CHAPTER I. UNREVEALED WORLD
1. AND NOW WHAT?
A GIRL still just short of twenty walked very gravely, lightly and happily beside her lover, a youngster of twenty-four, along an overgrown, sunken, sun-flecked lane in Suffolk. The lane ran sometimes between fields and sometimes along the boundaries of pleasant residences, and it led from the village green at the centre of all things to the cottage they occupied. It was early in June. Lilac was dropping but the may was at its last and best; and countless constellations of stitchwort, clusters and nebulae, celebrated a brief ascendency over the promiscuous profusion of the hedge-banks.
âStellaria!â said he, âitâs just chickweed, which proves that Stella is a chick â a downy little chick.â
âWe wonât always talk nonsense,â said Stella.
âWhen one is drunk with happiness, what else can one ta1k?â
âWell,â she considered....
They bumped themselves against each other, summer-drunk, love-drunk, smiled into each otherâs eyes, and he ran an impudent, appreciative hand over her bare shoulder. She shrank a little from that before she remembered not to shrink. His hand dropped to his side and they walked on, a little apart and with grave, preoccupied faces.
âThings that arenât nonsense are so hard to express,â he said presently, and lapsed into another silence.
She was slight and lithe and sunburnt, with sun-bleached hair and intelligent, dark â blue eyes. She had finely modelled brows, with a faintly humorous crinkle in the broad forehead, and enough mouth for a variety of expressions; a wide mouth it was that could flash into a vivid smile or shut with considerable deliberation, which could kiss, as he knew, very delightfully but was by no means specialised for that purpose. She was wearing an exiguous pale green vest which emphasised rather than hid the points of her pretty body, a pair of grey flannel trousers, in which she evidently carried a lot of small possessions as well as her dirty little hands, and brown canvas shoes. Her third finger in her left hand pocket bore a wedding ring that would not have deceived a rabbit. A bright patterned green and gold silk handkerchief round her slim but sufficient waist completed her costume.
Her companion was perhaps four or five inches taller, and darker in complexion. He was something of a pug about the face, with disarming brown eyes, a lot of forehead and a resolute mouth. His rather crisp brown hair seemed to grow anyhow and had apparently been cut en brosse by an impatient and easily discouraged barber. This young man also wore grey slacks and canvas shoes, with a white cotton shirt that had once no doubt possessed as many buttons as any shirt, but which was now buttoned only at the right wrist. He was carrying a spike of bananas still attached to their parent stem in his left (off) hand. It was only as he walked that it became apparent that he was extremely lame.
The least worldly of people meeting this young couple would have known at once, if only by the challenging pride in their faces, that they were living in sin together, that they had been doing so for five or six days at the outside, and that they had never done anything of the sort before. But old Mrs Greedle, who did for them in Mary Clarksonâs borrowed week-end cottage, never betrayed a shadow of doubt about that very loosely fitting wedding ring. She consulted Stella upon all sorts of matronly questions and prompted her with the right answer whenever there was the least sign of hesitation....
But of Mrs Greedle more later....
âIt is just because we are so happy,â he said, trying again.
âI know,â she agreed.
âHas anyone any right to be happy in a world like this?â
âWe were foolish to get those newspapers and letters.â
âSooner or later that had to come.â
âThey had to come. And anyhow itâs been a lovely time. Such a lovely time. Such a very lovely time. Anyhow.â
âBut all those other fellows all over the world....â
âWeâve only stolen a weekâ
âAnd no one can ever take it away from us. Whatever happens. Thereâs something unfair about our luck. Think of the ones who would â and canât. Down here-or wherever thereâs working people or out-of-works or gipsies or such-I look at them and feel a sort of thief. As though Iâd stolen it from them. What right have we to our education, to the freedom in our minds, to the time and money, that makes all this possible? And our health! If we havenât stolen, our blessed progenitors did. We are Receivers of stolen goods.â
âIn a way itâs getting less and less unfair. The Evil Thing is going to catch us all sooner or later. Why shouldnât we snatch this? At the eleventh hour?â
âTo think that itâs an advantage to have had a foot crushed between a motor-bike and a tram! Luck to be a cripple! No obligation to join up. One of the exempted. The last of the free. We shall catch it with the other civilians but anyhow weâre not under orders.â
âNot so much of a cripple,â she reflected. âAnyhow Iâm a woman now and grown-up and ready to look at whatâs coming to us.â
âAnd what is coming to us?â
âIt isnât fair. Life didnât come after our grandfathers and grandmothers and trim them up for slaughter. They had a breathing space.â
âMuch good they did with it.â
âRomeo and Juliet werenât called on for national service.â
âThey didnât get away with so very much either.â
âJust accidents and misunderstandings in their case, Gemini; they had bad luck, their people were awful people, worse than ours, and there were those mixed philtres, pure accident, and that was all there was the matter with them. But now everyone, all over the world, is being threatened, compelled, driven. Like a great hand feeling for us, catching more and more of us. Itâs only Godâs mercy that there isnât some siren howling after us, or some loud-speaker bellowing A.R.P. instructions, here and now. It got us at the post office; itâs waiting for us at the cottage.... But Iâm talking worse than you do, Gemini.â
âAnd saying what everyone is saying. All the same we two are the worldâs pets. Weâve had education, art, literature, travel, while most of those others have been marched off long ago, trained to drudge, to obey, to trust the nice ruling classes â . Ideas kept from them. Books hard to get at. Whatâs the good of pretending that you and I are not the new ruling-class generation? We are. Weâve shared the loot. And what are we doing by way of thank-you for the education and the art and the literature and the travel weâve had? Trying not to care a damn. Having as good a time as we can manage until something hits us.... Itâs all the damned radio and the rest of it that does it. Why should I be worried because Chinese kids are being raped and disembowelled for fun by the Japs in Shanghai? Why should I be worried because they are being sold to the brothels and given syphilis and driven to death and all that, under the approving noses of our own blessed Pukka Sahibs in Hong Kong? Lousy Pukka Sahibs! Dirty old Blimps!... This, that and the other horror, up and down the world. That concentration camp stuff.... And all hammering down on our poor little brains. All the time now. All hammering down on us. Things like that have always been going on, but they didnât worry grandfather when he walked in the lanes with grandmamma. They didnât come after them as they come after us.â
âAnd they didnât say You next.â
âGods! Stella, and are we as bad as that? Maybe we are. Did it have to be bombs over London before any of our lot worried?â
She puckered her brows and weighed the question. She stuck her hands deeper in her trouser pockets as though that helped her thinking. âIt wasnât in the same world then,â she decided.
âNow it is. âYe ken the noo,â as the Calvinistâs God said.â
âWe ken. And what are we going to do about it, Gemini? Playing bright kids wonât save us. If our sort canât think of something, nobody will think of anything. We have to do something about it. We! You and me! And what can we do?...â
âWhat can we do?â he echoed. âOh hell! Stella, what can we do? Being a Communist! Whatâs being a Communist? What good is it? Trotsky and Stalin donât matter a damn to me. Conscientious objectors â objectors to being alive, I suppose. This, this muddle, is life. How can we stand out of it?... Anti-Fascist?... What party is there to work with; what leader can one follow? Saying No, No, NO to everything isnât being alive. Why havenât we leaders to lead us somewhere? I forgot things for a bit, this last week, but that emetic speech of the Prime Ministerâs friend â what was his name? Lindsey-Jump-in-the-Snow Lindsey, they call him â and that story of those Jews in No Manâs Land and that quotation from that book of Timperleyâs about those Japanese atrocities.... Itâs all come back to me, and the helplessness of it. And the sun, old fool, goes on shining. You poor old fool up there! Why donât you go out and finish us up?â
âAnd none of the old religions are any good?â
âItâs the old religions and faiths and patriotisms that have brought us to just exactly where we are. Manifestly.â
âNo good going back to them again.â
âNo good going back to anything again. But how to get on?â
She confronted him. âGemini,â she said, âhave you no ideas?â
âOh! the shadows of the ghosts of ideas. And a sound of claptrap in the distanceâ
âGemini Jimmini â that is to say Mr James Twain â listen to me. I love you. Always have done; long before you thought of it. I am your true love. Havenât I proved it? And also, as I warned you, I am a prig.â
âDonât I know it? Could I love you otherwise? Go on.â
âI warn you I am going to talk like a prig. Almost like warning you Iâm going to be sick. Iâve felt it coming on. Gemini, I must say it.â
âOut with it, as they say on the excursion steamboats. Sorry! Oh-out with it, Stella!â
âWell, we two are individuals of outstanding intelligence. Outstanding intelligence. Young, of course, silly in a way because we are young, but really damned intelligent. Thatâs generally admitted by our friends and relations. Even Aunt Ruby said that. We are bright. In the privacy of this Loversâ Lane, need we hesitate to say as much to one another? We are. Yes. And Iâm for getting on with it. You listen. For all practical purposes, about the conduct of our lives, about the conduct of life, we donât know a blessed thing. Not a blessed real thing. You as well as me. They havenât told us anything worth knowing. We are just bright enough to realise that. The religion and morals they fed us are exploded old rubbish. That much weâve found out. The unbelieving way they taught it us was enough to show that. Blank. Yet weâve got to devote ourselves to something, Gemini, all the same. Weâre made that way. Weâve got to learn what we can and use it somehow. Weâve got to do whatever is in us, to save ourselves and the world. Maybe weâll do something. Maybe weâll do nothing at all. But weâve got to make the effort. In a war hundreds of people have to be killed or messed-up. Even if their side is winning. Some get in the way of their own side and get done in like that. Trying to do their best. All sorts go into the boiling. But theyâve got to join up, theyâve got to try. It doesnât matter so long as they donât slack or hide.... Weâre slacking, Gemini....â
She was dismayed at herself.
âI canât go on. Itâs the very life of me Iâm telling you, and it sounds â rot... preachment.... Salvation indeed!... Salvation Army.... If only I hadnât begun. Iâve never talked this way.... I must â with you. Iâm not just talking? She was weeping.
âDarling,â he said, and kissed and embraced her.
âNo need to say any of this again,â she sobbed, clinging to him....
âCan I borrow your snitch-rag, Gemini?â she said presently. âI left mine at home.â
âWeâll have to talk about things,â he reflected. âI will. But itâs awful hard. We get this stuff out of books. We think of it bookishly. We have to at first. When we talk about it, itâs like bringing up partly digested print. Weâve got to talk bookish. What natural words are there? Slang, love-making, smut, games, gossip, âpass the mustar...