THE NEW MACHIAVELLI

9

I went to Margaret at last to ask her to marry me, wrought up to the

mood of one who stakes his life on a cast. Separated from her, and

with the resonance of an evening of angry recriminations with Mrs.

Larrimer echoing in my mind, I discovered myself to be quite

passionately in love with Margaret. Last shreds of doubt vanished.

It has always been a feature of our relationship that Margaret

absent means more to me than Margaret present; her memory distils

from its dross and purifies in me. All my criticisms and

qualifications of her vanished into some dark corner of my mind.

She was the lady of my salvation; I must win my way to her or

perish.

I went to her at last, for all that I knew she loved me, in

passionate self-abasement, white and a-tremble. She was staying

with the Rockleys at Woking, for Shena Rockley had been at Bennett

Hall with her and they had resumed a close intimacy; and I went down

to her on an impulse, unheralded. I was kept waiting for some

minutes, I remember, in a little room upon which a conservatory

opened, a conservatory full of pots of large mauve-edged, white

cyclamens in flower. And there was a big lacquer cabinet, a Chinese

thing, I suppose, of black and gold against the red-toned wall. To

this day the thought of Margaret is inseparably bound up with the

sight of a cyclamen's back-turned petals.

She came in, looking pale and drooping rather more than usual. I

suddenly realised that Altiora's hint of a disappointment leading to

positive illness was something more than a vindictive comment. She

closed the door and came across to me and took and dropped my hand

and stood still. "What is it you want with me?" she asked.

The speech I had been turning over and over in my mind on the way

vanished at the sight of her.

"I want to talk to you," I answered lamely.

For some seconds neither of us said a word.

"I want to tell you things about my life," I began.

She answered with a scarcely audible "yes."

"I almost asked you to marry me at Pangbourne," I plunged. "I

didn't. I didn't because-because you had too much to give me."

"Too much!" she echoed, "to give you!" She had lifted her eyes to

my face and the colour was coming into her cheeks.

"Don't misunderstand me," I said hastily. "I want to tell you

things, things you don't know. Don't answer me. I want to tell

you."

She stood before the fireplace with her ultimate answer shining

through the quiet of her face. "Go on," she said, very softly. It

was so pitilessly manifest she was resolved to idealise the

situation whatever I might say. I began walking up and down the

room between those cyclamens and the cabinet. There were little

gold fishermen on the cabinet fishing from little islands that each

had a pagoda and a tree, and there were also men in boats or

something, I couldn't determine what, and some obscure sub-office in

my mind concerned itself with that quite intently. Yet I seem to

have been striving with all my being to get words for the truth of

things. "You see," I emerged, "you make everything possible to me.

You can give me help and sympathy, support, understanding. You know

my political ambitions. You know all that I might do in the world.

I do so intensely want to do constructive things, big things

perhaps, in this wild jumble… Only you don't know a bit what

Iam. I want to tell you what Iam. I'm complex… I'm

streaked."

I glanced at her, and she was regarding me with an expression of

blissful disregard for any meaning I was seeking to convey.

"You see," I said, "I'm a bad man."

She sounded a note of valiant incredulity.

Everything seemed to be slipping away from me. I pushed on to the

ugly facts that remained over from the wreck of my interpretation.

"What has held me back," I said, "is the thought that you could not

possibly understand certain things in my life. Men are not pure as

women are. I have had love affairs. I mean I have had affairs.

Passion-desire. You see, I have had a mistress, I have been

entangled-"

She seemed about to speak, but I interrupted. "I'm not telling

you," I said, "what I meant to tell you. I want you to know clearly

that there is another side to my life, a dirty side. Deliberately I

say, dirty. It didn't seem so at first-"

I stopped blankly. "Dirty," I thought, was the most idiotic choice

of words to have made.

I had never in any tolerable sense of the word been dirty.

"I drifted into this-as men do," I said after a little pause and

stopped again.

She was looking at me with her wide blue eyes.

"Did you imagine," she began, "that I thought you-that I expected-"

"But how can you know?"

"I know. I do know."

"But-" I began.

"I know," she persisted, dropping her eyelids. "Of course I know,"

and nothing could have convinced me more completely that she did not

know.

"All men-" she generalised. "A woman does not understand these

temptations."

I was astonished beyond measure at her way of taking my confession.

…

"Of course," she said, hesitating a little over a transparent

difficulty, "it is all over and past."

"It's all over and past," I answered.

There was a little pause.

"I don't want to know," she said. "None of that seems to matter now

in the slightest degree."

She looked up and smiled as though we had exchanged some acceptable

commonplaces. "Poor dear!" she said, dismissing everything, and put

out her arms, and it seemed to me that I could hear the Lettish girl

in the background-doomed safety valve of purity in this intolerable

world-telling something in indistinguishable German-I know not

what nor why…

I took Margaret in my arms and kissed her. Her eyes were wet with

tears. She clung to me and was near, I felt, to sobbing.

"I have loved you," she whispered presently, "Oh! ever since we met

in Misterton-six years and more ago."