CHAPTER TWELVE

aboutJacob'scharacter,notforthefirsttime. Thetroublewasthisromanticveininhim."Butmixedwiththestupiditywhichleadshimintotheseabsurdpredicaments,"thoughtBonamy,"thereissomething—something"—hesighed,forhewasfonderofJacobthanofanyoneintheworld. Jacobwenttothewindowandstoodwithhishandsinhispockets.TherehesawthreeGreeksinkiltsthemastsofshipsidleorbusypeopleofthelowerclassesstrollingorsteppingoutbriskly,orfallingintogroupsandgesticulatingwiththeirhands.Theirlackofconcernforhimwasnotthecauseofhisgloombutsomemoreprofoundconviction—itwasnotthathehimselfhappenedtobelonely,butthatallpeopleare. Yetnextday,asthetrainslowlyroundedahillonthewaytoOlympia,theGreekpeasantwomenwereoutamongthevinestheoldGreekmenweresittingatthestations,sippingsweetwine.AndthoughJacobremainedgloomyhehadneversuspectedhowtremendouslypleasantitistobealoneoutofEnglandonone'sowncutofffromthewholething.ThereareverysharpbarehillsonthewaytoOlympiaandbetweenthemblueseaintriangularspaces.AlittleliketheCornishcoast.Wellnow,togowalkingbyoneselfallday—togetontothattrackandfollowitupbetweenthebushes—oraretheysmalltrees?—tothetopofthatmountainfromwhichonecanseehalfthenationsofantiquity— "Yes,"saidJacob,forhiscarriagewasempty,"let'slookatthemap."Blameitorpraiseit,thereisnodenyingthewildhorseinus.Togallopintemperatelyfallonthesandtiredouttofeeltheearthspintohave—positively—arushoffriendshipforstonesandgrasses,asifhumanitywereover,andasformenandwomen,letthemgohang—thereisnogettingoverthefactthatthisdesireseizesusprettyoften. TheeveningairslightlymovedthedirtycurtainsinthehotelwindowatOlympia. "Iamfullofloveforeveryone,"thoughtMrs.WentworthWilliams,"—forthepoormostofall—forthepeasantscomingbackintheeveningwiththeirburdens.Andeverythingissoftandvagueandverysad.Itissad,itissad.Buteverythinghasmeaning,"thoughtSandraWentworthWilliams,raisingherheadalittleandlookingverybeautiful,tragic,andexalted."Onemustloveeverything." Sheheldinherhandalittlebookconvenientfortravelling—storiesbyTchekov—asshestood,veiled,inwhite,inthewindowofthehotelatOlympia.Howbeautifultheeveningwas!andherbeautywasitsbeauty.ThetragedyofGreecewasthetragedyofallhighsouls.Theinevitablecompromise.Sheseemedtohavegraspedsomething.Shewouldwriteitdown.Andmovingtothetablewhereherhusbandsatreadingsheleantherchininherhandsandthoughtofthepeasants,ofsuffering,ofherownbeauty,oftheinevitablecompromise,andofhowshewouldwriteitdown.NordidEvanWilliamssayanythingbrutal,banal,orfoolishwhenheshuthisbookandputitawaytomakeroomfortheplatesofsoupwhichwerenowbeingplacedbeforethem.Onlyhisdroopingbloodhoundeyesandhisheavysallowcheeksexpressedhismelancholytolerance,hisconvictionthatthoughforcedtolivewithcircumspectionanddeliberationhecouldneverpossiblyachieveanyofthoseobjectswhich,asheknew,aretheonlyonesworthpursuing.Hisconsiderationwasflawlesshissilenceunbroken. "Everythingseemstomeansomuch,"saidSandra.Butwiththesoundofherownvoicethespellwasbroken.Sheforgotthepeasants.Onlythereremainedwithherasenseofherownbeauty,andinfront,luckily,therewasalooking-glass. "Iamverybeautiful,"shethought. Sheshiftedherhatslightly.Herhusbandsawherlookingintheglassandagreedthatbeautyisimportantitisaninheritanceonecannotignoreit.Butitisabarrieritisinfactratherabore.Sohedrankhissoupandkepthiseyesfixeduponthewindow. "Quails,"saidMrs.WentworthWilliamslanguidly."Andthengoat,Isupposeandthen…" "Caramelcustardpresumably,"saidherhusbandinthesamecadence,withhistoothpickoutalready. Shelaidherspoonuponherplate,andhersoupwastakenawayhalffinished.NeverdidshedoanythingwithoutdignityforherswastheEnglishtypewhichissoGreek,savethatvillagershavetouchedtheirhatstoit,thevicaragereveresitandupper-gardenersandunder-gardenersrespectfullystraightentheirbacksasshecomesdownthebroadterraceonSundaymorning,dallyingatthestoneurnswiththePrimeMinistertopickarose—which,perhaps,shewastryingtoforget,ashereyewanderedroundthedining-roomoftheinnatOlympia,seekingthewindowwhereherbooklay,whereafewminutesagoshehaddiscoveredsomething—somethingveryprofoundithadbeen,aboutloveandsadnessandthepeasants. ButitwasEvanwhosighednotindespairnorindeedinrebellion.But,beingthemostambitiousofmenandtemperamentallythemostsluggish,hehadaccomplishednothinghadthepoliticalhistoryofEnglandathisfinger-ends,andlivingmuchincompanywithChatham,Pitt,Burke,andCharlesJamesFoxcouldnothelpcontrastinghimselfandhisagewiththemandtheirs."Yetthereneverwasatimewhengreatmenaremoreneeded,"hewasinthehabitofsayingtohimself,withasigh.HerehewaspickinghisteethinaninnatOlympia.Hehaddone.ButSandra'seyeswandered. "Thosepinkmelonsaresuretobedangerous,"hesaidgloomily.Andashespokethedooropenedandincameayoungmaninagreychecksuit. "Beautifulbutdangerous,"saidSandra,immediatelytalkingtoherhusbandinthepresenceofathirdperson.("Ah,anEnglishboyontour,"shethoughttoherself.) AndEvanknewallthattoo. Yes,heknewallthatandheadmiredher.Verypleasant,hethought,tohaveaffairs.Butforhimself,whatwithhisheight(Napoleonwasfivefeetfour,heremembered),hisbulk,hisinabilitytoimposehisownpersonality(andyetgreatmenareneededmorethanevernow,hesighed),itwasuseless.Hethrewawayhiscigar,wentuptoJacobandaskedhim,withasimplesortofsinceritywhichJacobliked,whetherhehadcomestraightoutfromEngland. "HowveryEnglish!"Sandralaughedwhenthewaitertoldthemnextmorningthattheyounggentlemanhadleftatfivetoclimbthemountain."Iamsureheaskedyouforabath?"atwhichthewaitershookhishead,andsaidthathewouldaskthemanager. "Youdonotunderstand,"laughedSandra."Nevermind." Stretchedonthetopofthemountain,quitealone,Jacobenjoyedhimselfimmensely.Probablyhehadneverbeensohappyinthewholeofhislife. ButatdinnerthatnightMr.WilliamsaskedhimwhetherhewouldliketoseethepaperthenMrs.Williamsaskedhim(astheystrolledontheterracesmoking—andhowcouldherefusethatman'scigar?)whetherhe'dseenthetheatrebymoonlightwhetherheknewEverardSherbornwhetherhereadGreekandwhether(Evanrosesilentlyandwentin)ifhehadtosacrificeoneitwouldbetheFrenchliteratureortheRussian? "Andnow,"wroteJacobinhislettertoBonamy,"Ishallhavetoreadhercursedbook"—herTchekov,hemeant,forshehadlentithim. Thoughtheopinionisunpopularitseemslikelyenoughthatbareplaces,fieldstoothickwithstonestobeploughed,tossingsea-meadowshalf-waybetweenEnglandandAmerica,suitusbetterthancities. Thereissomethingabsoluteinuswhichdespisesqualification.Itisthiswhichisteasedandtwistedinsociety.Peoplecometogetherinaroom."Sodelighted,"sayssomebody,"tomeetyou,"andthatisalie.Andthen:"Ienjoythespringmorethantheautumnnow.Onedoes,Ithink,asonegetsolder."Forwomenarealways,always,alwaystalkingaboutwhatonefeels,andiftheysay"asonegetsolder,"theymeanyoutoreplywithsomethingquiteoffthepoint. JacobsathimselfdowninthequarrywheretheGreekshadcutmarbleforthetheatre.ItishotworkwalkingupGreekhillsatmidday.Thewildredcyclamenwasouthehadseenthelittletortoiseshobblingfromclumptoclumptheairsmeltstrongandsuddenlysweet,andthesun,strikingonjaggedsplintersofmarble,wasverydazzlingtotheeyes.Composed,commanding,contemptuous,alittlemelancholy,andboredwithanaugustkindofboredom,therehesatsmokinghispipe. Bonamywouldhavesaidthatthiswasthesortofthingthatmadehimuneasy—whenJacobgotintothedoldrums,lookedlikeaMargatefishermanoutofajob,oraBritishAdmiral.Youcouldn'tmakehimunderstandathingwhenhewasinamoodlikethat.Onehadbetterleavehimalone.Hewasdull.Hewasapttobegrumpy. Hewasupveryearly,lookingatthestatueswithhisBaedeker. SandraWentworthWilliams,rangingtheworldbeforebreakfastinquestofadventureorapointofview,allinwhite,notsoverytallperhaps,butuncommonlyupright—SandraWilliamsgotJacob'sheadexactlyonalevelwiththeheadoftheHermesofPraxiteles.Thecomparisonwasallinhisfavour.ButbeforeshecouldsayasinglewordhehadgoneoutoftheMuseumandlefther. Still,aladyoffashiontravelswithmorethanonedress,andifwhitesuitsthemorninghour,perhapssandyyellowwithpurplespotsonit,ablackhat,andavolumeofBalzac,suittheevening.ThusshewasarrangedontheterracewhenJacobcamein.Verybeautifulshelooked.Withherhandsfoldedshemused,seemedtolistentoherhusband,seemedtowatchthepeasantscomingdownwithbrushwoodontheirbacks,seemedtonoticehowthehillchangedfrombluetoblack,seemedtodiscriminatebetweentruthandfalsehood,Jacobthought,andcrossedhislegssuddenly,observingtheextremeshabbinessofhistrousers. "Butheisverydistinguishedlooking,"Sandradecided. AndEvanWilliams,lyingbackinhischairwiththepaperonhisknees,enviedthem.Thebestthinghecoulddowouldbetopublish,withMacmillans,hismonographupontheforeignpolicyofChatham.Butconfoundthistumid,queasyfeeling—thisrestlessness,swelling,andheat—itwasjealousy!jealousy!jealousy!whichhehadswornnevertofeelagain. "ComewithustoCorinth,Flanders,"hesaidwithmorethanhisusualenergy,stoppingbyJacob'schair.HewasrelievedbyJacob'sreply,orratherbythesolid,direct,ifshymannerinwhichhesaidthathewouldlikeverymuchtocomewiththemtoCorinth. "Hereisafellow,"thoughtEvanWilliams,"whomightdoverywellinpolitics." "IintendtocometoGreeceeveryyearsolongasIlive,"JacobwrotetoBonamy."ItistheonlychanceIcanseeofprotectingoneselffromcivilization." "Goodnessknowswhathemeansbythat,"Bonamysighed.Forasheneversaidaclumsythinghimself,thesedarksayingsofJacob'smadehimfeelapprehensive,yetsomehowimpressed,hisownturnbeingallforthedefinite,theconcrete,andtherational. NothingcouldbemuchsimplerthanwhatSandrasaidasshedescendedtheAcro-Corinth,keepingtothelittlepath,whileJacobstrod