The Dark Labyrinth

The Dark Labyrinth by Lawrence Durrell Page B

Book: The Dark Labyrinth by Lawrence Durrell Read Free Book Online
Authors: Lawrence Durrell
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“Another candidate for your clinic,” he said. “No doubt,” said Hogarth softly, “no doubt.” He stood back and admired the powerful landscape which has since become famous—Campion’s Tree Near Arles . “But so long as he can keep spitting it out in pictures he’s all right,” he added. He made no comment on Alice’s picture.
    Walking across Oxford Street Baird said: “All English women kiss with their mouths shut. Now if your psychological axiom is true …”
    â€œWhat axiom?”
    â€œThe identification of the mouth with the more intimate organism—then you have a thesis.…”
    â€œWhat thesis?”
    â€œWell, it explains the abnormal sexual emphasis of the English male in his dress—old school tie, bowler-hats, large pipes—like yours, Hogarth, if I may say so—and amnion-like tobacco-pouches.”
    â€œYoung man,” said Hogarth, “it is extremely unkind of you to wing your analyst like that. According to the text-books I must represent God to you—I must be above criticism.”
    â€œWell, I feel neither here nor there as regards God. I let you represent my father, however. If he had given me half the advice you have I’d be a more thawed-out character. Anyway, Hogarth, you’ve made a mess of the analysis by letting me become your friend. I see you in a context now. As a father, for example, you are charming and touching.”
    Hogarth suddenly blushed scarlet. Baird was recalling that every Wednesday they had lunch together, after which Hogarth would allow him to keep him company to Balham where he lived with an only son and a middle-aged housekeeper. Together they lunched, and afterwards walked in the park each holding a small grubby hand. Hogarth was at his most endearing when he was with the child; all through the winter they would visit the shabby little park with its nude trees and crisp brown water—its three dejected ducks gabbling at their own reflections. Hogarth’s son was nine and full of enthusiasm for the toy boat his father had made for him. It was a brave little cutter which bore the legend Europa upon its smart white breast. Hogarth himself was fascinated by the technique of sailing, and was hardly less eager than the boy to propose new ways of setting the sail, or a new run across the pond. Baird could see him now, down on one knee at the concrete margin, watching the little ship flutter and heel through the circles of still water under the willow-tree, or turn over on its side and run from one corner to the other of the pond without a fault.
    â€œFather, it’s not set properly.”
    â€œYes it is: be patient.”
    In an ecstasy of apprehension they watch it come into the wind and hang trembling. Hogarth is making ludicrous gestures at the boat, as if trying to coax it towards them. His pipe goes so hard that the dottle gleams red. His trousers are baggy and dusty at the knee. From time to time his son slips an absent hand into his vast pockets in search of boiled sweet to suck. It is a moment of intense excitement, for the little craft has turned over on its side and threatens to sink. Hogarth and the boy squat down and begin to paddle the water with their hands in the hope of creating concentric ripples which will draw it within reach. Hogarth groans. Their attempts are useless it seems. The boy starts to take off his shoes, but his father, fearful of letting him get his feet wet, lumbers into the pond, shoes and all, and skids uncouthly out to where the boat lies, flapping hard. He comes ashore laughing and cursing at the same time. Mrs. Gregory is going to scold him again for his wet feet.
    â€œThat’s the third salvage he’s done this month,” says the boy, shaking the water from the flapping canvas of the Europa .
    Afterwards, walking home to tea, their noses and fingers burned blue with cold, the father and son wrangle interminably about the

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