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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 shining moon。 We passed Cardcaster Place。 Perhaps
old Wardingham； that pillar of the old Conservatives； was there；
fretting over his unsuccessful struggle with our young Toryism。
Little he recked of this new turn of the wheel and how it would
confirm his contempt of all our novelties。 Perhaps some faint
intimation drew him to the window to see behind the stems of the
young fir trees that bordered his domain； the little string of
lighted carriage windows gliding southward。 。 。 。
Suddenly I began to realise just what it was we were doing。
And now； indeed； I knew what London had been to me； London where I
had been born and educated； the slovenly mother of my mind and all
my ambitions； London and the empire！ It seemed to me we must be
going out to a world that was utterly empty。 All our significance
fell from usand before us was no meaning any more。 We were
leaving London； my hand； which had gripped so hungrily upon its
complex life； had been forced from it； my fingers left their hold。
That was over。 I should never have a voice in public affairs again。
The inexorable unwritten law which forbids overt scandal sentenced
me。 We were going out to a new life； a life that appeared in that
moment to be a mere shrivelled remnant of me； a mere residuum of
sheltering and feeding and seeing amidst alien scenery and the sound
of unfamiliar tongues。 We were going to live cheaply in a foreign
place； so cut off that I meet now the merest stray tourist； the
commonest tweed…clad stranger with a mixture of shyness and hunger。 。 。 。
And suddenly all the schemes I was leaving appeared fine and
adventurous and hopeful as they had never done before。 How great
was this purpose I had relinquished； this bold and subtle remaking
of the English will！ I had doubted so many things； and now suddenly
I doubted my unimportance； doubted my right to this suicidal
abandonment。 Was I not a trust