Outbreak of Love (14 page)

“Did you have a nice lunch?” asked Diana.

“Oh yes!” He smiled. “Brilliant. Sparks flying everywhere. It was fun, but scarifying. A sort of electric massage to the brain. Do they keep that up all the time?”

“I think so. But we haven't seen much of them lately.” She paused and then said: “Wolfie kissed Anthea.”

“Goodness, how brave!”

They looked at each other and began to laugh. Diana became almost helpless with laughter. She had known all along that it was funny that Wolfie had kissed Anthea, but nobody had even hinted at it before. There had been a little ironical witty comment from some of the family, but that had only been in private. The public attitude had been informed by the solemn hush that surrounds an obscenity.

“But she is pretty,” she said, wiping her eyes.

“I didn't mean that,” said Russell. “I meant all the academic thorns round the rose.”

“Why academic?”

“That sort of culture's very academic, isn't it?”

“I thought you liked it.”

“I do in small doses. I must say your cousins are a wild surprise in Melbourne. I had Rochefoucauld and Madame du Deffand flung at my head all through luncheon. I felt like a boy from the backwoods. But the twins liven it up. Without them all that recherché reference would be rather exhausting. The pleasures of the mind are very dangerous.”

“I thought the other sort were supposed to be.”

“Oh no. The other sort make people human and kindly, full of goodwill and laughter. The pleasures of the mind make one enjoy sticking darts into one's fellows. What else do the Edward Langtons do? They live for it. Although I enjoy it too.”

“I always thought I was rather cultured myself,” said Diana. “You said I was—that I made elemental things elegant.”

“That's not culture—that's civilization. It's entirely different. Or you might say it's culture, but it's not the sort I mean. I mean when some germ comes into your mind, an apprehension, a new glimpse of something true or beautiful—you cherish it. It spreads. It seizes a whole century, a continent—it blossoms into Gothic cathedrals or Renaissance palaces—into Chartres or Leonardo. That's the real thing. But culture—which is just learning about the real culture, about what someone else did so that you can be spiteful to your friends—that's just purgatory.”

“Did you say that to Sophie?”

“No. I was too frightened.”

“But don't you know as much about Madame du Deffand as she does?”

“Good Heavens, no. I live for pleasure. I don't want to impress people.”

“But you do impress people. You've impressed everyone here, even Sophie.”

“It's sheer luck—just because I look gentlemanly in public.”

Diana laughed again. “Oh dear, I'm enjoying myself,” she said.

“Don't say so, or you'll stop. Cupid and Psyche.”

“How d'you mean?”

“You mustn't turn the light on your pleasure. It must remain instinctive.”

“But one must use one's mind. If you knew how much instinct I have to put up with.”

“Do you? I see very little in Melbourne society.”

“I mean at home.”

“Is Mr von Flugel very instinctive?”

“Entirely—but call him Wolfie.”

“I'll try.”

“Would you like cream with your passion-fruit? I think there's some over from the apple tart we had for lunch. We always have a pint on Sundays.”

“Lovely. Shall I fetch it?”

“You'll have to take one of these candles. There's no electric light.”

He took the candle and when he was in the passage she called to him: “It's on the shelf on the right.” When he came back she said:

“You told me that I should not say I was enjoying myself, but you said the same thing when we were picking the parsley.”

“I was enjoying the external conditions. It's all right to mention that, but you were enjoying your enjoyment. That is dangerous.”

“I think that you're more terrifying than Sophie, really.”

“Why? I'm absolutely unterrifying.”

“You say you live for pleasure, but you do it by very austere rules. All my relatives live for pleasure but they don't know they're doing it.”

“Now you've hurt my feelings dreadfully. You've exposed my taint of puritanism, the thing I'm most ashamed of.”

“I don't like puritanism myself, but isn't it the bones in one's character?”

“I'm sick of bones. They become so evident in old age.”

“You're not old yet.”

“I'm forty.”

“So am I.”

“Oh well, that's comfortable,” said Russell.

“But I thought you believed we shouldn't be comfortable. That was one of the things I thought of up at Westhill, that I meant to say to you. You talk rather as if I ought to be doing something, or going somewhere, but I don't know exactly what.”

“You oughtn't to hang your Parmigianos in dark corners.”

“I'll move it now if you like.”

“I mean your personal Parmigianos.”

“I don't know what they are.”

“You keep giving glimpses of them, but won't exhibit them properly.”

“What should I do? Take them back to Italy?”

“Perhaps. Yes.”

“That is another thing I meant to ask you. At Elsie's party you said that we were provincial if we didn't live in Rome, but you didn't explain.”

“I can't tell you now. You've made me feel like a puritan lecturer.”

“But I like being lectured.”

“Then it's a bad trait in your character. It's not a Parmigiano. I mustn't encourage it.”

“How am I to know what to do if you don't tell me?”

“You're putting responsibility on me.”

“If you go round airing ideas you must accept the responsibility for their effect.”

“But you are asking me to air more ideas.”

“Very well, tell me what you mean about Rome, and I won't hold you responsible for its effect on me.”

“It's extremely fundamental. It may change your place in history.”

“I didn't know I had one.”

“Then I'll tell you. First of all you must believe that the old gods were real. They all had meaning—Cupid and Psyche again.”

“But they didn't exist.”

“If a thing has meaning it exists. The old gods existed. The Church didn't deny that; it regarded them as devils, but they weren't devils, they were simply unredeemed.”

“This is a little difficult for my mind,” said Diana.

“It's not really. Just listen. Everything has to be redeemed, including the gods. So the richness and meaning of your religion varies according to the richness and meaning of the original gods who were its
terrain,
in the same way that wine from the same kind of vine alters its character according to the earth it grows in. Wine is a very good illustration. I saw a wine merchant's advertisement in Italy: ‘
Il vino è Simbolo del Redentore
.' Our religion was not intended to create a new heaven and earth, but to redeem what was already there. That is why it changes its character and value according to its
terrain
. In Ireland Catholicism has its poorest expression because it had such dreary gods to redeem. In Mexico it's most savage, and when you get Calvinism superimposed on some ghastly northern gods the result is diabolical. But in Italy you find all the things that have made us what we are—classicism the basis and Catholicism fused into one and the effect is tremendous. We find our place in history. That is why we can only five happily elsewhere, when we regard ourselves as in a province of Rome.”

“I see; at least I think I do,” said Diana, “but I am afraid that I don't feel terribly different. You sound rather Roman Catholic, but you're not, are you?”

“No, but I'm European.”

“You're not Australian, then. That's what I thought. You'll go back to England.”

“If I'm not Australian, I'm not English. Last year I went back to England in July, later than usual. At night I left all that blazing dramatic Italian scenery, the blue and gold and baroque of the Ligurian coast, and woke up in the morning at Sens with the river mists lying on the cool meadows, and the innocent Gothic cathedral a mile away. The contrast was extraordinary. In the evening when I arrived at the house where I was going to stay and passed the village church in the moonlight, and drew up at the Georgian mansion which I had formerly thought so impressive, it all seemed to me remote and touching, a far outpost where the inhabitants of that damp northern island had tried to echo the religion and the splendours of their true home, which for every civilized man is the Mediterranean. But because of that you love it more.”

“Now I believe you've revealed yourself.”

“What d'you think of the revelation?” asked Russell, and they returned to the level of laughter.

“It's most interesting. Rather richer in texture than I expected.”

“Did you think I was shallow?”

“No, not shallow, but I didn't think that you would have quite those ideas—about the gods I mean.”

“Don't you agree with them?”

“I think I might when I've assimilated them. But I thought I was going for a nice paddle and you've taken me for a swim.”

“One must always go on into deeper water.”

“I thought your ideas might save me. Instead of that, apparently, I'm to be drowned.”

“You ought to have the best. It's only found in deep water.”

“I'm not sure of that. But why ought I to have the best?”

“You're one of the people who ought to. So am I.”

“How terribly smug.”

“One must be truthful. When I was young I always wanted the best. Everything led me to believe that it was on the other side of the world. Your mother gave me that impression. So as soon as I was free I went there. Then I found that English people expected Australians to be semi-criminal oafs, which is very odd, seeing that half the landed gentry are pretty savage themselves.”

“Do you think that of the people here at Government House?”

“They're the other half—the nicest people there are. I mean the female sergeant-majors one sees in Knightsbridge, their feet planted firmly apart and shouting at each other about dogs. Anyhow I thought I must be very gentlemanly if I was to have the best. But just being a gentleman is very dull, though in a way it's necessary, but it's far from the best. The best is finding delight in everything that's beautiful. It's not always gentlemanly. One cannot go about saying this, only when one meets someone worthwhile.”

Diana thought that was a nice way of telling her that she was worthwhile. They had finished their supper, but they sat on at the table for an hour or more, sometimes chaffing, sometimes talking more seriously.

They were still sitting there when they heard voices in the hall, and Josie opened the door saying: “Do come in and see Mummy for a few minutes.”

Miss Bath appeared in the doorway. She stared at Diana and Russell as if a tiger snake had been coiled up on the hearth-rug. She would have thought it very peculiar to have supper in the drawing-room under any circumstances. If Diana had been with Wolfie she would have disapproved of their lounging in arm-chairs at the disordered but decorative table, with the empty hock bottle, somehow so much more suggestive of wanton gaiety than a mere claret or burgundy bottle, lifting its elegant neck between them. That Diana should be with Russell in this intimate scene was beyond her experience, but by no means her imagination of impropriety.

“I'm afraid I am intruding,” she said, in a voice thick with disapproval. This was such a slight exaggeration of her usual tone that Diana did not notice it.

“How kind of you to bring Josie home,” she said. “You met Mr Lockwood this afternoon I think.”

Miss Bath glanced at Russell. “I did,” she said. “Now I had better go.”

“Won't you stay and have some coffee? Mr Lockwood has been putting forward such startling ideas that I quite forgot to make it. I'll do it now, or Josie darling, will you?”

This stimulated Miss Bath's emanation of disapproval. “I shall go now, thank you,” she said. She turned and collided with Wolfie, who had come from Melbourne in the other end of the same train, and had walked home not far behind Miss Bath and Josie.

“You have a party,” he said to Diana. “I have missed it. I am sad.” He turned tender eyes on Miss Bath.

“I have only just come,” said Miss Bath, her voice full of meaning and malice.

“You were not here. Then I am less sad.” This was the most charming thing that had ever been said to Miss Bath in the whole course of her life, but she showed no gratification.

“I brought Josie home
just now
,” she said, with more insistent meaning.

“All is kindness,” said Wolfie, beaming round the room. “We shall have some wine.”

“Good night,” said Miss Bath, and walked out of the house.

“The poor woman is not happy,” said Wolfie. “Her skin is not pretty.” He took Diana's hand and stroked it, saying to Russell: “You have been entertaining my wife. That is kind. She does not laugh enough. She is alone much because I must work, and she is so sweet.”

Josie came in with the coffee tray.

“Where is Miss Bath?” she asked. “Has she gone? Why didn't you take her home, Daddy?”

“Dear, she will be safe,” said Wolfie. “She is not beautiful.”

“Why didn't you take a cab from the station, Josie,” asked Diana, “instead of bringing her all the way round here? She seemed rather cross.”

Diana poured out the coffee and Russell stayed about half an hour longer, talking to Wolfie and flattering Josie, which was not difficult, as she responded with a delightful laughing modesty, something like her mother's.