2
On Monday morning Teresa had a little talk with Guy before he went away—after all, he was but a fantastic little creature, powerless to hurt her; and he was suffering.
“Don’t be cross with me, Guy,” she said, laying her hand on his sleeve; “it’s so difficult to feel ... to feel as you want me to ... you see, it’s so difficult with some one one has known so many years; besides, you know, you can’t have it both ways,” and she smiled.
“How do you mean?” he asked sulkily.
“Well, you see, you’re a poet. We take poetry seriously, but sometimes we ... well, we smile a little at poets. Sub specie æternitatis—isn’t that the expression? You are sub specie æternitatis, and the worst of being under that species is that both one’s value and one’s values are apt to be ... well, snowed over by the present. Milton’s daughters, at the actual moment that they were grumbling about having to have Paradise Lost dictated to them, were really quite justified—the darning of their fichus or ... or young Praise-the-Lord Simpkins waiting for them by the stile were much more important at that moment. It’s only afterwards, when all these things—the young man, the stile and the fichus—have turned long ago into dust, and Paradise Lost grows more glorious every year, that they turn into frivolous, deplorable fools. You can’t have it both ways, old Guy.”
Her instinct had been true—this was the only possible balm.
Now, at last, he knew what she really thought of him—she mentioned him in the same breath with Milton; she thought him a genius.
He felt wildly happy and excited, but, of course, he did not allow this to show in his face.
Then he looked at her: the pointed arch her mouth went into when she smiled; the beautiful oval teeth, the dark, rather weary eyes, for the moment a tender, slightly quizzical smile lurking in their corners ... oh! he wanted this creature for his own; he must get her.
“What about this thing you’re writing?” he asked with a little gulp.
“What thing?”
“Concha said you were writing something. What is it ... a ‘strong’ novel?”
“It’s ... it’s historical, I suppose.”
“Oh, I see—‘historical fiction.’”
“It isn’t fiction at all; it’s a play.”
“Well, anyway, may I read it?”
“Oh no! It isn’t finished ... it....”
“We must get it acted, when it is.”
“Oh, no!” and she shrank back, as if he had threatened to strike her.
“Of course it must be acted; it’s much better than having to struggle with publishers, that’s the devil—cracking one’s knuckles against the Bodley Head, tilting with Mr. Heinemann’s Windmill, foundering in Mr. Murray’s Ship ... it’s....”
“But nothing would induce me to have it either published or acted. It’s just for myself.”
“Oh, but you’ll change your mind when it’s finished—it’s biological, one can’t help it; the act of parturition isn’t complete till the thing is published or produced—you’ll see. I was up at Cambridge with the chap who has started this company of strolling players—they’re very ‘cultured’ and ‘pure’ and all that sort of thing, but they don’t act badly. If you send it to him, I’ll tell him he must produce it. They might come and do it here—on the lawn.”
“No! no! no!” she cried in terror, “I couldn’t bear it. I don’t want it acted at all.”
He looked at her, a little impishly: “You mark my words, it will be acted ... here on the lawn.”