CHAPTER XX
Of Philip Quarles's father old John Bidlake
used to say that he was like one of those baroque Italian churches with sham
façades. High, impressive, bristling
with classical orders, broken pediments and statuary, the façade seems to
belong to a great cathedral. But look
more closely and you discover that it is only a screen. Behind the enormous and elaborate front there
crouches a wretched little temple of brick and rubble and scabby plaster. And warming to his simile, John Bidlake would describe the unshaven priest gabbling the
office, the snotty little acolyte in his unwashed surplice, the congregation of
goitrous peasant women and their brats, the cretin
begging at the door, the tin crowns on the images, the dirt on the floor, the
stale smell of generations of pious humanity.
'Why is it,' he
concluded, forgetting that he was making an uncomplimentary comment on his own
successes, 'that women always needs must love the lowest when they see it - or
rather him? Curious. Particularly in this case. One would have given Rachel Quarles too much
sense to be taken in by such a vacuum.'
Other people had
thought so too, had also wondered why.
Rachel Quarles seemed so incomparably good for her husband. But one does not marry a set of virtues and
talents; one marries an individual human being.
The Sidney Quarles who had proposed to Rachel was a young man whom
anyone might have fallen in love with and even believed in - anyone; and Rachel
was only eighteen and particularly inexperienced. He too was young (youth is in itself a
virtue), young and good-looking.
Broad-shouldered and proportionately tall, portly now to the verge of
stoutness, Sidney Quarles was still an imposing figure. At twenty-three the big body had been athletic, the greyish hair which now surrounded a pink and
polished tonsure had then been golden-brown and had covered the whole of his
scalp with a waving luxuriance. The
large, high-coloured, fleshy face had been fresher, firmer, less
moon-like. The forehead, even before
baldness had set in, had seemed intellectual in its smooth height. Not did Sidney Quarles's conversation belie
the circumstantial evidence offered by his brow. He talked well, albeit perhaps with a little
too much arrogance and self-satisfaction for every taste. Moreover, he had at that time a reputation;
he had just come down from the university in something that was almost a blaze
of academic and debating-society glory.
On the virgin expanses of his future sanguine friends painted the
brightest visions. At the time when
Rachel first knew him, these prophecies had a positively reasonable air. And in any case, reasonably or unreasonably,
she loved him. They were married when
she was only nineteen.
From his father
But
Ever since the
publication of that first book, Mr Quarles had been writing, or at least had
been supposed to be writing, another, much larger and more important, about
democracy. The largeness and the
importance justified an almost indefinite delay in its completion. He had already been at work on it for more
than seven years and as yet, he would say to anyone who asked him about the
progress of the book (shaking his head as he spoke with the expression of a man
who bears an almost intolerable burden), as yet he had
not even finished collecting the materials.
'It's a labour of
Hercules,' he would say with an air at once martyred and fatuously
arrogant. He had a way when he spoke to
you of tilting his face upwards and shooting his words into the air, as though
he were a howitzer, looking at you meanwhile, if he condescended to look at you
at all, along his nose and from under his half-shut eyelids. His voice was resonant and full of those baa-ings with which the very Oxonion
are accustomed to enrich the English language.
'Really,' in
If the questioner were
sufficiently sympathetic, he would take him into his study and show him (or
preferably her) the enormous apparatus of card indices and steel
filing-cabinets which he had accumulated round his very professional-looking
roll-top desk. As time passed and the
book showed no signs of getting itself written, Mr Quarles had collected more
and more of these impressive objects.
They were the visible proofs of his labour,
they symbolized the terrific difficulty of his task. He possessed no less than three
typewriters. The portable
Mr Quarles had bought
his calculating typewriter at the moment when, for all practical purposes, he
had ceased to have anything to do with the management of the estate. For Rachel had left him the estate. Not that he ran it any better than the
business which she had persuaded him, only just in time, to abandon. But the absence of profit did not matter, the
loss, when there actually was a loss, was inconsiderable. The estate, Rachel Quarles had hoped, would
keep her husband healthily occupied. For
that it was worth paying something. But
the price that had to be paid in these post-War years of depression was very
high; and as Sidney occupied himself less and less with the routine of
management, the price rose alarmingly, while the object for which it was being
paid - healthy occupation for Sidney - was not achieved. Occasionally, it is true,
Meanwhile, her direct
encouragement had always supplemented that indirect stimulus to ambition which
she had provided, all unintentionally, by the mere fact of being herself and
When finally, tired of
being a political nonentity and outraged by what he regarded as the injustice
of his party chiefs,
Philip and Elinor spent a couple of days with Mrs Bidlake
at Gattenden.
Then it was the turn of Philip's parents. They arrived at Chamford
to find that Mr Quarles had just bought a dictaphone.
'I've just made an
acquisition,' he said in his rich voice, shooting the words up over Philip's head. 'Something that will
interest you, as a writer.' He
led the way to his study.
Philip followed
him. He had expected to be overwhelmed
with questions about the East and the tropics.
Instead of which his father had only perfunctorily enquired if the
voyage had been good, and had gone on, almost before Philip could answer, to
speak about his own affairs. For the
first moment Philip had been surprised and even a little nettled. But the moon, he reflected, seems larger than
Sirius, because it is nearer. The
voyage, his voyage, was to him a moon, to his father the smallest of
little stars.
'Here,' said Mr Quarles
and raised the cover. The dictaphone was revealed. 'Wonderful invention!' He spoke with profound
self-satisfaction. It was the sudden rising,
in all its refulgence, of his moon.
He explained the workings of the machine. Then, tilting up his face, 'It's so useful,'
he said, 'when an idyah occurs to you. You put it into wahds
at once. Talk to yourself; the machine remembahs. I have it
brought up to my bedroom every night.
Such valuable idyahs come to one when one's in
bed, don't you find? Without a dictaphone they would get lost.'
'And what do you do
when you've got to the end of one of these phonograph records?' Philip
enquired.
'Send it to my secretarah to be typed.'
Philip raised his
eyebrows. 'You've got a secretary now?'
Mr Quarles nodded
importantly. 'Only a half-time one, so
far,' he said, addressing the cornice of the opposite wall. 'You've no idyah
what a lot I have to do. What with the book, and the estate, and letters, and
accounts and ... and ... things,' he concluded rather lamely. He sighed, he shook
the martyr's head. 'You're lucky, my dyah boy,' he went on.
'You have no distractions. You
can give your whole time to writing. I
wish I could give all mine. But I have
the estate and all the rest. Trivial -
but the business must be done.' He
sighed again. 'I envy you your freedom.'
Philip laughed. 'I almost envy myself sometimes. But the dictaphone
will be a great help.'
'Oh, it will,' said Mr
Quarles. 'Undoubtedlah.'
'How's the book going?'
Slowly,' his father
replied, 'but surely. I think I have
most of my materials now.'
'Well, that's
something.'
'You novelists,' said
Mr Quarles patronizingly, 'you're fortunate.
You can just sit down and write.
No preliminarah labour necessarah. Nothing like this.' He pointed to the filing cabinets and the
card-index boxes. They were the proofs
of his superiority, as well as of the enormous difficulties against which he
had to struggle. Philip's books might be
successful. But, after all, what was a
novel? An hour's entertainment,
that was all; to be picked up and thrown aside again, carelessly. Whereas the largest book on democracy ... And
anyone could write a novel. It was just
a question of living and then proceeding to record the fact. To compose the largest book on democracy one
had to take notes, collect materials from innumerable sources, buy filing
cabinets and typewriters, portable, polyglottic, calculating;
one needed a card-index and loose-leaf notebooks and a fountain-pen that could
write six thousand words without having to be refilled; one required a dictaphone and a half-time secretary who would shortly have
to become a whole-time one. 'Nothing
like this,' he insisted.
'Oh, no,' said Philip,
who had been wandering round the room examining the literary apparatus. 'Nothing like this.' He picked up some newspaper clippings that
were lying under a paperweight on the lid of the unopened
Mr Quarles took the
clippings from his son and put them away in a drawer. He was annoyed that Philip should have seen
them. The crosswords spoiled the effect
of the dictaphone. 'Childish things,' he said with a little
laugh. 'But they're a distraction when
the mind is tired. I like to amuse
myself with them occasionalah.' In reality Mr Quarles spent almost the whole
of his mornings on crosswords. They
exactly suited his type of intelligence.
He was one of the most expert puzzle-solvers of his epoch.
In the drawing-room,
meanwhile, Mrs Quarles was talking with her daughter-in-law. She was a small and active woman, grey-haired
but preserving unblurred and hardly distorted the
pure outlines of regular and well-moulded features. The expression of the face was at once
vivacious and sensitive. It was a
delicate energy, a strong but quiveringly responsive life, that shone in incessant variations of brilliance and
shade of colour from her expressive grey-blue eyes. Her lips responded hardly less closely and
constantly to her thoughts and feelings than did her eyes, and were grave or
firm, smiled or were melancholy through an almost infinitesimally chromatic
scale of emotional expression.
'And little Phil?' she
said, enquiring after her grandchild.
'Radiant.'
'Darling
little man!' The warmth of Mrs
Quarles's affection enriched her voice and was visible as a light in her
eyes. 'You must have felt miserable,
leaving him for such a long time.'
Elinor
gave an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders. 'Well, I knew that Miss Fulkes
and mother between them would look after him much better than I could do.' She laughed and shook her head. 'I don't believe nature ever meant me to have
children. Either I'm impatient with
them, or else I spoil them. Little
Phil's a pet, of course; but I know that a family would have driven me crazy.'
Mrs Quarles's
expression changed. 'But wasn't it
wonderful to see him again after all those months?' The tone of the question was almost
anxious. She hoped that Elinor would answer it with the enthusiastic affirmative
which would have been natural in the circumstances to herself. But at the same time she was haunted by a
fear lest the strange girl might answer (with a frankness which was so
admirably a quality in her, but which was also disquieting, in its revelation
of unfamiliar and to Rachel incomprehensible states of soul) that she hadn't
been in the least pleased to see her child again. Elinor's first
words came to her as a relief.
'Yes, it was
wonderful,' she said, but robbed the phrase of its full effect by adding, 'I
didn't imagine I could be so glad to see him again. But it was really a wild excitement.'
There was a
silence. 'A queer girl,' Mrs Quarles was
thinking; and her face reflected something of that bewilderment which she
always felt in Elinor's presence. She did her best to love her daughter-in-law;
and up to a point she succeeded. Elinor had many excellent qualities. But something seemed to be lacking in her,
something without which no human being could be entirely sympathetic to Rachel
Quarles. It was as though she had been
born without certain natural instincts.
Not to have expected to feel happy when she saw her baby again - that
was strange enough. But what Rachel
found almost stranger was Elinor's calm and casual
admission of the fact. She herself would
have blushed to make such an admission, even if it had been the truth. It would have seemed to her something
shameful - a kind of blasphemy, a denial of what was holy. To Rachel the reverence for holy things came
naturally. It was Elinor's
lack of this reverence, her inability even to realize that holy things were
holy, which made it impossible for Mrs Quarles to love her daughter-in-law as
much as she would have liked.
On her side Elinor admired, respected and genuinely liked her husband's
mother. For her, the chronic difficulty
was to establish effectual contact with a person whose ruling ideas and motives
seemed to her so oddly incomprehensible and even so absurd. Mrs Quarles was unobtrusively but ardently
religious and lived to the best of her ability in accordance with her beliefs. Elinor admired, but
felt that it was all rather absurd and superfluous. Her education had been orthodox. But she never remembered a time, even in her
childhood, when she seriously believed what people told her about the other
world and its inhabitants. The other
world bored her; she was interested only in this. Confirmation had evoked in her no more
enthusiasm than a visit to the theatre, indeed considerably less. Her adolescence had passed without the trace
of a religious crisis.
'It all seems to me
just nonsense,' she would say when the matter was discussed in her
presence. And there was no affectation
in her words, they were not uttered provocatively. She simply stated a fact of her personal
history. Religion, and along with
religion, all transcendental mentality, all metaphysical speculation seemed to
her nonsensical in precisely the same way as the smell of Gorgonzola seemed to
her disgusting. There was no getting
behind the immediate experience. Often, on
occasions like this, she wished there were.
She would have liked to cross the abyss which separated her from Mrs
Quarles. As it was, she felt a certain uneasiness when she was with her mother-in-law;
she hesitated in her presence to express her feelings or to say what she
thought. For she had found, only too
often, that the frank utterance of what seemed to her perfectly natural
sentiments and reasonable opinions, was apt to distress her mother-in-law, to
strike her as strange and shocking. It
had happened again now, as she could see from the expression which showed
itself for an instant on Mrs Quarles's mobile and sensitive face. What had it been this time? Conscious of no offence, Elinor
could only wonder. In future, she
decided, she would volunteer nothing of her own; she would just agree with what
was said.
As it happened,
however, the next topic of conversation to be broached was one in which Elinor was too deeply interested to be able to keep her
new-made resolution. Moreover it was one
on which, as she knew by experience, she could speak freely without risk of
unintentional offence. For where Philip
was concerned, Elinor's feelings and
opinions seemed to Mrs Quarles entirely appropriate.
'And big Philip?' she
now asked.
'You see how well he
looks,' Elinor answered for his health, though she
knew that the question had not concerned his bodily well-being. It was with a certain dread that she looked
forward to the conversation that impended.
At the same time, however, she was glad to have an opportunity of
discussing that which so constantly and distressingly occupied her thoughts.
'Yes, yes, I can see
that,' said Mrs Quarles. 'But what I
really meant was: how is he in himself?
How is he with you?'
There was a
silence. Elinor
frowned slightly and looked at the floor.
'Remote,' she said at last.
Mrs Quarles
sighed. 'He was always that,' she
said. 'Always remote.'
He too, it seemed to
her, was lacking in something - in the desire and the capacity to give himself,
to go out and meet his fellows, even those who loved him, even those he
loved. Geoffrey had been so
different. At the memory of her dead son
Mrs Quarles felt her whole being invaded by a poignant sadness. If anyone had suggested that she had loved
him more than she loved Philip, she would have protested. Her own feelings, she felt sure, had been
initially the same. But Geoffrey had
permitted himself to be loved more fully, more intimately than his
brother. If only Philip had allowed her
to love him more! But there had always
been barriers between them, barriers of his erecting. Geoffrey had come out to meet her, had given
that he might receive. But Philip had
always been reluctant and parsimonious.
He had always shut doors when she approached, always locked up his mind
lest she should catch a glimpse of his secrets.
She had never known what he really felt and thought. 'Even as a little boy,' she said aloud.
'And now he has his
work,' said Elinor after a pause. 'Which makes it worse. It's like a castle on the top of a mountain,
his work. He shuts himself up in it and
he's impregnable.'
Mrs Quarles smiled
sadly. 'Impregnable.' It was the right word. Even as a little boy he had been impregnable. 'Perhaps in the end he'll surrender of his
own accord.'
'To me?' said Elinor. 'Or to someone else?
It wouldn't be much satisfaction if it was to somebody else, would
it?' Though when I'm feeling unselfish,'
she added, 'I wish he'd surrender to anyone - anyone, for his own good.'
Elinor's
words set Mrs Quarles thinking of her husband - not resentfully, though he had
done wrong, though he had hurt her, but pityingly, rather, and
solicitously. For she
could never feel that it was entirely his fault. It was his misfortune.
Elinor
sighed. 'I can't really expect to
receive his surrender,' she said. 'When
one had become a habit, one can't very well suddenly turn into an overwhelming
revelation.'
Mrs Quarles shook her
head. In recent years
'If at least,' she said
almost in a whisper, 'you had God as a companion.' God had always been her comfort, God and the
doing of God's will. She could never
understand how people could get through life without Him. 'If only you could find God.'
Elinor's
smile was sarcastic. Remarks of this
sort annoyed her by being so ridiculously beside the point. 'It might be simpler,' she began, but checked
herself after the first words. She had
meant to say that it might be simpler perhaps to find a man. But she remembered her resolution and was
silent.
'What were you saying?'
Elinor
shook her head. 'Nothing.'
*
* * *
Fortunately for Mr
Quarles the
During the last few
weeks the claims had been more than usually peremptory. His visits to
'Couldn't you get the
books sent down from the London Library?' Mrs Quarles rather pointedly asked.
Rachel sighed and could
only hope that the woman could be trusted to look after herself well enough to
keep out of serious trouble and not so well as to want to make mischief.
'I think I shall run up
to town with you tomorrow,' he announced on the morning before Philip and Elinor took their leave.
'Again?' asked Mrs
Quarles.
'There's a point about those
wretched Indians,' he explained, 'that I ryahly must clyahr up. I think I may find it in Pramathanatha
Banerjea's book ... Or it may be dealt with my Radakhumud Mookerji.' He rolled out the names impressively,
professionally. 'It's about local government
in Maurya times.
So democratic, you know, in spite of the central despotism. For example ...'
Through the ink-cloud
Mrs Quarles caught glimpses of a female figure.
Breakfast over,
Their train next
morning was nearly twenty minutes late.
'Scandalous,' Mr Quarles kept repeating, as he looked at his watch, 'disgraceful.'
'You're in a great
hurry to be at your Indians,' said Philip, smiling from his corner.
His father frowned and
talked about something else. At
'You're very punctual,
my dyah,' he said, holding out his hand.
Gladys was rather taken
aback by the coolness of his greeting.
After what had happened last time, she had expected something tenderer.
'Am I!' she said, for
lack of anything better to say; and since human beings have only a limited
number of noises and grimaces with which to express the multiplicity of their
emotions, she laughed as though she had been amused by something, when in fact
she was only surprised and disquieted.
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him, provocative-petulantly, why
he didn't kiss her, whether he was tired of her - already. But she decided to wait.
'Almost too punctual,'
'Fancy!' said
Gladys. The refinements that hung around
her speech, like a too genteel disguise, dropped away from time to time,
leaving individual words and phrases nakedly cockney.
'Ryahly
disgraceful!' said
Gladys was
impressed. Mr Quarles had intended that
she should be. Apart from all merely
sensual satisfactions, the greatest charm of his sexual holidays resided in the
fact that they were shared with impressible companions.
Gladys, on her side,
was impressed by his thunderings. But she was also amused. Impressed, because she
belonged to the world of poor and patient wage-slaves, who accept the unpleasantnesses of social life as so many natural
phenomena, uncontrollable by human agency and recalcitrant to human desires. But
Mr Quarles opened the
sitting-room door to let her pass.
'Ta,' said Gladys and
walked in.
He followed. On the nape of her neck, her dark cropped
hair ended in a little triangle that pointed downwards along the spine. She was wearing a thin green dress. Through the fine stuff he could see, just
below her shoulders, the line where the underclothes gave place to bare
skin. A belt of black shiny leather was
fastened in a slant very low on her hips.
At every stride it rose and fell on her left hip with a rhythmical
regularity. Her stockings were the
colour of sunburnt flesh. Brought up in
an epoch when ladies apparently rolled along on wheels, Mr Quarles was
peculiarly susceptible to calves, found modern fashions a treat and could never
quite get over the belief that the young women who adopted them had
deliberately made themselves indecent for his benefit and because they wanted
him to become their lover. His eyes
followed the curves of the lustrous sunburn.
But what fascinated him most today was the black leather belt flicking
up and down over the left haunch, with the regularity of a piece of machinery,
every time she moved her leg. In that
rise and fall the whole unindividualized species, the
entire sex semaphored their appeal.
Gladys halted and
turned towards him with a smile, expectantly coquettish. But Mr Quarles made no responding gesture.
'I've got the
For the second time
Gladys was surprised, thought of making a comment, and again said nothing, but
sat down in silence before the typewriter.
Mr Quarles put on his
tortoiseshell pince-nez and opened his despatch case. He had found a mistress, but he did not see
why that should entail the loss of a typist, for whose services, after all, he
paid.
'Perhaps,' he said,
looking up at her over the top of his pince-nez, 'we'd better begin with those
letters to the Traffic Superintendent and The Times.' Gladys adjusted the paper, typed the
date. Mr Quarles cleared his throat and
dictated. There were some good phrases, he flattered himself, in the letters. 'Inexcusable slackness entailing the waste of
time otherwise valuable than that of drowsy railway bureaucrats' - that, for
example, was excellent. And so (for the
benefit of The Times) was 'the pampered social parasites of a protected
industry.'
'That'll teach the
dogs,' he said with satisfaction, as he read the letters through. 'That'll make them squirm.' He looked to Gladys for applause, and was not
entirely satisfied with the smile on that impertinent face. 'Pity old Lord Hagworm's
not alive,' he added, calling up strong allies.
'I'd have written to him. He was
a director of the company.' But the last
of the Hagworms had died in 1912.
Mr Quarles dictated a
dozen more letters, the answers to a correspondence which he had allowed to
accumulate for several days before coming to London, so that the total might
seem more important and also that he might get his full money's worth out of
Gladys's secretaryship.
'Thank goodness,' he
said, when the last of the letters was answered. 'You've no idyah,'
he went on (and the great thinker had come to reinforce the landed gentleman),
'you've no idyah how exasperating these trivial
little things can be, when you've got something more syahrious
and important to think about.'
'I suppose they must
be,' said Gladys, thinking how funny he was.
'Take down,' commanded
Mr Quarles, to whom a pensée had suddenly
occurred. He leaned back in his chair
and, closing his eyes, pursued the elusive phrase.
Gladys waited, her
fingers poised above the keyboard. She
looked at the watch on her wrist.
'Note for the volume of
Reflections,' said Mr Quarles, without opening his eyes. The keys briefly rattled. 'The ivory pinnacles of thought' - he
repeated the words inwardly. They made a
satisfying reverberation along the corridors of his mind. The phrase was caught. He sat up briskly and opened his eyes - to
become aware that the lisle-thread top of one of Gladys's sunburnt stockings
was visible, from where he was sitting, to a considerable distance above the
knee.
'All my life,' he
dictated, his eyes fixed on the lisle thread, 'I have suffered from the
irrelevant - no, say "importunate" - interruptions of the wahld's trivialitah, full
stop. Some thinkers comma I know comma
are able to ignore these interruptions comma to give them a fleeting but
sufficient attention and return with a serene mind to higher things full stop.'
There was silence. Above the lisle thread, Mr Quarles was
thinking, was the skin - soft, curving tightly over the firm curved flesh. To caress and, caressing, to feel the
fingertips silkily caressed; to squeeze a handful of elastic flesh. Even to bite.
Like a round goblet, like a heap of wheat.
Suddenly conscious of
the direction of his glances, Gladys pulled down her skirt.
'Where was I?' asked Mr
Quarles.
'Higher things with a
serene mind,' Gladys answered, reading from the page in front of her.
'H'm.' He rubbed his nose. 'For me comma alas comma this serenitah has always been impossible semi-colon; my nahvous sensibilitah is too great
full stop. Dragged down from the ivorah pinnacles of thought' (he rolled out the phrase with
relish) 'into the common dust comma, I am exasperated comma, I lose my peace of
mind and am unable to climb again into my tower.'
He rose and began to
walk restlessly about the room.
'That's always been my
trouble,' he said. 'Too
much sensibilitah. A syahrious thinker
ought to have no temperament, no nerves.
He has no business to be passionate.'
The skin, he was
thinking, the firm elastic flesh. He halted behind her chair. The little triangle of cropped hair pointed
down along her spine. He put his hands
on her shoulders and bent over her.
Gladys looked up,
smiling impertinently, with triumph.
'Well?' she asked.
Mr Quarles bent lower
and kissed her neck. She giggled.
'How you tickle!'
His hands explored her,
sliding along her arms, pressing her body - the body of the species, of the
entire sex. The individual Gladys
continued to giggle.
'Naughty!' she said,
and made a pretence of pushing his hands away. 'Naughty!'