CHAPTER XV
'In the time of the amiable Brantôme,'
Mr Scogan was saying, 'every debutante at the French Court
was invited to dine at the King's table, where she was served with wine in a
handsome silver cup of Italian workmanship.
It was no ordinary cup, this goblet of the debutantes; for, inside, it
had been more curiously and ingeniously engraved with a series of very lively
amorous scenes. With each draught that
the young lady swallowed these engravings became increasingly visible, and the
Court looked on with interest, every time she put her nose in the cup, to see
whether she blushed at what the ebbing wine revealed. If the debutante blushed, they laughed at her
for her innocence; if she did not, she was laughed at for being too knowing.'
'Do you
propose,' asked Anne, 'that the custom should be revived at Buckingham Palace?'
'I do not,'
said Mr Scogan.
'I merely quoted the anecdote as an illustration of the customs, so
genially frank, of the sixteenth century.
I might have quoted other anecdotes to show that the customs of the
seventeenth and eighteenth, of the fifteenth and fourteenth centuries, and
indeed of every other century, from the time of Hammurabi
onward, were equally genial and equally frank.
The only century in which customs were not characterized by the same
cheerful openness was the nineteenth, of blessed memory. It was the astonishing exception. And yet, with what one must suppose was a
deliberate disregard of history, it looked upon its horribly pregnant silences
as normal and natural and right; the frankness of the previous fifteen or
twenty thousand years was considered abnormal and perverse. It was a curious phenomenon.'
'I entirely
agree.' Mary panted with excitement in her effort to bring out what she had to
say. 'Havelock Ellis says ...'
Mr Scogan, like a policeman arresting the flow of traffic,
held up his hand. 'He does; I know. And that brings me to my next point: the
nature of the reaction.'
'Havelock
Ellis ...'
'The
reaction, when it came - and we may say roughly that it set in a little before
the beginning of this century - the reaction was to openness, but not to the
same openness as had reigned in the earlier ages. It was to a scientific openness, not to the
jovial frankness of the past, that we returned.
The whole question of Amour became a terribly serious one. Earnest young men wrote in the public prints
that from this time forth it would be impossible ever again to make a joke of
any sexual matter. Professors wrote
thick books in which sex was sterilized and dissected. It has become customary for serious young
women, like Mary, to discuss, with philosophic calm, matters of which the
merest hint would have sufficed to throw the youth of the sixties into a
delirium of amorous excitement. It is
all very estimable, no doubt. But still'
- Mr Scogan sighed - 'I for one should like to see,
mingled with this scientific ardour, a little more of the jovial spirit of
Rabelais and Chaucer.'
'I entirely
disagree with you,' said Mary. 'Sex
isn't a laughing matter; it's serious.'
'Perhaps,'
answered Mr Scogan, 'perhaps I'm an obscene old man,
for I must confess that I cannot always regard it as wholly serious.'
'But I tell
you ...' began Mary furiously. Her face
had flushed with excitement. Her cheeks
were the cheeks of a great ripe peach.
'Indeed,'
Mr Scogan continued, 'it seems to me one of the few
permanently and everlasting amusing subjects that exist. Amour is the one human activity of any
importance in which laughter and pleasure preponderate, if ever so slightly,
over misery and pain.'
'I entirely
disagree,' said Mary. There was a
silence.
Anne looked
at her watch. 'Nearly a quarter to
eight,' she said. 'I wonder when Ivor will turn up.'
She got up from her deck-chair and, leaning her elbows on the balustrade
of the terrace, looked out over the valley and towards the farther hills. Under the level evening light the
architecture of the land revealed itself.
The deep shadows, the bright contrasting lights gave the hills a new
solidarity. Irregularities of the
surface, unsuspected before, were picked out with light and shade. The grass, the corn, the foliage
of trees were stippled with intricate shadows. The surface of things had taken on a
marvellous enrichment.
'Look!'
said Anne suddenly, and pointed. On the
opposite side of the valley, at the crest of the ridge, a cloud of dust flushed
by the sunlight to rosy gold was moving rapidly along the skyline. 'It's Ivor. One can tell by the speed.'
The dust
cloud descended into the valley and was lost.
A horn with the voice of a sea-lion made itself heard, approaching. A minute later Ivor
came leaping round the corner of the house.
His hair waved in the wind of his own speed; he laughed as he saw them.
'Anne
darling,' he cried, and embraced her, embraced Mary, very nearly embraced Mr Scogan. 'Well, here
I am. I've come with incredulous
speed.' Ivor's
vocabulary was rich, but a little erratic.
'I'm not late for dinner, am I?'
He hoisted himself up on to the balustrade, and sat there, kicking his
heels. With one arm he embraced a large
stone flowerpot, leaning his head sideways against its hard and lichenous flanks in an attitude of trustful affection. He had brown, wavy hair, and his eyes were of
a very brilliant, pale, improbable blue.
His head was narrow, his face thin and rather
long, his nose aquiline. In old age -
though it was difficult to image Ivor old - he might
grow to have an Iron Ducal grimness. But now, at twenty-six, it was not the
structure of his face that impressed one; it was its expression. That was charming and vivacious, and his
smile was an irradiation. He was for
ever moving, restlessly and rapidly, but with an engaging gracefulness. His frail and slender body seemed to be fed
by a spring of inexhaustible energy.
'No, you're
not late.'
'You're in
time to answer a question,' said Mr Scogan. 'We were arguing whether Armour were a
serious matter or no. What do you
think? Is it serious?'
'Serious?'
echoed Ivor. 'Most certainly.'
'I told you
so,' cried Mary triumphantly.
'But in
what sense serious?' Mr Scogan asked.
'I mean as
an occupation. One can go on with it without
ever getting bored.'
'I see,'
said Mr Scogan.
'Perfectly.'
'One can
occupy oneself with it,' Ivor continued, 'always and
everywhere. Women are always wonderfully
the same. Shapes vary a little, that's
all. In Spain' - with his free hand he
described a series of ample curves - 'one can't pass them on the stairs. In England' - he put the tip of his
forefinger against the tip of his thumb and, lowering his hand, drew out this
circle into an imaginary cylinder - 'in England they're tubular. But their sentiments are always the
same. At least, I've always found it
so.'
'I'm
delighted to hear it,' said Mr Scogan.