Point Counter Point - Aldous Huxley [73]
Cuthbert looked at his watch. ‘But good God!’ he shouted. ‘It’s twentyfive to one.’ He jumped up. ‘And I promised we’d put in an appearance at Widdicombe’s party. Peter, Willie! Quick march.’
‘But you can’t go,’ protested Lucy. ‘Not so absurdly early.’
‘The call of duty,’ Willie Weaver explained. ‘Stern Daughter of the Voice of God.’ He uttered his little cough of self-approbation.
‘But it’s ridiculous, it’s not permissible.’ She looked from one to another with a kind of angry anxiety. The dread of solitude was chronic with her. And it was always possible, if one sat up another five minutes, that something really amusing might happen. Besides, it was insufferable that people should do things she didn’t want them to do.
‘And we too, I’m afraid,’ said Mary Rampion rising.
Thank heaven, thought Walter. He hoped that Spandrell would follow the general example.
‘But this is impossible!’ cried Lucy. ‘Rampion, I simply cannot allow it.’
Mark Rampion only laughed. These professional sirens! he thought. She left him entirely cold, she repelled him. In desperation Lucy even appealed to the woman of the party.
‘Mrs. Rampion, you must stay. Five minutes more. Only five minutes,’ she coaxed.
In vain. The waiter opened the side door. Furtively they slipped out into the darkness.
‘Why will they insist on going?’ asked Lucy, plaintively.
‘Why will we insist on staying?’ echoed Spandrell. Walter’s heart sank; that meant the man didn’t intend to go. ‘Surely, that’s much more incomprehensible.’
Utterly incomprehensible! On Walter the heat and alcohol were having their usual effects. He was feeling ill as well as miserable. What was the point of sitting on, hopelessly, in this poisonous air? Why not go home at once. Marjorie would be pleased.
‘You, at least, are faithful, Walter.’ Lucy gave him a smile. He decided to postpone his departure. There was a silence.
Cuthbert and his companions had taken a cab. Refusing all invitations, the Rampions had preferred to walk.
‘Thank heaven!’ said Mary as the taxi drove away. ‘That dreadful Arkwright!’
‘Ah, but that woman’s worse,’ said Rampion.’she gives me the creeps. That poor silly little Bidlake boy. Like a rabbit in front of a weasel.’
‘That’s male trade unionism. I rather like her for making you men squirm a bit. Serves you right.’
‘You might as well like cobras.’ Rampion’s zoology was wholly symbolical.
‘But if it’s a matter of creeps, what about Spandrell? He’s like a gargoyle, a demon.’
‘He’s like a silly schoolboy,’ said Rampion emphatically. ‘He’s never grown up. Can’t you see that? He’s a permanent adolescent. Bothering his head about all the things that preoccupy adolescents. Not being able to live, because he’s too busy thinking about death and God and truth and mysticism and all the rest of it; too busy thinking about sins and trying to commit them and being disappointed because he’s not succeeding. It’s deplorable. The man’s a sort of Peter Pan—much worse even than Barrie’s disgusting little abortion, because he’s got stuck at a sillier age. He’s Peter Pan a la Dostoevsky-cum-de Musset-cum-the-Nineties-cum-Bunyan-cum-Byron and the Marquis de Sade. Really deplorable. The more so as he’s potentially a very decent human being.’
Mary laughed. ‘I suppose I shall have to take your word for it.’
‘By the way,’ said Lucy, turning to Spandrell. ‘I had a message from your mother.’ She gave it. Spandrell nodded, but made no comment.
‘And the General?’ he enquired as soon as she had finished speaking. He wanted no more said about his mother.
‘Oh, the General!’ Lucy made a grimace. ‘I had at least half an hour of Military Intelligence this evening. Really, he oughtn’t to be allowed. What about a Society for the Prevention of Generals?’
‘I’m an honorary and original member.’
‘Or why not for the Prevention of the Old, while one was about it?’ Lucy went on. ‘The old really aren’t