I don't want particularly to dwell upon things that are disagreeable for others to read, but I cannot leave them out of my story and get the right proportions of the forces I am balancing.I was no abnormal man, and that world of order we desire to make must be built of such stuff as I was and am and can beget.You cannot have a world of Baileys; it would end in one orderly generation.
Humanity is begotten in Desire, lives by Desire.
"Love which is lust, is the Lamp in the Tomb;Love which is lust, is the Call from the Gloom."I echo Henley.
I suppose the life of celibacy which the active, well-fed, well-exercised and imaginatively stirred young man of the educated classes is supposed to lead from the age of nineteen or twenty, when Nature certainly meant him to marry, to thirty or more, when civilisation permits him to do so, is the most impossible thing in the world.We deal here with facts that are kept secret and obscure, but I doubt for my own part if more than one man out of five in our class satisfies that ideal demand.The rest are even as I was, and Hatherleigh and Esmeer and all the men I knew.I draw no lessons and offer no panacea; I have to tell the quality of life, and this is how it is.This is how it will remain until men and women have the courage to face the facts of life.
I was no systematic libertine, you must understand; things happened to me and desire drove me.Any young man would have served for that Locarno adventure, and after that what had been a mystic and wonderful thing passed rapidly into a gross, manifestly misdirected and complicating one.I can count a meagre tale of five illicit loves in the days of my youth, to include that first experience, and of them all only two were sustained relationships.Besides these five "affairs," on one or two occasions I dipped so low as the inky dismal sensuality of the streets, and made one of those pairs of correlated figures, the woman in her squalid finery sailing homeward, the man modestly aloof and behind, that every night in the London year flit by the score of thousands across the sight of the observant....
How ugly it is to recall; ugly and shameful now without qualification! Yet at the time there was surely something not altogether ugly in it--something that has vanished, some fine thing mortally ailing.
One such occasion I recall as if it were a vision deep down in a pit, as if it had happened in another state of existence to someone else.And yet it is the sort of thing that has happened, once or twice at least, to half the men in London who have been in a position to make it possible.Let me try and give you its peculiar effect.Man or woman, you ought to know of it.
Figure to yourself a dingy room, somewhere in that network of streets that lies about Tottenham Court Road, a dingy bedroom lit by a solitary candle and carpeted with scraps and patches, with curtains of cretonne closing the window, and a tawdry ornament of paper in the grate.I sit on a bed beside a weary-eyed, fair-haired, sturdy young woman, half undressed, who is telling me in broken German something that my knowledge of German is at first inadequate to understand....
I thought she was boasting about her family, and then slowly the meaning came to me.She was a Lett from near Libau in Courland, and she was telling me--just as one tells something too strange for comment or emotion--how her father had been shot and her sister outraged and murdered before her eyes.
It was as if one had dipped into something primordial and stupendous beneath the smooth and trivial surfaces of life.There was I, you know, the promising young don from Cambridge, who wrote quite brilliantly about politics and might presently get into Parliament, with my collar and tie in my hand, and a certain sense of shameful adventure fading out of my mind.
"Ach Gott!" she sighed by way of comment, and mused deeply for a moment before she turned her face to me, as to something forgotten and remembered, and assumed the half-hearted meretricious smile.
"Bin ich eine hubsche?" she asked like one who repeats a lesson.
I was moved to crave her pardon and come away.
"Bin ich eine hubsche?" she asked a little anxiously, laying a detaining hand upon me, and evidently not understanding a word of what I was striving to say.
8
I find it extraordinarily difficult to recall the phases by which Ipassed from my first admiration of Margaret's earnestness and unconscious daintiness to an intimate acquaintance.The earlier encounters stand out clear and hard, but then the impressions become crowded and mingle not only with each other but with all the subsequent developments of relationship, the enormous evolutions of interpretation and comprehension between husband and wife.Dipping into my memories is like dipping into a ragbag, one brings out this memory or that, with no intimation of how they came in time or what led to them and joined them together.And they are all mixed up with subsequent associations, with sympathies and discords, habits of intercourse, surprises and disappointments and discovered misunderstandings.I know only that always my feelings for Margaret were complicatel feelings, woven of many and various strands.
