the new machiavelli-第87部分

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must　square　itself　to　that。　。　。　。〃



For　a　long　time；　as　it　seemed；　we　remained　silent　and　motionless。　　

We'd　said　all　we　had　to　say。　　My　eyes　caught　a　printed　slip　upon　the　

desk　before　him；　and　I　came　back　abruptly　to　the　paper。



I　picked　up　this　galley　proof。　　It　was　one　of　Winter's　essays。　　

〃This　man　goes　on　doing　first…rate　stuff；〃　I　said。　　〃I　hope　you　will　

keep　him　going。〃



He　did　not　answer　for　a　moment　or　so。　　〃I'll　keep　him　going；〃　he　

said　at　last　with　a　sigh。







5





I　have　a　letter　Margaret　wrote　me　within　a　week　of　our　flight。　　I　

cannot　resist　transcribing　some　of　it　here；　because　it　lights　things　

as　no　word　of　mine　can　do。　　It　is　a　string　of　nearly　inconsecutive　

thoughts　written　in　pencil　in　a　fine；　tall；　sprawling　hand。　　Its　

very　inconsecutiveness　is　essential。　　Many　words　are　underlined。　　It　

was　in　answer　to　one　from　me；　but　what　I　wrote　has　passed　utterly　

from　my　mind。　。　。　。



〃Certainly；〃　she　says；　〃I　want　to　hear　from　you；　but　I　do　not　want　

to　see　you。　　There's　a　sort　of　abstract　YOU　that　I　want　to　go　on　

with。　　Something　I've　made　out　of　you。　。　。　。　　I　want　to　know　things　

about　youbut　I　don't　want　to　see　or　feel　or　imagine。　　When　some　

day　I　have　got　rid　of　my　intolerable　sense　of　proprietorship；　it　may　

be　different。　　Then　perhaps　we　may　meet　again。　　I　think　it　is　even　

more　the　loss　of　our　political　work　and　dreams　that　I　am　feeling　

than　the　loss　of　your　presence。　　Aching　loss。　　I　thought　so　much　of　

the　things　we　were　DOING　for　the　worldhad　given　myself　so　

unreservedly。　　You've　left　me　with　nothing　to　DO。　　I　am　suddenly　at　

loose　ends。　。　。　。



〃We　women　are　trained　to　be　so　dependent　on　a　man。　　I've　got　no　life　

of　my　own　at　all。　　It　seems　now　to　me　that　I　wore　my　clothes　even　

for　you　and　your　schemes。　。　。　。



〃After　I　have　told　myself　a　hundred　times　why　this　has　happened；　I　

ask　again；　'Why　did　he　give　things　up？　　Why　did　he　give　things　

up？'　。　。　。



〃It　is　just　as　though　you　were　wilfully　dead。　。　。　。



〃Then　I　ask　again　and　again　whether　this　thing　need　have　happened　at　

all；　whether　if　I　had　had　a　warning；　if　I　had　understood　better；　I　

might　not　have　adapted　myself　to　your　restless　mind　and　made　this　

catastrophe　impossible。　。　。　。



〃Oh；　my　dear！　why　hadn't　you　the　pluck　to　hurt　me　at　the　beginning；　

and　tell　me　what　you　thought　of　me　and　life？　　You　didn't　give　me　a　

chance；　not　a　chance。　　I　suppose　you　couldn't。　　All　these　things　you　

and　I　stood　away　from。　　You　let　my　first　repugnances　repel　you。　。　。　。



〃It　is　strange　to　think　after　all　these　years　that　I　should　be　

asking　myself；　do　I　love　you？　have　I　loved　you？　　In　a　sense　I　think　

I　HATE　you。　　I　feel　you　have　taken　my　life；　dragged　it　in　your　wake　

for　a　time；　thrown　it　aside。　　I　am　resentful。　　Unfairly　resentful；　

for　why　should　I　exact　that　you　should　watch　and　understand　my　life；　

when　clearly　I　have　understood　so　little　of　yours。　　But　I　am　savage

savage　at　the　wrecking　of　all　you　were　to　do。



〃Oh；　whywhy　did　you　give　things　up？



〃No　human　being　is　his　own　to　do　what　he　likes　with。　　You　were　not　

only　pledged　to　my　tiresome；　ineffectual　companionship；　but　to　great　

purposes。　　They　ARE　great　purposes。　。　。　。



〃If　only　I　could　take　up　your　work　as　you　leave　it；　with　the　

strength　you　hadthen　indeed　I　feel　I　could　let　you　goyou　and　

your　young　mistress。　。　。　。　　All　that　matters　so　little　to　me。　。　。　。



〃Yet　I　think　I　must　indeed　love　you　yourself　in　my　slower　way。　　At　

times　I　am　mad　with　jealousy　at　the　thought　of　all　I　hadn't　the　wit　

to　give　you。　。　。　。　　I've　always　hidden　my　tears　from　youand　what　

was　in　my　heart。　　It's　my　nature　to　hideand　you；　you　want　things　

brought　to　you　to　see。　　You　are　so　curious　as　to　be　almost　cruel。　　

You　don't　understand　reserves。　　You　have　no　mercy　with　restraints　

and　reservations。　　You　arc　not　really　a　CIVILISED　man　at　all。　　You　

hate　pretencesand　not　only　pretences　but　decent　coverings。　。　。　。



〃It's　only　after　one　has　lost　love　and　the　chance　of　loving　that　

slow　people　like　myself　find　what　they　might　have　done。　　Why　wasn't　

I　bold　and　reckless　and　abandoned？　　It's　as　reasonable　to　ask　that；　

I　suppose；　as　to　ask　why　my　hair　is　fair。　。　。　。



〃I　go　on　with　these　perhapses　over　and　over　again　here　when　I　find　

myself　alone。　。　。　。



〃My　dear；　my　dear；　you　can't　think　of　the　desolation　of　thingsI　

shall　never　go　back　to　that　house　we　furnished　together；　that　was　to　

have　been　the　laboratory　（do　you　remember　calling　it　a　laboratory？）　

in　which　you　were　to　forge　so　much　of　the　new　order。　。　。　。



〃But；　dear；　if　I　can　help　youeven　nowin　any　wayhelp　both　of　

you；　I　mean。　。　。　。　　It　tears　me　when　I　think　of　you　poor　and　

discredited。　　You　will　let　me　help　you　if　I　canit　will　be　the　last　

wrong　not　to　let　me　do　that。　。　。　。



〃You　had　better　not　get　ill。　　If　you　do；　and　I　hear　of　itI　shall　

come　after　you　with　a　troupe　of　doctor's　and　nurses。　　If　I　am　a　

failure　as　a　wife；　no　one　has　ever　said　I　was　anything　but　a　success　

as　a　district　visitor。　。　。　。〃



There　are　other　sheets；　but　I　cannot　tell　whether　they　were　written　

before　or　after　the　ones　from　which　I　have　quoted。　　And　most　of　them　

have　little　things　too　intimate　to　set　down。　　But　this　oddly　

penetrating　analysis　of　our　differences　must；　I　think；　be　given。



〃There　are　all　sorts　of　things　I　can't　express　about　this　and　want　

to。　　There's　this　difference　that　has　always　been　between　us；　that　

you　like　nakedness　and　wildness；　and　I；　clothing　and　restraint。　　It　

goes　through　everything。　　You　are　always　TALKING　of　order　and　

system；　and　the　splendid　dream　of　the　order　that　might　replace　the　

muddled　system　you　hate；　but　by　a　sort　of　instinct　you　seem　to　want　

to　break　the　law。　　I've　watched　you　so　closely。　　Now　I　want　to　obey　

laws；　to　make　sacrifices；　to　follow　rules。　　I　don't　want　to　make；　

but　I　do　want　to　keep。　　You　are　at　once　makers　and　rebels；　you　and　

Isabel　too。　　You're　bad　peoplecriminal　people；　I　feel；　and　yet　

full　of　something　the　world　must　have。　　You're　so　much　better　than　

me；　and　so　much　viler。　　It　may　be　there　is　no　making　without　

destruction；　but　it　seems　to　me　sometimes　that　it　is　nothing　but　an　

instinct　for　lawlessness　that　drives　you。　　You　remind　medo　you　

remember？of　that　time　we　went　from　Naples　to　Vesuvius；　and　walked　

over　the　hot　new　lava　there。　　Do　you　remember　how　tired　I　was？　　I　

know　it　disappointed　you　that　I　was　tired。　　One　walked　there　in　

spite　of　the　heat　because　there　was　a　crust；　like　custom；　like　law。　　

But　directly　a　crust　forms　on　things；　you　are　restless　to　break　down　

to　the　fire　again。　　You　talk　of　beauty；　both　of　you；　as　something　

terrible；　mysterious；　imperative。　　YOUR　beauty　is　something　

altogether　different　from　anything　I　know　or　feel。　　It　has　pain　in　

it。　　Yet　you　always　speak　as　though　it　was　something　I　ought　to　feel　

and　am　dishonest　not　to　feel。　　MY　beauty　is　a　quiet　thing。　　You　have　

always　laughed　at　my　feeling　for　old…fashioned　chintz　and　blue　china　

and　Sheraton。　　But　I　like　all　these　familiar　USED　things。　　My　beauty　

is　STILL　beauty；　and　yours；　is　excitement。　　I　know　nothing　of　the　

fascination　of　the　fire；　or　why　one　should　go　deliberately　out　of　

all　the　decent　fine　things　of　life　to　run　dangers　and　be　singed　and　

tormented　and　destroyed。　　I　don't　understand。　。　。　。〃







6





I　remember　very　freshly　the　mood　of　our　departure　from　London；　the　

platform　of　Charing　Cross　with　the　big　illuminated　clock　overhead；　

the　bustle　of　porters　and　passengers　with　luggage；　the　shouting　of　

newsboys　and　boys　with　flowers　and　sweets；　and　the　groups　of　friends　

seeing　travellers　off　by　the　boat　train。　　Isabel　sat　very　quiet　and　

still　in　the　compartment；　and　I　stood　upon　the　platform　with　the　

door　open；　with　a　curious　reluctance　to　take　the　last　step　that　

should　sever　me　from　London's　ground。　　I　showed　our　tickets；　and　

bought　a　handful　of　red　roses　for　her。　　At　last　came　the　guards　

crying：　〃Take　your　seats；〃　and　I　got　in　and　closed　the　door　on　me。　　

We　had；　thank　Heaven！　a　compartment　to　ourselves。　　I　let　down　the　

window　and　stared　out。



There　was　a　bustle　of　final　adieux　on　the　platform；　a　cry　of　〃Stand　

away；　please；　stand　away！〃　and　the　train　was　gliding　slowly　and　

smoothly　out　of　the　station。



I　looked　out　upon　the　river　as　the　train　rumbled　with　slowly　

gathering　pace　across　the　bridge；　and　the　bobbing　black　heads　of　the　

pedestrians　in　the　footway；　and　the　curve　of　the　river　and　the　

glowing　great　hotels；　and　the　lights　and　reflections　and　blacknesses　

of　that　old；　familiar　spectacle。　　Then　with　a　common　thought；　we　

turned　our　eyes　westward　to　where　the　pinnacles　of　Westminster　and　

the　shining　clock　tower　rose　hard　and　clear　against　the　still；　

luminous　sky。



〃They'll　be　in　Committee　on　the　Reformatory　Bill　to…night；〃　I　said；　

a　little　stupidly。



〃And　so；〃　I　added；　〃good…bye　to　London！〃



We　said　no　more；　but　watched　the　south…side　streets　belowbright　

gleams　of　lights　and　movement；　and　the　dark；　dim；　monstrous　shapes　

of　houses　and　factories。　　We　ran　through　Waterloo　Station；　London　

Bridge；　New　Cross；　St。　John's。　　We　said　never　a　word。　　It　seemed　to　

me　that　for　a　time　we　had　exhausted　our　emotions。　　We　had　escaped；　

we　had　cut　our　knot；　we　had　accepted　the　last　penalty　of　that　

headlong　return　of　mine　from　Chicago　a　year　and　a　half　ago。　　That　

was　all　settled。　　That　harvest　of　feelings　we　had　reaped。　　I　thought　

now　only　of　London；　of　London　as　the　symbol　of　all　we　were　leaving　

and　all　we　had　lost　in　the　world。　　I　felt　nothing　now　but　an　

enormous　and　overwhelming　regret。　。　。　。



The　train　swayed　and　rattled　on　its　way。　　We　ran　through　old　

Bromstead；　where　once　I　had　played　with　cities　and　armies　on　the　

nursery　floor。　　The　sprawling　suburbs　with　their　scattered　lights　

gave　way　to　dim　tree…set　country　under　a　cloud…veiled；　

intermittently　shinin