THE NEW MACHIAVELLI

7

The whole world had changed for Isabel and me; and we tried to

pretend that nothing had changed except a small matter between us.

We believed quite honestly at that time that it was possible to keep

this thing that had happened from any reaction at all, save perhaps

through some magically enhanced vigour in our work, upon the world

about us! Seen in retrospect, one can realise the absurdity of this

belief; within a week I realised it; but that does not alter the

fact that we did believe as much, and that people who are deeply in

love and unable to marry will continue to believe so to the very end

of time. They will continue to believe out of existence every

consideration that separates them until they have come together.

Then they will count the cost, as we two had to do.

Iam telling a story, and not propounding theories in this book; and

chiefly Iam telling of the ideas and influences and emotions that

have happened to me-me as a sort of sounding board for my world.

The moralist is at liberty to go over my conduct with his measure

and say, "At this point or at that you went wrong, and you ought to

have done"-so-and-so. The point of interest to the statesman is

that it didn't for a moment occur to us to do so-and-so when the

time for doing it came. It amazes me now to think how little either

of us troubled about the established rights or wrongs of the

situation. We hadn't an atom of respect for them, innate or

acquired. The guardians of public morals will say we were very bad

people; I submit in defence that they are very bad guardians-

provocative guardians… And when at last there came a claim

against us that had an effective validity for us, we were in the

full tide of passionate intimacy.

I had a night of nearly sleepless perplexity after Margaret's

return. She had suddenly presented herself to me like something

dramatically recalled, fine, generous, infinitely capable of

feeling. I was amazed how much I had forgotten her. In my contempt

for vulgarised and conventionalised honour I had forgotten that for

me there was such a reality as honour. And here it was, warm and

near to me, living, breathing, unsuspecting. Margaret's pride was

my honour, that I had had no right even to imperil.

I do not now remember if I thought at that time of going to Isabel

and putting this new aspect of the case before her. Perhaps I did.

Perhaps I may have considered even then the possibility of ending

what had so freshly and passionately begun. If I did, it vanished

next day at the sight of her. Whatever regrets came in the

darkness, the daylight brought an obstinate confidence in our

resolution again. We would, we declared, "pull the thing off."

Margaret must not know. Margaret should not know. If Margaret did

not know, then no harm whatever would be done. We tried to sustain

that…

For a brief time we had been like two people in a magic cell,

magically cut off from the world and full of a light of its own, and

then we began to realise that we were not in the least cut off, that

the world was all about us and pressing in upon us, limiting us,

threatening us, resuming possession of us. I tried to ignore the

injury to Margaret of her unreciprocated advances. I tried to

maintain to myself that this hidden love made no difference to the

now irreparable breach between husband and wife. But I never spoke

of it to Isabel or let her see that aspect of our case. How could

I? The time for that had gone…

Then in new shapes and relations came trouble. Distressful elements

crept in by reason of our unavoidable furtiveness; we ignored them,

hid them from each other, and attempted to hide them from ourselves.

Successful love is a thing of abounding pride, and we had to be

secret. It was delightful at first to be secret, a whispering, warm

conspiracy; then presently it became irksome and a little shameful.

Her essential frankness of soul was all against the masks and

falsehoods that many women would have enjoyed. Together in our

secrecy we relaxed, then in the presence of other people again it

was tiresome to have to watch for the careless, too easy phrase, to

snatch back one's hand from the limitless betrayal of a light,

familiar touch.

Love becomes a poor thing, at best a poor beautiful thing, if it

develops no continuing and habitual intimacy. We were always

meeting, and most gloriously loving and beginning-and then we had

to snatch at remorseless ticking watches, hurry to catch trains, and

go back to this or that. That is all very well for the intrigues of

idle people perhaps, but not for an intense personal relationship.

It is like lighting a candle for the sake of lighting it, over and

over again, and each time blowing it out. That, no doubt, must be

very amusing to children playing with the matches, but not to people

who love warm light, and want it in order to do fine and honourable

things together. We had achieved-I give the ugly phrase that

expresses the increasing discolouration in my mind-"illicit

intercourse." To end at that, we now perceived, wasn't in our

style. But where were we to end?…

Perhaps we might at this stage have given it up. I think if we

could have seen ahead and around us we might have done so. But the

glow of our cell blinded us… I wonder what might have

happened if at that time we had given it up… We propounded

it, we met again in secret to discuss it, and our overpowering

passion for one another reduced that meeting to absurdity…

Presently the idea of children crept between us. It came in from

all our conceptions of life and public service; it was, we found, in

the quality of our minds that physical love without children is a

little weak, timorous, more than a little shameful. With

imaginative people there very speedily comes a time when that

realisation is inevitable. We hadn't thought of that before-it

isn't natural to think of that before. We hadn't known. There is

no literature in English dealing with such things.

There is a necessary sequence of phases in love. These came in

their order, and with them, unanticipated tarnishings on the first

bright perfection of our relations. For a time these developing

phases were no more than a secret and private trouble between us,

little shadows spreading by imperceptible degrees across that vivid

and luminous cell.