Eyeless In Gaza (29 page)

‘Busy?' she echoed. ‘But I was only dancing.' And it was as though some ingenuous and unconscious Moses had said to his bedazzled Israelites: ‘I was only talking to Jehovah.' ‘You had no excuse,' she went on. Then quickly, as though a new and curious idea had suddenly occurred to her, ‘Or were you
cross with me for some reason?' she added in another tone.

He began by shaking his head; but felt impelled, on second thoughts, to try to explain a little. ‘Not cross,' he distinguished, ‘just . . . just a bit unsociable.'

The light behind her face seemed to leap up in a quivering rush of intenser flame. Unsociable! That was really too exquisitely funny! The dancing had made her perfect, had transformed earth into heaven. At the idea that one could be (preposterous word!) unsociable, that one could feel anything but an overflowing love for everyone and everything, she could only laugh.

‘You
are
funny, Hugh!'

‘I'm glad you think so.' His tone was offended. He had turned away his head.

The silk of her dress rustled sharply; a little gust of perfume was cool on his cheek – and she was standing only one step above him, very close. ‘You're not hurt because I said you were funny?' she asked.

He lifted his eyes again and found her face on a level with his own. Mollified by that expression of genuine solicitude he shook his head.

‘I didn't mean funny in the horrid way,' she explained. ‘I meant . . . well, you know: nicely funny. Funny, but a darling.'

In threateningly personal circumstances, a well-timed foolery is a sure defence. Smiling, Hugh raised his right hand to his heart. ‘
Je suis pénétré de reconnaissance
,' was what he was going to say by way of acknowledgment for that ‘darling.' The courtly jape, the mock-heroic gesture were his immediate and automatic reaction to her words. ‘
Je suis pénétré
 . . .'

But Helen gave him no time to take cover behind his
dixhuitième
waggery. For she followed up her words by laying her two hands on his shoulders and kissing him on the mouth.

For a moment he was almost annihilated with surprise and confusion and a kind of suffocating, chaotic joy.

Helen drew back a little and looked at him. He had gone very pale – looked as though he had seen a ghost. She smiled – for he was funnier than ever – then bent forward and kissed him again.

The first time she had kissed him, it had been out of the fullness of the life that was in her, because she was made perfect in a perfect world. But his scared face was so absurdly comic that the sight of it somehow transformed this fullness of perfect life into a kind of mischievous wantonness. The second time she kissed him, it was for fun; for fun and, at the same time, out of curiosity. It was an experiment, made in a spirit of hilarious scientific enquiry. She was a vivisector – licensed by perfection, justified by happiness. Besides, Hugh had an extraordinarily nice mouth. She had never kissed such full soft lips before; the experience had been startlingly pleasurable. It was not only that she wanted to see, scientifically, what the absurd creature would do next; she also wanted to feel once more that cool resilience against her mouth, to experience that strange creeping of pleasure that tingled out from her lips and ran, quick and almost unbearable, like moths, along the surface of her body.

‘You were so sweet to take all that trouble,' she said by way of justification for the second kiss. The moths had crept again, deliciously, had settled with an electric tremor of vibrating wings on her breasts. ‘All that trouble about my education.'

But ‘Helen!' was all that he could whisper; and, before he had time to think, he had put his arms about her and kissed her.

His mouth, for the third time; and those hurrying moths along the skin . . . But, oh, how quickly he drew away!

‘Helen!' he repeated.

They looked at one another; and now that he had had the time to think, Hugh found himself all of a sudden horribly embarrassed. His hands dropped furtively from her body. He didn't know what to say to her – or, rather, knew, but
couldn't bring himself to say it. His heart was beating with a painful violence. ‘I love you, I want you,' he was crying, he was positively shouting, from behind his embarrassed silence. But no word was uttered. He smiled at her rather foolishly, and dropped his eyes – the eyes, he now reflected, that must look so hideous, like a fish's eyes, through the thick lenses of his spectacles.

‘How funny he is,' Helen thought. But her scientific laughter had died down. His shyness was infectious. To put an end to the uncomfortable situation, ‘I shall read all those books,' she said. ‘And that reminds me, you must give me the list.'

Grateful to her for supplying him with a subject about which it was possible to talk, he looked up at her again – for a moment only, because of those fish-eyes, goggling. ‘I'll fill in the gaps and send it you,' he said. Then, after a second or two, he realized that in his improvidence he had exhausted the preciously impersonal topic of the books in a single sentence. The silence persisted, distressingly; and at last, in despair, because there was nothing else to say, he decided to say good-night. Trying to charge his voice with an infinity of loving significance, ‘Good-night, Helen,' he said. The words were intended to be as eloquent as a whole speech. But would she hear the eloquence, would she understand the depths of his implied meaning? He bent forward and kissed her again, quickly, very lightly, a kiss of tenderly respectful devotion.

But he had not reckoned with Helen. The embarrassment that had momentarily clouded her wanton perfection had evaporated at the touch of his lips; she was once more the laughing vivisector.

‘Kiss me again, Hugh,' she said. And when he obeyed, she would not let him go; but kept his mouth pressed to hers, second after second . . .

The noises of voices and music became suddenly louder; somebody had opened the drawing-room door.

‘Good-night, Hugh,' she whispered against his lips; then loosed her hold and ran up the stairs two at a time.

Looking after her, as she ran out of the room to say good-night to old Ledwidge, Gerry had smiled to himself complacently. Pink in the face; with shining eyes. As though she'd drunk a bottle of champagne. Absolutely buffy with the dancing. It was fun when they lost their heads like that; lost them so enthusiastically, so ungrudgingly, so completely. Not keeping anything back, but chucking it all out of the window, so to speak. Most girls were so damned avaricious and calculating. They'd only lose half their heads and carefully keep the other half to play the outraged virgin with. Mean little bitches! But with Helen you felt that the engine was all out. She stepped on the gas and didn't care what was in the way. He liked that sort of thing, and liked it not only because he hoped to profit by the lost head, but also disinterestedly, because he couldn't help admiring people who let themselves go and didn't care two hoots about the consequences. There was something fine and generous and spirited about such people. He was like that himself, when he could afford it. Guts: that was what she'd got. And the makings of a temperament, he was thinking with an inward satisfaction, when a touch on his arm from behind him made him suddenly start. His surprise turned almost instantaneously to anger. There was nothing he hated more than to be taken unawares, off his guard. He turned sharply round and, seeing that the person who had touched him was Mary Amberley, tried to readjust his face. Vainly; the hard resentful eyes belied his smile.

But Mary was herself too angry to notice the signs of his annoyance. ‘I want to talk to you, Gerry,' she said in a low voice that she tried to keep level and unemotional, but that trembled in spite of all her efforts.

‘Christ!' he thought; ‘a scene,' and felt angrier than ever
with the tiresome woman. ‘Talk away,' he said aloud; and, with an offensive air of detachment, he took out his cigarette-case, opened and proffered it.

‘Not here,' she said.

Gerry pretended not to understand her. ‘Sorry. I thought you didn't mind people smoking here.'

‘Fool!' Her anger broke out with sudden violence. Then, catching him by the sleeve, ‘Come!' she commanded, and almost dragged him to the door.

Running upstairs, Helen was in time to see her mother and Gerry mounting from the drawing-room landing towards the higher floors of the tall house. ‘I shall have to find somebody else to dance with,' was all she thought; and a moment later she had found little Peter Quinn and was gliding away once more into paradise.

‘Talk of floaters!' said Anthony as their hostess left the room with Gerry Watchett. ‘I didn't realize that Gerry was the present incumbent . . .'

Beppo nodded. ‘Poor Mary!' he sighed.

‘On the contrary,' said Staithes, ‘rich Mary! She'll be poor later.'

‘And nothing can be done about it?' asked Anthony.

‘She'd hate you if you tried.'

Anthony shook his head. ‘These dismal compulsions! Like cuckoos in August. Like stags in October.'

‘She showed symptoms of having a compulsion about me,' said Staithes. ‘Just after I first met her, it was. But I soon cured her of that. And then that ruffian Watchett turned up.'

‘Fascinating, the way these aristocrats can behave!' Anthony's tone was one of scientific enthusiasm.

Staithes's flayed face twisted itself into a grimace of contempt. ‘Just a coarse, vulgar gangster,' he said. ‘How on earth you ever put up with him at Oxford, I simply cannot
imagine.' In fact, of course, he was busily imagining that Anthony had done it out of mere ignoble toadyism.

‘Just snobbery,' said Anthony, depriving the other of half his pleasure by the easy confession. ‘But, then, I insist, people like Gerry are an essential part of any liberal education. There was something really rather magnificent about him when he was rich. A certain detached and disinterested recklessness. Now . . .' He raised his hand and let it fall again. ‘Just a gangster – you're quite right. But that's the fascinating thing – the ease with which aristocrats turn into gangsters. Very comprehensible, when you come to think of it. Here's a man brought up to believe that he had a divine right to the best of everything. And so long as he gets his rights it's all
noblesse oblige
and honour and all the rest of it. Inextricably mixed up with insolence, of course; but genuinely there. Now, take away his income; the oddest things are liable to happen. Providence intended you to have the best of everything; therefore intended you to have the means for procuring the best of everything; therefore, when the means don't come to you legitimately, justifies you in getting them illegitimately. In the past, our Gerry could have gone in for banditry or simony. He'd have made an admirable condottiere, an almost perfect cardinal. But nowadays the Church and the army are too respectable, too professional. They've no place for amateurs. The impoverished nobleman finds himself driven into business. Selling cars. Touting stocks and shares. Promoting dubious companies. To the accompaniment, of course, if he's presentable, of a judicious prostitution of his body. If he has the luck to be born with a gift of the gab, he can make a good living out of the politer forms of blackmail and sycophancy – as a gossip writer.
Noblesse oblige;
but so does poverty. And when they both oblige simultaneously – well, we of the middle classes had better start counting the silver. Instead of which . . .' He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Poor Mary!'

Upstairs, in the bedroom, the torrent of Mary's reproaches and abuse streamed on, unceasingly. Gerry did not even look at her. Averted, he seemed absorbed in the contemplation of the Pascin hanging over the mantelpiece. The painting showed two women lying foreshortened on a bed, naked.

‘I like this picture,' he said with deliberate irrelevance, when Mrs Amberley had paused for breath. ‘You can see that the man who painted it had just finished making love to those girls. Both of them. At the same time,' he added.

Mary Amberley went very pale; her lips trembled, her nostrils fluttered as though with a separate and uncontrollable life of their own.

‘You haven't even been listening to me,' she cried. ‘Oh, you're awful, you're horrible!' The torrent began to flow again, more vehemently than ever.

Still turning his back to her, Gerry went on looking at the Pascin nudes; then at last, blowing out a final cloud of tobacco-smoke, he threw the stump of his cigarette into the fireplace and turned round.

‘When you've quite done,' he said in a tired voice, ‘we may as well go to bed.' And after a little pause, while, unable to speak, she glared furiously in his face, ‘Seeing that that's what you really want,' he added, and, smiling ironically, advanced across the room towards her. When he was quite near her, he halted and held out his hands invitingly. They were large hands, immaculately kept, but coarse, insensitive, brutal. ‘Hideous hands,' Mary thought as she looked at them, ‘odious hands!' All the more odious now, because it was by their very ugliness and brutality that she had first been attracted, was even at this very moment being attracted, shamefully, in spite of all the reasons she had for hating him. ‘Well, aren't you coming?' he asked in the same bored, derisive tone.

For answer, she hit out at his face. But he was too quick for
her, caught the flying hand in mid-air and, when she tried to bring the other into play, caught that too. She was helpless in his grasp.

Still smiling down at her, and without a word, he pushed her backwards, step by step, towards the bed.

‘Beast!' she kept repeating, ‘beast!' and struggled, vainly, and found obscure pleasure in her helplessness. He pushed her against the end of the low divan, further and further, inexorably, and at last she lost her balance and fell back across the counterpane – (fell back, while, with one knee on the edge of the bed, he bent over her, still smiling the same derisive smile). ‘Beast, beast!' But in fact, as she secretly admitted to herself – and the consciousness was intoxicating in its shamefulness – in fact, she really
wanted
to be treated as he was treating her – like a prostitute, like an animal; and in her own house, what was more, with her guests all waiting for her, and the door unlocked, and her daughters wondering where she was, perhaps at this very moment coming up the stairs to look for her. Yes, she really wanted it. Still struggling, she gave herself up to the knowledge, to the direct physical intuition that this intolerable degradation was the accomplishment of an old desire, was a revelation marvellous as well as horrible, was the Apocalypse, the whole Apocalypse at once, angel and beast, plague, lamb and whore in a single divine, revolting, overwhelming experience . . .