about more, meet more people,’ he said. ‘It’s narrowing this life.’ He glanced at the other. ‘You ought to be married,’ he said gently, ‘a hearty old man like you.’
Riley did not answer for a little. ‘I suppose so,’ he said at last. ‘But I’m not like you or Stenning. I don’t think I’ve ever been in love – really in love, that is. Somehow, I cut away from all my people and took up this racing and flying. One doesn’t regret it. But in this game one doesn’t meet the girls that one would want to marry, the girls that one could run a life with as partners. In some ways, it’s just as well. I’ve got no ties, nobody dependent on me, nobody but myself to think for.’
Morris had simply nothing to say. He was amazed at this outburst that he had provoked, delivered so quietly, in so matter-of-fact a manner. Something showed for themoment behind the man’s reserve, something of a great loneliness.
‘You know when you go to the pictures,’ said Riley steadily, ‘and you see one of those American films where the heroine is one of the most beautiful young things on God’s earth. She’s not really. She’s been divorced two or three times, she probably dopes – you’d hate her if you met her. Well, it’s like that in getting married. I suppose I’ve funked it – I don’t know.… ’
‘The materialisation of an ideal,’ muttered Morris.
The other did not seem to hear, but spat a fragment of tobacco from his lip and went off on another tack.
‘It seems to me that one can manage in different ways about this … love. One can live one’s life to the full, or one can live it wisely. It’s like a band of light – sunlight, you know – that contains every colour there is, all mixed up together. You can take it as it comes. It’s not specially beautiful, but it’s healthy enough – you can have a pretty good time in it. You can get one of those funny things with a crystal – spectroscopes – and split it all up into violet and green and yellow and orange and red. It’s still the same life. You can have a great love and great pain – they go together – or you can have it all mixed up together in a sort of steady dullness, indifference.’
‘One never gets anything worth having without paying for it,’ said Morris. ‘It’s not possible.’
The other glanced at him, smiling a little.
‘That’s so,’ he said. ‘One can take it either way – I took it the dull way. Or, I don’t know that I did really … it just came like that. Somehow, one way or another, one misses the summer of one’s life – it turns out wet and dull. But one gets compensations. One never gets the disappointment of what you thought was going to be a fine day really turning out wet. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, you get a little sort of a St Martin’s summer,a pleasure that you’ve really got no right to expect. That’s how I’ve always felt about this business – I couldn’t get on without this aviation now. Something to help along, something to work for. Other people get that with their
There was a brief silence. Morris suddenly wished his last remark unsaid.
‘Oh damn it,’ said Riley very quietly. ‘What does it matter. It’s got to go over. I tell you, if I backed out of this thing now, I’d just hate myself.’
‘I know,’ said Morris.
‘No you don’t. You see’ – he paused, searching for words with which to frame his ideas – ‘I’ve done this sort of thing all my life, motor-bikes and cars and aeroplanes. It’s the only thing I know. I don’t go in for other things much – amusements. This is the only interest I’ve got … I suppose really it’s the only thing I live for. I’ve got nothing else. It works all right – only sometimes one seems to have missed things, somehow.’
‘It doesn’t fill one’s life – this,’ said Morris.
The other smiled. ‘It’s done well enough for me.’
Morris pursued his subject. ‘One ought to go about more, meet more people,’ he said. ‘It’s narrowing this life.’ He glanced at the other. ‘You ought to be married,’ he said gently, ‘a hearty old man like you.’
Riley did not answer for a little. ‘I suppose so,’ he said at last. ‘But I’m not like you or Stenning. I don’t think I’ve ever been in love – really in love, that is. Somehow, I cut away from all my people and took up this racing and flying. One doesn’t regret it. But in this game one doesn’t meet the girls that one would want to marry, the girls that one could run a life with as partners. In some ways, it’s just as well. I’ve got no ties, nobody dependent on me, nobody but myself to think for.’
Morris had simply nothing to say. He was amazed at this outburst that he had provoked, delivered so quietly, in so matter-of-fact a manner. Something showed for themoment behind the man’s reserve, something of a great loneliness.
‘You know when you go to the pictures,’ said Riley steadily, ‘and you see one of those American films where the heroine is one of the most beautiful young things on God’s earth. She’s not really. She’s been divorced two or three times, she probably dopes – you’d hate her if you met her. Well, it’s like that in getting married. I suppose I’ve funked it – I don’t know.… ’
‘The materialisation of an ideal,’ muttered Morris.
The other did not seem to hear, but spat a fragment of tobacco from his lip and went off on another tack.
‘It seems to me that one can manage in different ways about this … love. One can live one’s life to the full, or one can live it wisely. It’s like a band of light – sunlight, you know – that contains every colour there is, all mixed up together. You can take it as it comes. It’s not specially beautiful, but it’s healthy enough – you can have a pretty good time in it. You can get one of those funny things with a crystal – spectroscopes – and split it all up into violet and green and yellow and orange and red. It’s still the same life. You can have a great love and great pain – they go together – or you can have it all mixed up together in a sort of steady dullness, indifference.’
‘One never gets anything worth having without paying for it,’ said Morris. ‘It’s not possible.’
The other glanced at him, smiling a little.
‘That’s so,’ he said. ‘One can take it either way – I took it the dull way. Or, I don’t know that I did really … it just came like that. Somehow, one way or another, one misses the summer of one’s life – it turns out wet and dull. But one gets compensations. One never gets the disappointment of what you thought was going to be a fine day really turning out wet. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, you get a little sort of a St Martin’s summer,a pleasure that you’ve really got no right to expect. That’s how I’ve always felt about this business – I couldn’t get on without this aviation now. Something to help along, something to work for. Other people get that with their
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