dying?"
Grotesque analogies arose in my mind. I discovered a strange
parallelism between my now tattered phrase of "Love and fine
thinking" and the "Love and the Word" of Christian thought. Was it
possible the Christian propaganda had at the outset meant just that
system of attitudes I had been feeling my way towards from the very
beginning of my life? Had I spent a lifetime making my way back to
Christ? It mocks humanity to think how Christ has been overlaid. I
went along now, recalling long-neglected phrases and sentences; I
had a new vision of that great central figure preaching love with
hate and coarse thinking even in the disciples about Him, rising to
a tidal wave at last in that clamour for Barabbas, and the public
satisfaction in His fate…
It's curious to think that hopeless love and a noisy disordered
dinner should lead a man to these speculations, but they did. "He
DID mean that!" I said, and suddenly thought of what a bludgeon
they'd made of His Christianity. Athwart that perplexing, patient
enigma sitting inaudibly among publicans and sinners, danced and
gibbered a long procession of the champions of orthodoxy. "He
wasn't human," I said, and remembered that last despairing cry, "My
God! My God! why hast Thou forsaken Me?"
"Oh, HE forsakes every one," I said, flying out as a tired mind
will, with an obvious repartee…
I passed at a bound from such monstrous theology to a towering rage
against the Baileys. In an instant and with no sense of absurdity I
wanted-in the intervals of love and fine thinking-to fling about
that strenuously virtuous couple; I wanted to kick Keyhole of the
PEEPSHOW into the gutter and make a common massacre of all the
prosperous rascaldom that makes a trade and rule of virtue. I can
still feel that transition. In a moment I had reached that phase of
weakly decisive anger which is for people of my temperament the
concomitant of exhaustion.
"I will have her," I cried. "By Heaven! I WILL have her! Life
mocks me and cheats me. Nothing can be made good to me again…
Why shouldn't I save what I can? I can't save myself without
her…"
I remember myself-as a sort of anti-climax to that-rather
tediously asking my way home. I was somewhere in the neighbourhood
of Holland Park…
It was then between one and two. I felt that I could go home now
without any risk of meeting Margaret. It had been the thought of
returning to Margaret that had sent me wandering that night. It is
one of the ugliest facts I recall about that time of crisis, the
intense aversion I felt for Margaret. No sense of her goodness, her
injury and nobility, and the enormous generosity of her forgiveness,
sufficed to mitigate that. I hope now that in this book Iam able
to give something of her silvery splendour, but all through this
crisis I felt nothing of that. There was a triumphant kindliness
about her that I found intolerable. She meant to be so kind to me,
to offer unstinted consolation, to meet my needs, to supply just all
she imagined Isabel had given me.
When I left Tarvrille's, I felt I could anticipate exactly how she
would meet my homecoming. She would be perplexed by my crumpled
shirt front, on which I had spilt some drops of wine; she would
overlook that by an effort, explain it sentimentally, resolve it
should make no difference to her. She would want to know who had
been present, what we had talked about, show the alertest interest
in whatever it was-it didn't matter what… No, I couldn't
face her.
So I did not reach my study until two o'clock.
There, I remember, stood the new and very beautiful old silver
candlesticks that she had set there two days since to please me-the
foolish kindliness of it! But in her search for expression,
Margaret heaped presents upon me. She had fitted these candlesticks
with electric lights, and I must, I suppose, have lit them to write
my note to Isabel. "Give me a word-the world aches without you,"
was all I scrawled, though I fully meant that she should come to me.
I knew, though I ought not to have known, that now she had left her
flat, she was with the Balfes-she was to have been married from the
Balfes-and I sent my letter there. And I went out into the silent
square and posted the note forthwith, because I knew quite clearly
that if I left it until morning I should never post it at all.
3
I had a curious revulsion of feeling that morning of our meeting.
(Of all places for such a clandestine encounter she had chosen the
bridge opposite Buckingham Palace.) Overnight I had been full of
selfpity, and eager for the comfort of Isabel's presence. But the
ill-written scrawl in which she had replied had been full of the
suggestion of her own weakness and misery. And when I saw her, my
own selfishsorrows were altogether swept away by a wave of pitiful
tenderness. Something had happened to her that I did not
understand. She was manifestly ill. She came towards me wearily,
she who had always borne herself so bravely; her shoulders seemed
bent, and her eyes were tired, and her face white and drawn. All my
life has been a narrow self-centred life; no brothers, no sisters or
children or weak things had ever yet made any intimate appeal to me,
and suddenly-I verily believe for the first time in my life!-I
felt a great passion of protective ownership; I felt that here was
something that I could die to shelter, something that meant more
than joy or pride or splendid ambitions or splendid creation to me,
a new kind of hold upon me, a new power in the world. Some sealed
fountain was opened in my breast. I knew that I could love Isabel
broken, Isabel beaten, Isabel ugly and in pain, more than I could
love any sweet or delightful or glorious thing in life. I didn't