WEBVTT

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Section twenty five. He had reached
his hotel. He crossed the hall with

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its mounds of reddish chairs and sofas, its spiked, leaved, withered looking

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plants. He got his key off
the hook. The young lady handed him

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some letters. He went upstairs.
He saw her most often at Burton in

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the late summer, when he stayed
there for a week or fortnight, even

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as people did in those days.
First, on top of some hill there

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she would stand, hands clapped to
her hair, her cloak blowing out,

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pointing, crying to them. She
saw the seven beneath or in a wood,

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making the kettle boil very ineffective with
her fingers, the smoke curtsying,

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blowing in their faces, her little
pink face showing through, begging water from

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an old woman in a cottage who
came to the door to watch them go.

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They walked always, the others drove. She was board driving, disliked

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all animals except that dog. They
tramped miles along roads. She would break

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off to get her bearings pilot him
back across country. And all the time

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they argued, discussed poetry, discussed
people, discussed politics. She was a

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radical then, never noticing a thing
except when she stopped, cried out at

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a view or a tree, and
made him look with her, and so

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on again through stubble fields, she
walking ahead with a flower of her aunt,

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never tired of walking, for all
her delicacy to drop down on Burton

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in the dusk. Then after dinner, Old Bretkopf would open the piano and

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sing without any voice, and they
would lie sunk in armchairs, trying not

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to laugh, but always breaking down
and laughing, laughing, laughing at nothing

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brett Kopf was supposed not to see. And then in the morning, flirting

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up and down like a wagtail in
front of the house. Oh, it

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was a letter from her, this
blue envelope that was her hand, and

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he would have to read it.
Here was another of those meetings, bound

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to be painful to read her letter
needed the devil of an effort, how

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heavenly it was to see him.
She must tell him that that was all.

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But it upset him, It annoyed
him. He wished she hadn't written

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it. Coming on top of his
thoughts. It was like a nudge in

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the ribs. Why couldn't she let
him be? After all, she had

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married Dollaway and lived with him in
perfect happiness all these years. These hotels

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are not consoling places, far from
it. Any number of people had hung

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up their hats on those pegs.
Even the flies, if you thought of

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it, had settled on other people's
noses. As for the cleanliness which hit

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him in the face, it wasn't
cleanliness so much as baareness, frigidity,

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a thing that had to be some
arid matron made her rounds at dawn,

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sniffing, peering, causing blue nosed
maids to scour for all the world,

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as if the next visitor were a
joint of meat to be served on a

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perfectly clean platter. For sleep,
one bed for sitting in, one armchair,

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for cleaning one's teeth and shaving one's
chin, one tumbler, one looking

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glass, books, letters, dressing
gowns slipped about on the imper personality of

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the horsehair like incongruous impertinences. And
it was Clarissa's letter that made him see

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all this heavenly to see you,
she must say. So he folded the

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paper, pushed it away. Nothing
would induce him to read it again.

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To get that letter to him.
By six o'clock she must have sat down

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and written it. Directly he left
her stamped it sent somebody to the post.

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It was, as people say,
very like her. She was upset

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by his visit. She had felt
a great deal had for a moment when

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she kissed his hand, regretted,
envied him, even remembered, possibly for

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he saw her look it something he
had said, how they would change the

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world if she married him. Perhaps
whereas it was this, it was middle

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age, it was mediocrity. Then
forced herself, with her indomitable vitality,

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to put all that aside, there
being in her a thread of life which

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for toughness, endurance, power to
overcome obstacles and carry her triumphantly through.

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He had never known the like of
yes. But there would calm a reaction.

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Directly he left the room. She
would be frightfully sorry for him.

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She would think what in the world
she could do to give him pleasure,

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short always of the one thing.
And he could see her, with the

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tears running down her cheeks, going
to her writing table and dashing off that

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one line which he was to find, greeting him heavenly to see you,

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and she meant it. Peter walsho
Hald now unlaced his boots, but it

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would not have been a success.
Their marriage, the other thing, after

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all, came so much more naturally. It was odd, it was true,

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lots of people felt it. Peter
Walsh, who had done just respectably,

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filled the usual posts adequately, was
liked, but thought a little cranky,

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gave himself airs. It was odd
that he should have had, especially

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now that his hair was gray.
A contented look, a look of having

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reserves. It was this that made
him attractive to women, who liked the

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sense that he was not altogether manly. There was something unusual about him,

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or something behind him. It might
be that he was bookish, never came

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to see you without taking up the
book on the table he was now reading

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with his bootlac's trailing on the floor, or that he was a gentleman,

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which showed itself in the way he
knocked the ashes out of his pipe,

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and in his manners. Of course, to women, for it was very

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charming and quite ridiculous how easily some
girl without a grain of sense could twist

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him round her finger. But at
her own risk, that is to say,

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though he might be ever so easy, and indeed, with his gaiety

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and good breeding, fascinating to be
with. It was only up to a

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point she said something. No,
no, He saw through that. He

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wouldn't stand that. No No.
Then he could shout and rock and hold

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his sides together over some joke with
men. He was the best judge of

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cooking in India. He was a
man, but not the sort of man

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one had to respect, which was
a mercy, Not like Major Simmons,

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for instance, Not in the least
like that, Daisy thought, when,

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in spite of her two small children
she used to compare them. He pulled

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off his boots, he emptied his
pockets. Out came with his pocket knife

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a snap shot of Daisy on the
verandah, Daisy all in white with a

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fox terrier on her knee, very
charming, very dark, the best he

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had ever seen of her. It
did come, after all, so naturally,

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so much more naturally than Clarissa.
No fuss, no bother, no

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finicking and fidgeting, all plain sailing
and the dark, adorably pretty girl on

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the veranda, exclaimed he could hear
her. Of course, of course she

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would give him everything, she cried, She had no sense of discretion.

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Everything he wanted, she cried,
running to meet him. Whoever might be

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looking and she was only twenty four, and she had two children. Well

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well, well, indeed, he
had got himself into a mess at his

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age, and it came over him
when he woke in the night pretty forcibly.

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Suppose they did marry for him,
it would be all very well,

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But what about her, missus Burgess, a good sort and no chatterbox in

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whom he had confided. Thought this
absence of his in England, ostensibly to

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see lawyers, might serve to make
Daisy reconsider think what it meant. It

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was a question of her position,
missus Burgess, said, the social barrier,

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giving up her children, she'd be
a widow with a past one of

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these days, draggling about in the
suburbs, or more likely indiscriminate, you

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know, she said, what such
women get like with too much paint.

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But Peter Walsh poo pooed all that. He didn't mean to die yet.

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Anyhow, she must settle for herself, judge for herself. He thought,

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padding about the room in his socks, smoothing out his dress shirt. For

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he might go to Clarissa's party,
or he might go to one of the

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halls, or he might settle in
and read an absorbing book written by a

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man he used to know at Oxford. And if he did retire, that's

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what he'd do, write books.
He would go to Oxford and poke about

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in the bodily and vainly. The
dark, adorable pretty girl ran to the

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end of the terror, vainly waved
her hand, vainly cried. She didn't

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care a straw what people said.
There. He was the man she thought,

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the world of the perfect gentleman,
the fascinating that distinguished, and his

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age made not the least difference to
her. Padding about a room in an

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hotel in Bloomsbury, shaving washing,
continuing as he took up cairns, put

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down razors, to poke about in
the Bodilian and get at the truth about

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one or two little matters that interested
him. And he would have a chat

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with whoever it might be, and
so come to disregard more and more precise

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hours for lunch and mise engagements.
And when Daisy asked him as she would

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for a kiss, a scene failed
to come up to the scratch, though

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he was genuinely devoted to her.
In short, it might be happier as

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missus Burgess said that she should forget
him or merely remember him as he was

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in August nineteen twenty two, like
a figure standing at the cross roads at

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dusk, which grows more and more
remote as the dog cart spins away,

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carrying her securely fastened to the back
seat, though her arms are outstretched,

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and as she sees the figure dwindle
and disappear, still she cries out how

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she would do anything in the world, anything, anything, anything. He

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never knew what people thought. It
became more and more difficult for him to

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concentrate. He became absorbed, He
became busied with his own concerns, now

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surly, now gay, dependent on
women, absent minded, moody, less

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and less able. So he thought
as he shaved, to understand why Clarissa

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couldn't simply find them a lodging and
be nice to Daisy, introduce her,

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and then he could just just do
what, just haunt and hover. He

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was at the moment, actually engaged
in sorting out various keys, papers,

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swoop and taste, be alone,
in short, sufficient to himself, and

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yet nobody, of course, was
more dependent upon others. He buttoned his

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waistcoat. It had been his undoing. He could not keep out of smoking

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rooms, liked colonels, liked golf, liked bridge, and above all women's

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society, and the fineness of their
companionship, and their faithfulness and audacity and

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greatness in loving, which, though
it had its drawbacks, seemed to him.

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And the dark, adorably pretty face
was on top of the envelopes,

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so wholly admirable, so splendid a
flower to grow on the crest of human

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life, And yet he could not
come up to the scratch, being always

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apt to see round things. Clarissa
had sapped something in him permanently, and

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to tire very easily of mute devotion, and to want variety in love,

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though it would make him furious if
Daisy loved anybody else, furious, for

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he was jealous, and controllably jealous. By temperament. He suffered tortures.

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But where was his knife, his
watch, his seals, his note case,

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and Clarissa's letter, which he would
not read again but liked to think

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of, and Daisy's photograph? And
now for dinner. They were eating,

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sitting at little tables round vases,
dressed or not dressed, with their shawls

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and bags laid beside them, with
their air of false composure, for they

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were not used to so many courses
at dinner and confidence, for they were

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able to pay for it and strain, for they had been running about London

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all day, shopping, sightseeing,
and their natural curiosity, for they looked

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round and up as the nice looking
gentlemen in horn rimmed spectacles came in,

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and their good nature, for they
would have been glad to do any little

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service such as lender, timetable or
impart useful information, and their desire pulsing

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in them, tugging at them subterraneously, somehow to establish connections, if it

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were only a birthplace Liverpool, for
example, in common or friends of the

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same name, with their furtive glances, odd silences and sudden withdrawals into family

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jocularity and isolation. There they sat
eating dinner when mister Walsh came in and

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took his seat at a little table
by the curtain. It was not that

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he had said anything, for being
solitary, he could only address himself to

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the waiter. It was his way
of looking at the menu, of pointing

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his forefings to a particular whine,
of hitching himself up to the table,

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of addressing himself seriously, not gluttonously, to dinner that won him their respect,

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which, having to remain unexpressed for
the greater part of the meal,

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flared up at the table where the
Morrises sat when mister Walsh was heard to

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say, at the end of the
meal bartlet Pears, why he should have

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spoken so moderately yet firmly, with
the air of a disciplinarian, well within

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his rights which are founded upon justice. Neither Young Charles Morris nor Old Charles,

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neither Miss Elaine nor Missus Morris knew. But when he said Bartlet Pears,

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sitting alone at his table, they
felt that he counted on their support

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in some lawful demand, was champion
of a cause which immediately became their own,

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So that their eyes met his eyes
sympathetically, And when they all reached

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the smoking room simultaneously, a little
talk between them became inevitable. It was

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not very profound, only to the
effect that London was crowded, had changed

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in thirty years, that mister Morris
preferred Liverpool, that Missus as Marris had

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been to the Westminster Flower Show,
and that they had all seen the Prince

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of Wales. Yet, thought Peter
Walsh, no family in the world could

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compare with the Morrises none whatever,
and their relations to each other are perfect,

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and they don't care a hang for
the upper classes, and they like

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what they like. And Elane is
training for the family business, and the

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boy has won a scholarship at Leeds, and the old lady, who is

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about his own age, had three
more children at home, and they have

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two motor cars. But mister Morris
still mends the boots on Sunday. It

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is superb. It is absolutely superb, thought Peter Walsh, swaying a little

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backwards and forwards with his liqueur glass
in his hand, among the hairy red

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chairs and ashtrays, feeling very well
pleased with himself. For the Morrises liked

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him. Yes, they liked a
man who said Bartlet pears. They liked

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him. He felt he would go
to Clarissa's party. The Morris has moved

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off, but they would meet again. He would go to Clarissa's party because

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he wanted to ask Richard what they
were doing in India, the conservative Duffers,

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and what's being acted? And music, oh yes, and mere gossip.

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For this is the truth about our
soul, he thought, ourself.

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Who fish like inhabits deep seas and
plies among obscurities, threading her way between

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the bowls of giant weeds, over
sun flickered spaces, and on and on

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into gloom, cold, deep,
inscrutable. Suddenly she shoots to the surface

204
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and sports on the wind wrinkled waves
that has a positive need to brush,

205
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scrape, kindle herself, gossiping what
did the government mean Richard Dollaway would know

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to do about India? End of
section twenty five read by Hannadorma, London,

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twenty fourth of October twenty twenty one.

