Complete Works of Aldous Huxley, page 386
Crass fool.’ I pressed him ‘Doesn’t she go out more than she used to?’ I asked ‘To dances and that sort of thing? I had heard rumours that she was becoming so social” She may be,’ said Herbert ‘I hadn’t noticed anything in particular.’
It was hopeless I saw that if I wanted to know anything, I should have to use my own eyes and my own judgment. Meanwhile, I wrote to tell her how glad I was to know that she was happy and amusing herself. She replied with a long and very affected essay about ‘pleasures’ After that, the correspondence flagged.
A few months later — I had just returned to London — there was a party at Rodney’s studio, at which I was present Rodney’s latest masterpiece looked down from an easel set up at the end of the long room. It was an amusingly, indecent pastiche of the Douanier Rousseau ‘Wedding,’ the composition was called, and it represented a nuptial party, the bride and bridegroom at the centre, the relatives standing or sitting round them, grouped as though before the camera of a provincial photographer. In the background a draped column, palpably cardboard, a rustic bridge, fir-trees with snow and, in the sky, a large pink dirigible. The only eccentric feature of the picture was that, while the bridegroom and the other gentlemen of the party were duly clothed in black Sunday best, the ladies, except for boots and hats, were naked. The best critics were of opinion that ‘Wedding’ represented the highest flight, up to date, of Rodney’s genius. He was asking four hundred and fifty pounds for it, a few days later, I was told, he actually got them.
Under the stonily fixed regard of the nuptial group Rodney’s guests were diverting themselves. The usual people sat, or stood, or sprawled about, drinking white wine or whisky. Two of the young ladies had come dressed identically in the shirts and black velvet trousers of Gavarm’s débardeurs. Another was smoking a small briar pipe. As I came into the room I heard a young man saying in a loud, truculent voice ‘We’re absolutely modern, we are. Anybody can have my wife, so far as I’m concerned I don’t care. She’s free. And I’m free. That’s what I call modern.’
I could not help wondering why he should call it modern. To me it rather seemed primeval — almost pre-human. — Love, after all, is the new invention, promiscuous lust geologically old-fashioned. The really modern people, I reflected, are the Brownings I shook hands with Rodney ‘Don’t be too contemptuous of our simple London pleasures,’ he said.
I smiled, it amused me to hear on his lips the word with which Grace’s letters had made me so familiar ‘As good as the pleasures of Paris, any day,’ I answered, looking round the room. Through the crowd, I caught sight of Grace.
With an air of being spiritually and physically at home, she was moving from group to group. In Rodney’s rooms, I could see, she was regarded as the hostess. The mistress of the house, in the left-handed sense of the word (A pity, I reflected, that I could not share that little joke with Rodney; he would have enjoyed it so much, about any one else ) In the intervals of conversation I curiously observed her, I compared the Grace before my eyes with the remembered image of Grace as I first knew her. That trick of swaying as she walked — rather as a serpent sways to the piping of the charmer — that was new. So, too, was the carriage of the hands — the left on the hip, the right held breast-high, palm upwards, with a cigarette between the fingers. And when she put the cigarette to her lips, she had a novel way of turning up her face and blowing the smoke almost perpendicularly into the air, which was indescribably dashing and Bohemian Haughty milady had vanished to be replaced by a new kind of aristocrat — the gay, terrible, beyond-good-and-evil variety.
From time to time snatches of her talk came to my ears. Gossip, invariably scandalous, criticisms of the latest exhibitions of pictures, recollections or anticipations of ‘perfect parties’ — these seemed to be the principal topics, all of them, in Grace’s mouth, quite unfamiliar to me. But the face, the vague-featured face of the nice but ugly little girl, the bewildered eyes, the occasional smile, so full of sweetness and a dim benevolence — these were still the same. And when I overheard her airily saying to one of her new friends of I know not what common acquaintance, ‘She’s almost too hospitable — positively keeps open bed, you know,’ I could have burst out laughing, so absurdly incongruous with the face, the eyes, the smile, so palpably borrowed and not her own did the smart words seem.
Meanwhile, at the table, Rodney was doing one of his famous ‘non-stop’ drawings — a figure, a whole scene rendered in a single line, without lifting the pencil from the paper. He was the centre of an admiring group.
‘Isn’t it too enchanting?’
‘Exquisite!’
‘Ravishing!’
The words exploded laughingly all around him.
‘There,’ said Rodney, straightening himself up.
The paper was handed round for general inspection. Incredibly ingenious it was, that drawing, in a single sinuous line, of a fight between a bull and three naked female toreros. Every one applauded, called for more ‘What shall I do next?’ asked Rodney ‘Trick cyclists,’ somebody suggested ‘Stale, stale,’ he objected ‘Self portrait.’
Rodney shook his head ‘Too vain’
‘ Adam and Eve’
‘Or why not Salmon and Gluckstein?’ suggested some one else ‘Or the twelve Apostles’
‘I have it,’ shouted Rodney, waving his pencil ‘king George and Queen Mary’
He bent over his scribbling block, and in a couple of minutes had produced a one-line portrait of the Britannic Majesties. There was a roar of laughter. It was Grace who brought me the paper ‘Isn’t he wonderful?’ she said, looking at me with a kind of eager anxiety, as though she were anxious to have my commendation of her choice, my sacerdotal benediction.
I had only seen her once, for a brief unintimate moment, since my return. We had not mentioned Rodney’s name. But this evening, I saw, she was taking me into her confidence, she was begging me, without words, but none the less eloquently, to tell her that she had done well I don’t exactly know why she should have desired my blessing. She seemed to regard me as a sort of old, grey-haired, avuncular Polonius (Not a very flattering opinion, considering that I was several years younger than Rodney himself) To her, my approval was the approval of embodied wisdom.
‘Isn’t he wonderful?’ she repeated ‘Do you know of any other man now living, except perhaps Picasso, who could improvise a thing like that? For fun — as a game.’
I handed the paper back to her. The day before, as it happened, finding myself in the neighbourhood, I had dropped in on Rodney at his studio. He was drawing when I entered, but, seeing me, had closed his book and come to meet me. While we were talking, the plumber called and Rodney had left the studio to give some instructions on the spot, in the bathroom I got up and strolled about the room, looking at the latest canvases. Perhaps too inquisitively, I opened the notebook in which he had been drawing when I entered. The book was blank but for the first three or four pages. These were covered with ‘non-stop’ drawings I counted seven distinct versions of the bull with the female toreros, and five, a little corrected and improved each time, of King George and Queen Mary I wondered at the time why he should be practising this peculiar kind of art, but feeling no urgent curiosity about the subject, I forgot, when he came back, to ask him. Now I understood.
‘Extraordinary,’ I said to Grace, as I returned her the paper— ‘Really extraordinary!’
Her smile of gratitude and pleasure was so beautiful that I felt quite ashamed of myself for knowing Rodney’s little secret.
Grace and I both lived in Kensington, it was I who drove her home when the party was over ‘Well, that was great fun,’ I said, as we settled into the taxi.
We had driven past a dozen lamp-posts before she spoke.
‘You know, Dick,’ she said, ‘I’m so happy’ She laid her hand on my knee, and for lack of any possible verbal comment, I gently patted it. There was another long silence ‘But why do you despise us all?’ she asked, turning on me suddenly.
‘But when did I ever say I despised you? I protested.
‘Oh, one needn’t say such things. They proclaim themselves.’
I laughed, but more out of embarrassment than because I was amused. ‘A woman’s intuition, what?’ I said facetiously ‘But you’ve really got too much of it, my dear Grace. You intuit things that aren’t there at all’
‘But you despise us all the same.’
‘I don’t. Why should I?’
‘Exactly. Why should you?’
‘Why?’ I repeated.
‘For the sake of what?’ she went on quickly ‘And in comparison with what do you find our ways so despicable? I’ll tell you. For the sake of something impossible and inhuman. And in comparison with something that doesn’t exist. It’s stupid, when there’s real life with all its pleasures.’ That word again — Rodney’s word! It seemed to me that she had a special, almost unctuous tone when she pronounced it ‘So delightful. So rich and varied. But you turn up your nose and find it all vapid and empty. Isn’t it true?’ she insisted.
‘No,’ I answered I could have told her that life doesn’t necessarily mean parties with white wine and whisky, social stunts, fornication and chatter I might have told her, but however studiously I might have generalized, it was obvious that my remarks would be interpreted (quite correctly, indeed) as a set of disparaging personalities. And I didn’t want to quarrel with Grace or offend her. And besides, when all was said, I did go to Rodney’s parties I was an accomplice. The knockabout amused me, I found it hard to deny myself the entertainment. My objection was only theoretical, I did what I denounced I had no right to strike pontifical attitudes and condemn ‘No, of course it isn’t true,’ I repeated Grace sighed ‘Of course, I can’t really expect you to admit it,’ she said ‘But bless you,’ she added with a forced and unnatural gaiety, ‘I don’t mind being despised. When one is rich, one can afford the luxury of being disapproved of. And I am rich, you know. Happiness, pleasures — I’ve got everything. And after all,’ she went on, with a certain argumentative truculence in her voice, ‘I’m a woman. What do I care for your ridiculous masculine standards I do what I like, what amuses me’ The quotation from Rodney rang a little false, I thought. There was a silence.
I wondered what John Peddley thought about it all, or whether any suspicion of what was happening had yet penetrated the horny carapace of his insensitiveness. And as though she were answering my unspoken question, Grace began again with a new seriousness ‘And there’s my other life, parallel. It doesn’t make any difference to that, you know. Doesn’t touch it I like John just as much as I did. And the children, of course.’
There was another long silence. All at once, I hardly know why, I felt profoundly sad. Listening to this young woman talking about her lover, I wished that I too were in love. Even the ‘pleasures’ glittered before my fancy with a new and tempting brilliance. My life seemed empty I found myself thinking of the melody of the Countess’s song in Figaro Dove sono i lei momenti di dolcezza e di placer?
That Grace’s adventure made little or no difference to her other life, I had an opportunity of judging for myself in the course of a subsequent week-end with the Peddleys in Kent John was there—’ in great form,’ as he put it himself, and Grace, and the children, and Grace’s father and mother. Nothing could have been more domestic and less like Rodney’s party, less ‘modern’ Indeed, I should be justified in writing that last word without its inverted commas. For there was something extraordinarily remote and uncontemporary about the whole household. The children were geologically remote in their childishness — only a little beyond the pithecanthropus stage. And Peddley was like a star, separated from the world by the unbridgeable gulfs of his egoism and unawareness. The subjects of his discourse might be contemporary, but spiritually, none the less, he was timeless, an inhabitant of blank and distant space. As for Grace’s parents, they were only a generation away, but, goodness knows, that was far enough. They had opinions about socialism and sexual morality, and gentlemen, and what ought or ought not to be done by the best people — fixed, unalterable, habit-ingrained and by now almost instinctive opinions that made it impossible for them to understand or forgive the contemporary world.
This was especially true of Grace’s mother. She was a big, handsome woman of about fifty-five, with the clear ringing voice of one who has been accustomed all her life to give orders. She busied herself in doing good works and generally keeping the poor in their places. Unlike her husband, who had a touch of Peddley’s star-like remoteness, she was very conscious of contemporaneity and, consequently, very loud and frequent in her denunciations of it.
Grace’s father, who had inherited money, filled his leisure by farming a small estate unprofitably, sitting on committees, and reading Persian, an acquirement of which, in his quiet way, he was very proud. It was a strangely disinterested hobby. He had never been to Persia and had not the slightest intention of ever going. He was quite uninterested in Persian literature or history, and was just as happy reading a Persian cookery book as the works of Hafiz or Rumi. What he liked was the language itself. He enjoyed the process of reading the unfamiliar letters, of looking up the words in the dictionary. For him, Persian was a kind of endlessly complicated Jigsaw puzzle. He studied it solely for the sake of killing time and in order not to think. A dim, hopeless sort of man was Mr Comfrey. And he had an irritating way of looking at you over the top of his spectacles with a puzzled expression, as though he had not understood what you meant, which, indeed, was generally the case. For Mr Comfrey was very slow of mind and made up for his knowledge of Persian by the most extraordinary ignorance of almost all other subjects under the sun ‘Say that again,’ he would say, when his incomprehension was too complete.
How strange, how utterly fantastic it seemed, that week-end I felt as though I had been suddenly lifted out of the contemporary world and plunged into a kind of limbo.
John Peddley’s latest subject was the Einstein theory ‘It’s so simple,’ he assured us the first evening, between the soup and the fish ‘I don’t pretend to be a mathematician or anything like one, but I understand it perfectly. All that it needs is a little common sense’ And for the next half-hour the common sense came braying out, as though from the mouth of a trombone Grace’s father looked at him dubiously over the top of his spectacles.
‘Say that again, will you?’ he said, after every second sentence.
And John Peddley was only too delighted to oblige.
At the other end of the table, Grace and her mother were discussing the children, their clothes, characters, education, diseases I longed to join in their conversation. But the simple domesticities were not for me I was a man, John Peddley and the intellect were my portion. Reluctantly, I turned back towards my host ‘What I’d like you to explain,’ Grace’s father was saying, ’is just exactly how time can be at right angles to length, breadth, and thickness. Where precisely does it come in?’ With two forks and a knife he indicated the three spatial dimensions ‘Where do you find room for another light angle?’
And John Peddley set himself to explain. It was terrible.
Meanwhile, at my other ear, Grace’s mother had begun to talk about the undesirable neighbours who had taken the house next to theirs on Campden Hill. A man and a woman, living together, unmarried. And the garden behind the houses was the common property of all the householders. What a situation! Leaving Peddley and the old gentleman to find room for the fourth right angle, I turned definitively to the ladies. For my benefit, Grace’s mother began the horrid story again from the beginning I was duly sympathetic.
