Герберт Джордж Уэллс
The New Machiavelli
4
Then suddenly Isabel and I found ourselves passionately in love.
The change came so entirely without warning or intention that I find it impossible now to tell the order of its phases. What disturbed pebble started the avalanche I cannot trace. Perhaps it was simply that the barriers between us and this masked aspect of life had been wearing down unperceived.
And there came a change in Isabel. It was like some change in the cycle of nature, like the onset of spring – a sharp brightness, an uneasiness. She became restless with her work; little encounters with men began to happen, encounters not quite in the quality of the earlier proposals; and then came an odd incident of which she told me, but somehow, I felt, didn’t tell me completely. She told me all she was able to tell me. She had been at a dance at the Ropers’, and a man, rather well known in London, had kissed her. The thing amazed her beyond measure. It was the sort of thing immediately possible between any man and any woman, that one never expects to happen until it happens. It had the surprising effect of a judge generally known to be bald suddenly whipping off his wig in court. No absolutely unexpected revelation could have quite the same quality of shock. She went through the whole thing to me with a remarkable detachment, told me how she had felt – and the odd things it seemed to open to her.
“I WANT to be kissed, and all that sort of thing,” she avowed. “I suppose every woman does.”
She added after a pause: “And I don’t want any one to do it.”
This struck me as queerly expressive of the woman’s attitude to these things. “Some one presently will – solve that,” I said.
“Some one will perhaps.”
I was silent.
“Some one will,” she said, almost viciously. “And then we’ll have to stop these walks and talks of ours, dear Master… I’ll be sorry to give them up.”
“It’s part of the requirements of the situation,” I said, “that he should be – oh, very interesting! He’ll start, no doubt, all sorts of new topics, and open no end of attractive vistas… You can’t, you know, always go about in a state of pupillage.”
“I don’t think I can,” said Isabel. “But it’s only just recently I’ve begun to doubt about it.”
I remember these things being said, but just how much we saw and understood, and just how far we were really keeping opaque to each other then, I cannot remember. But it must have been quite soon after this that we spent nearly a whole day together at Kew Gardens, with the curtains up and the barriers down, and the thing that had happened plain before our eyes. I don’t remember we ever made any declaration. We just assumed the new footing…
It was a day early in that year – I think in January, because there was thin, crisp snow on the grass, and we noted that only two other people had been to the Pagoda that day. I’ve a curious impression of greenish colour, hot, moist air and huge palm fronds about very much of our talk, as though we were nearly all the time in the Tropical House. But I also remember very vividly looking at certain orange and red spray-like flowers from Patagonia, which could not have been there. It is a curious thing that I do not remember we made any profession of passionate love for one another; we talked as though the fact of our intense love for each other had always been patent between us. There was so long and frank an intimacy between us that we talked far more like brother and sister or husband and wife than two people engaged in the war of the sexes. We wanted to know what we were going to do, and whatever we did we meant to do in the most perfect concert. We both felt an extraordinary accession of friendship and tenderness then, and, what again is curious, very little passion. But there was also, in spite of the perplexities we faced, an immense satisfaction about that day. It was as if we had taken off something that had hindered our view of each other, like people who unvizored to talk more easily at a masked ball.
I’ve had since to view our relations from the standpoint of the ordinary observer. I find that vision in the most preposterous contrast with all that really went on between us. I suppose there I should figure as a wicked seducer, while an unprotected girl succumbed to my fascinations. As a matter of fact, it didn’t occur to us that there was any personal inequality between us. I knew her for my equal mentally; in so many things she was beyond comparison cleverer than I; her courage outwent mine. The quick leap of her mind evoked a flash of joy in mine like the response of an induction wire; her way of thinking was like watching sunlight reflected from little waves upon the side of a boat, it was so bright, so mobile, so variously and easily true to its law. In the back of our minds we both had a very definite belief that making love is full of joyous, splendid, tender, and exciting possibilities, and we had to discuss why we shouldn’t be to the last degree lovers.
Now, what I should like to print here, if it were possible, in all the screaming emphasis of red ink, is this: that the circumstances of my upbringing and the circumstances of Isabel’s upbringing had left not a shadow of belief or feeling that the utmost passionate love between us was in itself intrinsically WRONG. I’ve told with the fullest particularity just all that I was taught or found out for myself in these matters, and Isabel’s reading and thinking, and the fierce silences of her governesses and the breathless warnings of teachers, and all the social and religious influences that had been brought to bear upon her, had worked out to the same void of conviction. The code had failed with us altogether. We didn’t for a moment consider anything but the expediency of what we both, for all our quiet faces and steady eyes, wanted most passionately to do.
Well, here you have the state of mind of whole brigades of people, and particularly of young people, nowadays. The current morality hasn’t gripped them; they don’t really believe in it at all. They may render it lip-service, but that is quite another thing. There are scarcely any tolerable novels to justify its prohibitions; its prohibitions do, in fact, remain unjustified amongst these ugly suppressions. You may, if you choose, silence the admission of this in literature and current discussion; you will not prevent it working out in lives. People come up to the great moments of passion crudely unaware, astoundingly unprepared as no really civilised and intelligently planned community would let any one be unprepared. They find themselves hedged about with customs that have no organic hold upon them, and mere discretions all generous spirits are disposed to despise.
Consider the infinite absurdities of it! Multitudes of us are trying to run this complex modern community on a basis of “Hush” without explaining to our children or discussing with them anything about love and marriage at all. Doubt and knowledge creep about in enforced darknesses and silences. We are living upon an ancient tradition which everybody doubts and nobody has ever analysed. We affect a tremendous and cultivated shyness and delicacy about imperatives of the most arbitrary appearance. What ensues? What did ensue with us, for example? On the one hand was a great desire, robbed of any appearance of shame and grossness by the power of love, and on the other hand, the possible jealousy of so and so, the disapproval of so and so, material risks and dangers. It is only in the retrospect that we have been able to grasp something of the effectual case against us. The social prohibition lit by the intense glow of our passion, presented itself as preposterous, irrational, arbitrary, and ugly, a monster fit only for mockery. We might be ruined! Well, there is a phase in every love affair, a sort of heroic hysteria, when death and ruin are agreeable additions to the prospect. It gives the business a gravity, a solemnity. Timid people may hesitate and draw back with a vague instinctive terror of the immensity of the oppositions they challenge, but neither Isabel nor I are timid people.
We weighed what was against us. We decided just exactly as scores of thousands of people have decided in this very matter, that if it were possible to keep this thing to ourselves, there was nothing against it. And so we took our first step. With the hunger of love in us, it was easy to conclude we might be lovers, and still keep everything to ourselves. That cleared our minds of the one persistent obstacle that mattered to us – the haunting presence of Margaret.
And then we found, as all those scores of thousands of people scattered about us have found, that we could not keep it to ourselves. Love will out. All the rest of this story is the chronicle of that. Love with sustained secrecy cannot be love. It is just exactly the point people do not understand.
5
But before things came to that pass, some months and many phases and a sudden journey to America intervened.
“This thing spells disaster,” I said. “You are too big and I am too big to attempt this secrecy. Think of the intolerable possibility of being found out! At any cost we have to stop – even at the cost of parting.”
“Just because we may be found out!”
“Just because we may be found out.”
“Master, I shouldn’t in the least mind being found out with you. I’m afraid – I’d be proud.”
“Wait till it happens.”
There followed a struggle of immense insincerity between us. It is hard to tell who urged and who resisted.
She came to me one night to the editorial room of the BLUE WEEKLY, and argued and kissed me with wet salt lips, and wept in my arms; she told me that now passionate longing for me and my intimate life possessed her, so that she could not work, could not think, could not endure other people for the love of me…
I fled absurdly. That is the secret of the futile journey to America that puzzled all my friends.
I ran away from Isabel. I took hold of the situation with all my strength, put in Britten with sketchy, hasty instructions to edit the paper, and started headlong and with luggage, from which, among other things, my shaving things were omitted, upon a tour round the world.
Preposterous flight that was! I remember as a thing almost farcical my explanations to Margaret, and how frantically anxious I was to prevent the remote possibility of her coming with me, and how I crossed in the TUSCAN, a bad, wet boat, and mixed seasickness with ungovernable sorrow. I wept – tears. It was inexpressibly queer and ridiculous – and, good God! how I hated my fellow-passengers!
New York inflamed and excited me for a time, and when things slackened, I whirled westward to Chicago – eating and drinking, I remember, in the train from shoals of little dishes, with a sort of desperate voracity. I did the queerest things to distract myself – no novelist would dare to invent my mental and emotional muddle. Chicago also held me at first, amazing lapse from civilisation that the place is! and then abruptly, with hosts expecting me, and everything settled for some days in Denver, I found myself at the end of my renunciations, and turned and came back headlong to London.
Let me confess it wasn’t any sense of perfect and incurable trust and confidence that brought me back, or any idea that now I had strength to refrain. It was a sudden realisation that after all the separation might succeed; some careless phrasing in one of her jealously read letters set that idea going in my mind – the haunting perception that I might return to London and find it empty of the Isabel who had pervaded it. Honour, discretion, the careers of both of us, became nothing at the thought. I couldn’t conceive my life resuming there without Isabel. I couldn’t, in short, stand it.
I don’t even excuse my return. It is inexcusable. I ought to have kept upon my way westward – and held out. I couldn’t. I wanted Isabel, and I wanted her so badly now that everything else in the world was phantom-like until that want was satisfied. Perhaps you have never wanted anything like that. I went straight to her.
But here I come to untellable things. There is no describing the reality of love. The shapes of things are nothing, the actual happenings are nothing, except that somehow there falls a light upon them and a wonder. Of how we met, and the thrill of the adventure, the curious bright sense of defiance, the joy of having dared, I can’t tell – I can but hint of just one aspect, of what an amazing LARK – it’s the only word – it seemed to us. The beauty which was the essence of it, which justifies it so far as it will bear justification, eludes statement.
What can a record of contrived meetings, of sundering difficulties evaded and overcome, signify here? Or what can it convey to say that one looked deep into two dear, steadfast eyes, or felt a heart throb and beat, or gripped soft hair softly in a trembling hand? Robbed of encompassing love, these things are of no more value than the taste of good wine or the sight of good pictures, or the hearing of music, – just sensuality and no more. No one can tell love – we can only tell the gross facts of love and its consequences. Given love – given mutuality, and one has effected a supreme synthesis and come to a new level of life – but only those who know can know. This business has brought me more bitterness and sorrow than I had ever expected to bear, but even now I will not say that I regret that wilful home-coming altogether. We loved – to the uttermost. Neither of us could have loved any one else as we did and do love one another. It was ours, that beauty; it existed only between us when we were close together, for no one in the world ever to know save ourselves.
My return to the office sticks out in my memory with an extreme vividness, because of the wild eagle of pride that screamed within me. It was Tuesday morning, and though not a soul in London knew of it yet except Isabel, I had been back in England a week. I came in upon Britten and stood in the doorway.
“GOD!” he said at the sight of me.
“I’m back,” I said.
He looked at my excited face with those red-brown eyes of his. Silently I defied him to speak his mind.
“Where did you turn back?” he said at last.
6
I had to tell what were, so far as I can remember my first positive lies to Margaret in explaining that return. I had written to her from Chicago and again from New York, saying that I felt I ought to be on the spot in England for the new session, and that I was coming back – presently. I concealed the name of my boat from her, and made a calculated prevarication when I announced my presence in London. I telephoned before I went back for my rooms to be prepared. She was, I knew, with the Bunting Harblows in Durham, and when she came back to Radnor Square I had been at home a day.
I remember her return so well.
My going away and the vivid secret of the present had wiped out from my mind much of our long estrangement. Something, too, had changed in her. I had had some hint of it in her letters, but now I saw it plainly. I came out of my study upon the landing when I heard the turmoil of her arrival below, and she came upstairs with a quickened gladness. It was a cold March, and she was dressed in unfamiliar dark furs that suited her extremely and reinforced the delicate flush of her sweet face. She held out both her hands to me, and drew me to her unhesitatingly and kissed me.
“So glad you are back, dear,” she said. “Oh! so very glad you are back.”
I returned her kiss with a queer feeling at my heart, too undifferentiated to be even a definite sense of guilt or meanness. I think it was chiefly amazement – at the universe – at myself.
“I never knew what it was to be away from you,” she said.
I perceived suddenly that she had resolved to end our estrangement. She put herself so that my arm came caressingly about her.
“These are jolly furs,” I said.
“I got them for you.”
The parlourmaid appeared below dealing with the maid and the luggage cab.
“Tell me all about America,” said Margaret. “I feel as though you’d been away six year’s.”
We went arm in arm into our little sitting-room, and I took off the fur’s for her and sat down upon the chintz-covered sofa by the fire. She had ordered tea, and came and sat by me. I don’t know what I had expected, but of all things I had certainly not expected this sudden abolition of our distances.
“I want to know all about America,” she repeated, with her eyes scrutinising me. “Why did you come back?”
I repeated the substance of my letters rather lamely, and she sat listening.
“But why did you turn back – without going to Denver?”
“I wanted to come back. I was restless.”
“Restlessness,” she said, and thought. “You were restless in Venice. You said it was restlessness took you to America.”
Again she studied me. She turned a little awkwardly to her tea things, and poured needless water from the silver kettle into the teapot. Then she sat still for some moments looking at the equipage with expressionless eyes. I saw her hand upon the edge of the table tremble slightly. I watched her closely. A vague uneasiness possessed me. What might she not know or guess?
She spoke at last with an effort. “I wish you were in Parliament again,” she said. “Life doesn’t give you events enough.”
“If I was in Parliament again, I should be on the Conservative side.”
“I know,” she said, and was still more thoughtful.
“Lately,” she began, and paused. “Lately I’ve been reading – you.”
I didn’t help her out with what she had to say. I waited.
“I didn’t understand what you were after. I had misjudged. I didn’t know. I think perhaps I was rather stupid.” Her eyes were suddenly shining with tears. “You didn’t give me much chance to understand.”
She turned upon me suddenly with a voice full of tears.
“Husband,” she said abruptly, holding her two hands out to me, “I want to begin over again!”
I took her hands, perplexed beyond measure. “My dear!” I said.
“I want to begin over again.”
I bowed my head to hide my face, and found her hand in mine and kissed it.
“Ah!” she said, and slowly withdrew her hand. She leant forward with her arm on the sofa-back, and looked very intently into my face. I felt the most damnable scoundrel in the world as I returned her gaze. The thought of Isabel’s darkly shining eyes seemed like a physical presence between us…
“Tell me,” I said presently, to break the intolerable tension, “tell me plainly what you mean by this.”
I sat a little away from her, and then took my teacup in hand, with an odd effect of defending myself. “Have you been reading that old book of mine?” I asked.
“That and the paper. I took a complete set from the beginning down to Durham with me. I have read it over, thought it over. I didn’t understand – what you were teaching.”
There was a little pause.
“It all seems so plain to me now,” she said, “and so true.”
I was profoundly disconcerted. I put down my teacup, stood up in the middle of the hearthrug, and began talking. “I’m tremendously glad, Margaret, that you’ve come to see I’m not altogether perverse,” I began. I launched out into a rather trite and windy exposition of my views, and she sat close to me on the sofa, looking up into my face, hanging on my words, a deliberate and invincible convert.
“Yes,” she said, “yes.”…
I had never doubted my new conceptions before; now I doubted them profoundly. But I went on talking. It’s the grim irony in the lives of all politicians, writers, public teachers, that once the audience is at their feet, a new loyalty has gripped them. It isn’t their business to admit doubt and imperfections. They have to go on talking. And I was now so accustomed to Isabel’s vivid interruptions, qualifications, restatements, and confirmations…
Margaret and I dined together at home. She made me open out my political projects to her. “I have been foolish,” she said. “I want to help.”
And by some excuse I have forgotten she made me come to her room. I think it was some book I had to take her, some American book I had brought back with me, and mentioned in our talk. I walked in with it, and put it down on the table and turned to go.
“Husband!” she cried, and held out her slender arms to me. I was compelled to go to her and kiss her, and she twined them softly about my neck and drew me to her and kissed me. I disentangled them very gently, and took each wrist and kissed it, and the backs of her hands.
“Good-night,” I said. There came a little pause. “Good-night, Margaret,” I repeated, and walked very deliberately and with a kind of sham preoccupation to the door.
I did not look at her, but I could feel her standing, watching me. If I had looked up, she would, I knew, have held out her arms to me…
At the very outset that secret, which was to touch no one but Isabel and myself, had reached out to stab another human being.
