Island - Aldous Huxley [123]
“Good riddance,” said Susila.
“Don’t you love your dear Queen?”
“She makes my blood boil.”
“So stamp it out,” Will chanted teasingly.
“You’re quite right,” she agreed, with a laugh. “But unfortunately this was an occasion when it just wasn’t feasible to do a Rakshasi Hornpipe.” Her face brightened with a sudden flash of mischief, and without warning she punched him, surprisingly hard, in the ribs. “There!” she said. “Now I feel much better.”
14
SHE STARTED THE MOTOR AND THEY DROVE OFF—DOWN TO THE bypass, up again to the high road beyond the other end of the village, and on into the compound of the Experimental Station. Susila pulled up at a small thatched bungalow like all the others. They climbed the six steps that led up to the veranda and entered a whitewashed living room.
To the left was a wide window with a hammock slung between the two wooden pillars at either side of the projecting bay. “For you,” she said, pointing to the hammock. “You can put your leg up.” And when Will had lowered himself into the net, “What shall we talk about?” she asked as she pulled up a wicker chair and sat down beside him.
“What about the good, the true and the beautiful? Or maybe,” he grinned, “the ugly, the bad and the even truer.”
“I’d thought,” she said, ignoring his attempt at a witticism, “that we might go on where we left off last time—go on talking about you.”
“That was precisely what I was suggesting—the ugly, the bad and the truer than all official truth.”
“Is this just an exhibition of your conversational style?” she asked. “Or do you really want to talk about yourself?”
“Really,” he assured her, “desperately. Just as desperately as I don’t want to talk about myself. Hence, as you may have noticed, my unflagging interest in art, science, philosophy, politics, literature—any damned thing rather than the only thing that ultimately has any importance.”
There was a long silence. Then in a tone of casual reminiscence, Susila began to talk about Wells Cathedral, about the calling of the jackdaws, about the white swans floating between the reflections of the floating clouds. In a few minutes he too was floating.
“I was very happy all the time I was at Wells,” she said. “Wonderfully happy. And so were you, weren’t you?”
Will made no answer. He was remembering those days in the green valley, years ago, before he and Molly were married, before they were lovers. What peace! What a solid, living, maggotless world of springing grass and flowers! And between them had flowed the kind of natural, undistorted feeling that he hadn’t experienced since those far-off days when Aunt Mary was alive. The only person he had ever really loved—and here, in Molly, was her successor. What blessedness! Love transposed into another key—but the melody, the rich and subtle harmonies were the same. And then, on the fourth night of their stay, Molly had knocked on the wall that separated their rooms, and he had found her door ajar, had groped his way in darkness to the bed where, conscientiously naked, the Sister of Mercy was doing her best to play the part of the Wife of Love. Doing her best and (how disastrously!) failing.
Suddenly, as happened almost every afternoon, there was a loud rushing of wind and, muffled by distance, a hollow roaring of rain on thick foliage—a roaring that grew louder and louder as the shower approached. A few seconds passed, and then the raindrops were hammering insistently on the windowpanes. Hammering as they had hammered on the windows of his study that day of their last interview. “Do you really mean it, Will?”
The pain and shame of it made him want to cry aloud. He bit his lip.
“What are you thinking of?” Susila asked.
It wasn’t a matter of thinking. He was actually seeing her, actually hearing her voice. “Do you really mean it, Will?” And through the sound of the rain he heard himself answering, “I really mean it.”
On the windowpane—was it here? or was it there, was it then?—the roar had diminished, as the gust spent itself, to a pattering whisper.
“What are you thinking of?