CHAPTER TWELVE
關燈
小
中
大
Thewaterfelloffaledgelikelead—likeachainwiththickwhitelinks.Thetrainranoutintoasteepgreenmeadow,andJacobsawstripedtulipsgrowingandheardabirdsinging,inItaly.
AmotorcarfullofItalianofficersranalongtheflatroadandkeptupwiththetrain,raisingdustbehindit.Thereweretreeslacedtogetherwithvines—asVirgilsaid.Herewasastationandatremendousleave-takinggoingon,withwomeninhighyellowbootsandoddpaleboysinringedsocks.Virgil'sbeeshadgoneabouttheplainsofLombardy.Itwasthecustomoftheancientstotrainvinesbetweenelms.ThenatMilanthereweresharp-wingedhawks,ofabrightbrown,cuttingfiguresovertheroofs.
TheseItaliancarriagesgetdamnablyhotwiththeafternoonsunonthem,andthechancesarethatbeforetheenginehaspulledtothetopofthegorgetheclankingchainwillhavebroken.Up,up,up,itgoes,likeatrainonascenicrailway.Everypeakiscoveredwithsharptrees,andamazingwhitevillagesarecrowdedonledges.Thereisalwaysawhitetowerontheverysummit,flatred-frilledroofs,andasheerdropbeneath.Itisnotacountryinwhichonewalksaftertea.Foronethingthereisnograss.Awholehillsidewillberuledwitholivetrees.AlreadyinApriltheearthisclottedintodrydustbetweenthem.Andthereareneitherstilesnorfootpaths,norlaneschequeredwiththeshadowsofleavesnoreighteenth-centuryinnswithbow-windows,whereoneeatshamandeggs.Ohno,Italyisallfierceness,bareness,exposure,andblackpriestsshufflingalongtheroads.Itisstrange,too,howyounevergetawayfromvillas.
Still,tobetravellingonone'sownwithahundredpoundstospendisafineaffair.Andifhismoneygaveout,asitprobablywould,hewouldgoonfoot.Hecouldliveonbreadandwine—thewineinstrawbottles—forafterdoingGreecehewasgoingtoknockoffRome.TheRomancivilizationwasaveryinferioraffair,nodoubt.ButBonamytalkedalotofrot,allthesame."YououghttohavebeeninAthens,"hewouldsaytoBonamywhenhegotback."StandingontheParthenon,"hewouldsay,or"TheruinsoftheColiseumsuggestsomefairlysublimereflections,"whichhewouldwriteoutatlengthinletters.Itmightturntoanessayuponcivilization.Acomparisonbetweentheancientsandmoderns,withsomeprettysharphitsatMr.Asquith—somethinginthestyleofGibbon.
Astoutgentlemanlaboriouslyhauledhimselfin,dusty,baggy,slungwithgoldchains,andJacob,regrettingthathedidnotcomeoftheLatinrace,lookedoutofthewindow.
ItisastrangereflectionthatbytravellingtwodaysandnightsyouareintheheartofItaly.Accidentalvillasamongolivetreesappearandmen-servantswateringthecactuses.Blackvictoriasdriveinbetweenpompouspillarswithplastershieldsstucktothem.Itisatoncemomentaryandastonishinglyintimate—tobedisplayedbeforetheeyesofaforeigner.Andthereisalonelyhill-topwherenooneevercomes,andyetitisseenbymewhowaslatelydrivingdownPiccadillyonanomnibus.AndwhatIshouldlikewouldbetogetoutamongthefields,sitdownandhearthegrasshoppers,andtakeupahandfulofearth—Italianearth,asthisisItaliandustuponmyshoes.
Jacobheardthemcryingstrangenamesatrailwaystationsthroughthenight.Thetrainstoppedandheheardfrogscroakingcloseby,andhewrinkledbacktheblindcautiouslyandsawavaststrangemarshallwhiteinthemoonlight.Thecarriagewasthickwithcigarsmoke,whichfloatedroundtheglobewiththegreenshadeonit.TheItaliangentlemanlaysnoringwithhisbootsoffandhiswaistcoatunbuttoned….AndallthisbusinessofgoingtoGreeceseemedtoJacobanintolerableweariness—sittinginhotelsbyoneselfandlookingatmonuments—he'dhavedonebettertogotoCornwallwithTimmyDurrant…."O—h,"Jacobprotested,asthedarknessbeganbreakinginfrontofhimandthelightshowedthrough,butthemanwasreachingacrosshimtogetsomething—thefatItalianmaninhisdicky,unshaven,crumpled,obese,wasopeningthedoorandgoingofftohaveawash.
SoJacobsatup,andsawaleanItaliansportsmanwithagunwalkingdowntheroadintheearlymorninglight,andthewholeideaoftheParthenoncameuponhiminaclap.
"ByJove!"hethought,"wemustbenearlythere!"andhestuckhisheadoutofthewindowandgottheairfullinhisface.
Itishighlyexasperatingthattwenty-fivepeopleofyouracquaintanceshouldbeabletosaystraightoffsomethingverymuchtothepointaboutbeinginGreece,whileforyourselfthereisastopperuponallemotionswhatsoever.ForafterwashingatthehotelatPatras,JacobhadfollowedthetramlinesamileorsooutandfollowedthemamileorsobackhehadmetseveraldrovesofturkeysseveralstringsofdonkeyshadgotlostinbackstreetshadreadadvertisementsofcorsetsandofMaggi'sconsommechildrenhadtroddenonhistoestheplacesmeltofbadcheeseandhewasgladtofindhimselfsuddenlycomeoutoppositehishotel.TherewasanoldcopyoftheDailyMaillyingamongcoffee-cupswhichheread.Butwhatcouldhedoafterdinner?
Nodoubtweshouldbe,onthewhole,muchworseoffthanwearewithoutourastonishinggiftforillusion.Attheageoftwelveorso,havinggivenupdollsandbrokenoursteamengines,France,butmuchmoreprobablyItaly,andIndiaalmostforacertainty,drawsthesuperfluousimagination.One'sauntshavebeentoRomeandeveryonehasanunclewhowaslastheardof—poorman—inRangoon.Hewillnevercomebackanymore.ButitisthegovernesseswhostarttheGreekmyth.Lookatthatforahead(theysay)—nose,yousee,straightasadart,curls,eyebrows—everythingappropriatetomanlybeautywhilehislegsandarmshavelinesonthemwhichindicateaperfectdegreeofdevelopment—theGreekscaringforthebodyasmuchasfortheface.AndtheGreekscouldpaintfruitsothatbirdspeckedatit.FirstyoureadXenophonthenEuripides.Oneday—thatwasanoccasion,byGod—whatpeoplehavesaidappearstohavesenseinit"theGreekspirit"theGreekthis,that,andtheotherthoughitisabsurd,bytheway,tosaythatanyGreekcomesnearShakespeare.Thepointis,however,thatwehavebeenbroughtupinanillusion.
Jacob,nodoubt,thoughtsomethinginthisfashion,theDailyMailcrumpledinhishandhislegsextendedtheverypictureofboredom.
"Butit'sthewaywe'rebroughtup,"hewenton.
Anditallseemedtohimverydistasteful.Somethingoughttobedoneaboutit.Andfrombeingmoderatelydepressedhebecamelikeamanabouttobeexecuted.ClaraDurranthadlefthimatapartytotalktoanAmericancalledPilchard.AndhehadcomeallthewaytoGreeceandlefther.Theyworeevening-dresses,andtalkednonsense—whatdamnednonsense—andheputouthishandfortheGlobeTrotter,aninternationalmagazinewhichissuppliedfreeofchargetotheproprietorsofhotels.
InspiteofitsramshackleconditionmodernGreeceishighlyadvancedintheelectrictramwaysystem,sothatwhileJacobsatinthehotelsitting-roomthetramsclanked,chimed,rang,rang,rangimperiouslytogetthedonkeysoutoftheway,andoneoldwomanwhorefusedtobudge,beneaththewindows.Thewholeofcivilizationwasbeingcondemned.
Thewaiterwasquiteindifferenttothattoo.Aristotle,adirtyman,carnivorouslyinterestedinthebodyoftheonlyguestnowoccupyingtheonlyarm-chair,cameintotheroomostentatiously,putsomethingdown,putsomethingstraight,andsawthatJacobwasstillthere.
"Ishallwanttobecalledearlyto-morrow,"saidJacob,overhisshoulder."IamgoingtoOlympia."
Thisgloom,thissurrendertothedarkwaterswhichlapusabout,isamoderninvention.Perhaps,asCruttendonsaid,wedonotbelieveenough.Ourfathersatanyratehadsomethingtodemolish.Sohaveweforthematterofthat,thoughtJacob,crumplingtheDailyMailinhishand.HewouldgointoParliamentandmakefinespeeches—butwhatusearefinespeechesandParliament,onceyousurrenderaninchtotheblackwaters?Indeedtherehasneverbeenanyexplanationoftheebbandflowinourveins—ofhappinessandunhappiness.Thatrespectabilityandeveningpartieswhereonehastodress,andwretchedslumsatthebackofGray'sInn—somethingsolid,immovable,andgrotesque—isatthebackofit,Jacobthoughtprobable.ButthentherewastheBritishEmpirewhichwasbeginningtopuzzlehimnorwashealtogetherinfavourofgivingHomeRuletoIreland.WhatdidtheDailyMailsayaboutthat?
Forhehadgrowntobeaman,andwasabouttobeimmersedinthings—asindeedthechambermaid,emptyinghisbasinupstairs,fingeringkeys,studs,pencils,andbottlesoftabloidsstrewnonthedressing-table,wasaware.
ThathehadgrowntobeamanwasafactthatFlorindaknew,asshekneweverything,byinstinct.
AndBettyFlandersevennowsuspectedit,asshereadhisletter,postedatMilan,"Tellingme,"shecomplainedtoMrs.Jarvis,"reallynothingthatIwanttoknow"butshebroodedoverit.
FannyElmerfeltittodesperation.Forhewouldtakehisstickandhishatandwouldwalktothewindow,andlookperfectlyabsent-mindedandverysterntoo,shethought.
"Iamgoing,"hewouldsay,"tocadgeamealofBonamy."
"Anyhow,IcandrownmyselfintheThames,"Fannycried,asshehurriedpasttheFoundlingHospital.
"ButtheDailyMailisn'ttobetrusted,"Jacobsaidtohimself,lookingaboutforsomethingelsetoread.Andhesighedagain,beingindeedsoprofoundlygloomythatgloommusthavebeenlodgedinhimtocloudhimatanymoment,whichwasoddinamanwhoenjoyedthingsso,wasnotmuchgiventoanalysis,butwashorriblyromantic,ofcourse,Bonamythought,inhisroomsinLincoln'sInn.
"Hewillfallinlove,"thoughtBonamy."SomeGreekwomanwithastraightnose."
ItwastoBonamythatJacobwrotefromPatras—toBonamywhocouldn'tloveawomanandneverreadafoolishbook.
Thereareveryfewgoodbooksafterall,forwecan'tcountprofusehistories,travelsinmulecartstodiscoverthesourcesoftheNile,orthevolubilityoffiction.
Ilikebookswhosevirtueisalldrawntogetherinapageortwo.Ilikesentencesthatdon'tbudgethougharmiescrossthem.Ilikewordstobehard—suchwereBonamy'sviews,andtheywonhimthehostilityofthosewhosetasteisallforthefreshgrowthsofthemorning,whothrowupthewindow,andfindthepoppiesspreadinthesun,andcan'tforbearashoutofjubilationattheastonishingfertilityofEnglishliterature.ThatwasnotBonamy'swayatall.Thathistasteinliteratureaffectedhisfriendships,andmadehimsilent,secretive,fastidious,andonlyquiteathiseasewithoneortwoyoungmenofhisownwayofthinking,wasthechargeagainsthim.
ButthenJacobFlanderswasnotatallofhisownwayofthinking—farfromit,Bonamysighed,layingthethinsheetsofnotepaperonthetableandfallingintothought
