Germany entered upon its dark travail, and accepted that all had been in vain, in 1945 as in 1918. The old battalions now a scatter of brown bones upon the Steppes of Russia, and the sandy plains of North Germany, as once upon the chalk uplands of Somme; melting into the wet, the treeless, the grave-set plain of Flanders. He must write; the only thing left to live for: a dedication known and accepted, even though leading to spoliation and dereliction of life ever since the miracle of that Christmas day in no-man’s land in 1914.
“What are you thinking, my master?”
When he did not answer she felt with her finger-tips the tears upon his cheeks, and a cry of knowledge subdued, and of pain, came from her.
“I know now! You are thinking of Billy, and others like him sacrificed by the old men who have died while living, and grown hard because they could no longer love! And so sent their sons to war! O, I cannot bear to feel you grieving!”
“You have the advantage of me, because you have read my books.”
She sat up and regarded him sharply. “ I have the advantage of you ! O God, I like that! You have haunted me for years, so that at times I have wanted to kill myself! And now you say ‘You have the advantage of me!’ Well take it, take me, beat me, rape me! Anything but this hypocritical gentle-Jesus stuff! I want your very essence, I don’t want your little-boy fears of my body, or your dreams of the boobs women have to carry around like pouter pigeons—for that’s all they are—I want to communicate with you, the true-self you—the free you—”
He was alarmed, for she had reverted to the dark aspect of herself that had repelled him in the past. For now she was not only angry, but her face seemed to have changed, particularly the eyes, which were round and protruding, and the mouth no longergentle and pliant, but a thin line.
And as abruptly as she had reverted, her face became relaxed and gentle, then falling upon him she acted like a man, kissing and biting his neck, covering him like a man, holding his head by a handful of hair while giving little kisses on his lips and cheeks, before going limp upon him, and releasing a profound sigh followed by a murmur of “O, my master, why wasn’t I born a man, and you a woman, to take you now and make you my wife?”
“I hope you feel better Laura!” he said, mildly ironic.
“I do. I’ve restored the balance symbolically, if not bolically, between the sexes.”
“Now may I have the promised eggs and bacon?”
“You may, my master. Then let’s leave my turret room, and go and see the little boats on the Round Pond.”
“Well, for a little while, Laura. Then I must go back to Dorset for my father’s funeral.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, entirely without feeling.
*
Kensington Gardens. Small boys and retired Naval Officers sailing their craft on the Round Pond. Dogs racing over leaf-bestrewn grass. Laura seemed to melt in the mellow sunshine. He told her his plans for The New Horizon, and invited her to help him edit it, and to write for it.
“I’ll live with you and be your love, and we will all the pleasures prove, my Prospero. I’ll be your tidy secretary, sub-editor, reviewer, and general drudge. What fun it will be!”
“You’ll have to go up to London for a week every quarter, and cadge advertisements. The mag. will pay all expenses, and five pounds a week. How’s that?”
“Then may I keep on my room? The rent is thirty shillings a week.”
“Yes, if you can post off the copies from there, and make your selections as well. It can be The New Horizon office! How about it?”
“Yes, my master!”
“There’s just one little thing I should perhaps, tell you—in his last number Christie proposed that the atom bomb be dropped on Moscow.”
“Instead, the bomb fell on the magazine?”
“More or less. Christie gave me the unexpired portions ofannual subscriptions, plus roneograph plates with names and
“What are you thinking, my master?”
When he did not answer she felt with her finger-tips the tears upon his cheeks, and a cry of knowledge subdued, and of pain, came from her.
“I know now! You are thinking of Billy, and others like him sacrificed by the old men who have died while living, and grown hard because they could no longer love! And so sent their sons to war! O, I cannot bear to feel you grieving!”
“You have the advantage of me, because you have read my books.”
She sat up and regarded him sharply. “ I have the advantage of you ! O God, I like that! You have haunted me for years, so that at times I have wanted to kill myself! And now you say ‘You have the advantage of me!’ Well take it, take me, beat me, rape me! Anything but this hypocritical gentle-Jesus stuff! I want your very essence, I don’t want your little-boy fears of my body, or your dreams of the boobs women have to carry around like pouter pigeons—for that’s all they are—I want to communicate with you, the true-self you—the free you—”
He was alarmed, for she had reverted to the dark aspect of herself that had repelled him in the past. For now she was not only angry, but her face seemed to have changed, particularly the eyes, which were round and protruding, and the mouth no longergentle and pliant, but a thin line.
And as abruptly as she had reverted, her face became relaxed and gentle, then falling upon him she acted like a man, kissing and biting his neck, covering him like a man, holding his head by a handful of hair while giving little kisses on his lips and cheeks, before going limp upon him, and releasing a profound sigh followed by a murmur of “O, my master, why wasn’t I born a man, and you a woman, to take you now and make you my wife?”
“I hope you feel better Laura!” he said, mildly ironic.
“I do. I’ve restored the balance symbolically, if not bolically, between the sexes.”
“Now may I have the promised eggs and bacon?”
“You may, my master. Then let’s leave my turret room, and go and see the little boats on the Round Pond.”
“Well, for a little while, Laura. Then I must go back to Dorset for my father’s funeral.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, entirely without feeling.
*
Kensington Gardens. Small boys and retired Naval Officers sailing their craft on the Round Pond. Dogs racing over leaf-bestrewn grass. Laura seemed to melt in the mellow sunshine. He told her his plans for The New Horizon, and invited her to help him edit it, and to write for it.
“I’ll live with you and be your love, and we will all the pleasures prove, my Prospero. I’ll be your tidy secretary, sub-editor, reviewer, and general drudge. What fun it will be!”
“You’ll have to go up to London for a week every quarter, and cadge advertisements. The mag. will pay all expenses, and five pounds a week. How’s that?”
“Then may I keep on my room? The rent is thirty shillings a week.”
“Yes, if you can post off the copies from there, and make your selections as well. It can be The New Horizon office! How about it?”
“Yes, my master!”
“There’s just one little thing I should perhaps, tell you—in his last number Christie proposed that the atom bomb be dropped on Moscow.”
“Instead, the bomb fell on the magazine?”
“More or less. Christie gave me the unexpired portions ofannual subscriptions, plus roneograph plates with names and
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