Autumn came and with it the first rain — millions of silver needles bounding from the rocks and concavities around them. They worked on in a peasant frenzy of determination not to let the rain steal their barley, or to let the old woman find them inferior to herself in the tasks of existence. They were learning. Elsie Truman’s hands had become hard and calloused from the work, but her face and her carriage had been improved. She was serener, yet more alive. “You’re like a gipsy,” her husband told her, as she lay in bed beside him. Her body had filled out, become firm and round. “I almost feel as if I were going to have a child,” she told him. “Doesn’t seem likely somehow or possible at my age, does it?” She did not add any reflections upon her private conviction that the child, when it came, would be Campion’s. That could wait for futurity — the futurity of comprehension and tranquillity when, by the terms of self-knowledge, such small offences against defined loyalties could be added up and probably forgiven. The child, too, in a sense, still belonged to the old world of troubled relationship; had as yet no place in this quiet house.
Tenderly he put his arms about her shoulders and laid his bearded face beside hers on the pillow. Their love too had suffered a metamorphosis, for he regarded her now with something like admiration and surprise. She had changed; was less approachable, more withdrawn into herself — and by consequence infinitely more desirable than the shadowy companion whose journey through the labyrinth he had made easier by his jokes and his courage. “A savage,” he said sleepily, thinking of the easy naturalness of her demeanour, her warmth: as if passion itself were the last point of communication between them. As if in everything else she had become possessed by herself, gradually excluding him — her dependency on him — for something richer, deeper, more intimate.
For days now their world was circumscribed by clouds which closed in on them like wet washing, grey, green, blue, according to the angle of the sunlight shining through them. They walked every afternoon to the bluff and sat watching the landscape below shine up in sudden rifts: watching the wind tear aside a corner of the veil and show them the pristine sky.
Softly “whewing” they heard the storks passing overhead all night long, moving towards Egypt, their necks and wings straining towards the warmth. The torrents were swollen, too, and the crying of the birds mingled with the musical enunciation of water on stone, on wood, water on moss and lichen.
There was nothing, in the deepest and most vital sense, to be said; no summing-up, no judgment to be passed upon what had begun to travel through them — time in its pure state — as water will run noiselessly through fingers trailed from a boat. Even the snow, when it came, seemed part of the order and style of the little universe which hemmed them in. Its soft drifts mounted against the walls of the house they lived in, sparkling with a thousand dewy points in the sunlight. It climbed up the sides of the byres which Truman had built for the sheep and the cow. These animals too had found their way up through the labyrinth. Happiness for them also had become an idle proposition.
Dawns came now with an immensity and terror that staggered them: the first raw burst of colour in the east spreading upon the snow-capped mountains around them, like blood swelling from wounds. As the season deepened they could hear the roar of avalanches where the higher snow melted upon the desolate face of stone. The wind strummed fitfully in the pines. They might have been in Asia.
When spring came they took to walking on fine evenings to Ibex Point and sitting there upon the mossy network of stones which seemed almost to be the remains of some old fortress. Below them Godfrey’s pennant still hovered in the breeze. Beyond, the valleys curved away towards the final foothill, fitfully blue and peaceful. It seemed to them at such times that they had reached the meridian of human knowledge. The luminous landscape echoed, in its tranquillity, the thought. If there was no way back there was at least no way forward: the discovery of themselves was itself complete enough to prevent them wanting, hoping, striving. “I feel,” said Truman, struggling with the inadequacies of his vocabularly. “I feel O.C. Universe,” and his wife lying down with her hands behind her head, smiled up her content and happiness as she chewed a grass-stalk. She had realized that the roof of the world did not really exist, except in their own imaginations!
At Cefalû
All night long the falls of rock in the labyrinth continued. Graecen heard them through his dreams — as if through some thick curtain — and imagined they were part of them; but some time before dawn he awoke and realized that they were not: and shivered, drawing the bedclothes over his head as he settled himself to sleep. It was full daylight when he awoke once more. Sunlight was glancing through the trees; raising himself on one elbow he could see, beyond the green lawns of Cefalû, the glittering enamel-shining sea. He seemed to have completely recovered from the shock of the day before — it was irritating in a way, for he had planned to spend perhaps a day in bed, resting. Yet one felt so confoundedly well in this blue atmosphere, this Greek morning which seemed to hold in it exciting premonitions like poems unwritten, poems balancing upon the edge of one’s tongue. He got up and stood at the window for a while staring down at the sea, and the clutter of painted boats beside the mole. Somewhere a bird was singing out of sight. “Where birds like arrows glide, upon the resistless Grecian tide, and ships like swans upon the lawns …” It wouldn’t do. He lit a cigarette. The chink of teacups made him crane forward and peer down through the wine-wreathed pergola. Axelos was seated at the breakfast-table in his pyjamas, cracking the top of an egg. “Silenus,” called Graecen; “any news?”
Axelos raised his dark countenance. “Hullo, Dickie, how do you feel?” How did he feel? Graecen had half-hoped for an excuse to feel ill — well, indisposed. He had planned a day of rest. A bit of fuss over him: his food on a tray: visitors. “My heart seems all right,” he admitted cautiously if unwillingly. In the panic of a spasm he had told Axelos about his condition, and had found, to his surprise, gentleness and anxiety where he had expected something like Hogarth’s irony and disbelief. “Don’t get up unless you feel like it,” said Axelos. “I’ll send your food up.” For a moment Graecen was tempted. “No. It’s all right,” he said at last; the day was too beautiful to waste. “I’ll come down.”
Soon he was sitting on the terrace above the dew-drenched lawn feeling rather hungrier than seemed right or proper for a man in his condition. “What news”, he said, “of the others?”
Axelos finished his third egg and wiped his mouth. “None, I’m afraid. I think they don’t stand much chance, you know. And there are falls still going on. The City in the Rock has gone, I’m afraid, unless the Museum can put up the money to dig it out. I went up again early this morning; and Baird hasn’t come back. Spent the night up at the monastery. You don’t know what he’s up to?” he added with a trace of anxiety. “What is he trying to find out?” Graecen did not know. He ate his egg in silence, thinking of Campion. “Poor Campion,” he said; “I must do a little essay on him for The Times. A great artist, you know, but such a beastly little man. Unconventional, troublesome, pompous — no, not pompous, affected. But what a painter.” He wondered if perhaps all great artists, from whose company he reluctantly excluded himself, were not absolutely revolting as human beings? Dostoevsky writing about Christian meekness while he browbeat his menservants, Lawrence saying nasty things about one when one wasn’t there — even when one was trying to place his stuff for him. It was very odd. “He simply wasn’t a gentleman,” he added reluctantly, with no trace of snobbishness, but using the word in its exact sense. Campion had been lacking not so much in gentleness of birth, as in gentleness of nature; nothing was beneath him. Nevertheless he was a great spirit and something must be done towards the memory of him. He troubled and enriched (that was rather good), he troubled and enriched the world: the world was the richer for his passing through it. “Sir, may I draw the attention of your readers to the passing of one whose presence troubled and enriched the world, during his all-too-brief passing through it? I refer to …” That was a capital beginning. Graecen cracked his egg with a magisterial air, happy to feel the seeds of composition stirring in him once more.