THE NEW MACHIAVELLI

CHAPTER THE SECOND
THE IMPOSSIBLE POSITION
1

To any one who did not know of that glowing secret between Isabel

and myself, I might well have appeared at that time the most

successful and enviable of men. I had recovered rapidly from an

uncongenial start in political life; I had become a considerable

force through the BLUE WEEKLY, and was shaping an increasingly

influential body of opinion; I had re-entered Parliament with quite

dramatic distinction, and in spite of a certain faltering on the

part of the orthodox Conservatives towards the bolder elements in

our propaganda, I had loyal and unenvious associates who were making

me a power in the party. People were coming to our group,

understandings were developing. It was clear we should play a

prominent part in the next general election, and that, given a

Conservative victory, I should be assured of office. The world

opened out to me brightly and invitingly. Great schemes took shape

in my mind, always more concrete, always more practicable; the years

ahead seemed falling into order, shining with the credible promise

of immense achievement.

And at the heart of it all, unseen and unsuspected, was the secret

of my relations with Isabel-like a seed that germinates and

thrusts, thrusts relentlessly.

From the onset of the Handitch contest onward, my meetings with her

had been more and more pervaded by the discussion of our situation.

It had innumerable aspects. It was very present to us that we

wanted to be together as much as possible-we were beginning to long

very much for actual living together in the same house, so that one

could come as it were carelessly-unawares-upon the other, busy

perhaps about some trivial thing. We wanted to feel each other in

the daily atmosphere. Preceding our imperatively sterile passion,

you must remember, outside it, altogether greater than it so far as

our individual lives were concerned, there had grown and still grew

an enormous affection and intellectual sympathy between us. We

brought all our impressions and all our ideas to each other, to see

them in each other's light. It is hard to convey that quality of

intellectual unison to any one who has not experienced it. I

thought more and more in terms of conversation with Isabel; her

possible comments upon things would flash into my mind, oh!-with

the very sound of her voice.

I remember, too, the odd effect of seeing her in the distance going

about Handitch, like any stranger canvasser; the queer emotion of

her approach along the street, the greeting as she passed. The

morning of the polling she vanished from the constituency. I saw

her for an instant in the passage behind our Committee rooms.

"Going?" said I.

She nodded.

"Stay it out. I want you to see the fun. I remember-the other

time."

She didn't answer for a moment or so, and stood with face averted.

"It's Margaret's show," she said abruptly. "If I see her smiling

there like a queen by your side-! She did-last time. I

remember." She caught at a sob and dashed her hand across her face

impatiently. "Jealous fool, mean and petty, jealous fool!…

Good luck, old man, to you! You're going to win. But I don't want

to see the end of it all the same…"

"Good-bye!" said I, clasping her hand as some supporter appeared in

the passage…

I came back to London victorious, and a little flushed and coarse

with victory; and so soon as I could break away I went to Isabel's

flat and found her white and worn, with the stain of secret weeping

about her eyes. I came into the room to her and shut the door.

"You said I'd win," I said, and held out my arms.

She hugged me closely for a moment.

"My dear," I whispered, "it's nothing-without you-nothing!"

We didn't speak for some seconds. Then she slipped from my hold.

"Look!" she said, smiling like winter sunshine. "I've had in all

the morning papers-the pile of them, and you-resounding."

"It's more than I dared hope."

"Or I."

She stood for a moment still smiling bravely, and then she was

sobbing in my arms. "The bigger you are-the more you show," she

said-" the more we are parted. I know, I know-"

I held her close to me, making no answer.

Presently she became still. "Oh, well," she said, and wiped her

eyes and sat down on the little sofa by the fire; and I sat down

beside her.

"I didn't know all there was in love," she said, staring at the

coals, "when we went love-making."

I put my arm behind her and took a handful of her dear soft hair in

my hand and kissed it.

"You've done a great thing this time," she said. "Handitch will

make you."

"It opens big chances," I said. "But why are you weeping, dear

one?"

"Envy," she said, "and love."

"You're not lonely?"

"I've plenty to do-and lots of people."

"Well?"

"I want you."

"You've got me."

She put her arm about me and kissed me. "I want you," she said,

"just as if I had nothing of you. You don't understand-how a woman

wants a man. I thought once if I just gave myself to you it would

be enough. It was nothing-it was just a step across the threshold.

My dear, every moment you are away I ache for you-ache! I want to

be about when it isn't love-making or talk. I want to be doing

things for you, and watching you when you're not thinking of me.

All those safe, careless, intimate things. And something else-"

She stopped. "Dear, I don't want to bother you. I just want you to

know I love you…"

She caught my head in her hands and kissed it, then stood up

abruptly.

I looked up at her, a little perplexed.

"Dear heart," said I, "isn't this enough? You're my councillor, my

colleague, my right hand, the secret soul of my life-"

"And I want to darn your socks," she said, smiling back at me.

"You're insatiable."

She smiled "No," she said. "I'm not insatiable, Master. But I'm a

woman in love. And I'm finding out what I want, and what is

necessary to me-and what I can't have. That's all."

"We get a lot."

"We want a lot. You and I are greedy people for the things we like,

Master. It's very evident we've got nearly all we can ever have of

one another-and I'm not satisfied."

"What more is there?

"For you-very little. I wonder. For me-every thing. Yes-

everything. You didn't mean it, Master; you didn't know any more

than I did when I began, but love between a man and a woman is

sometimes very one-sided. Fearfully one-sided! That's all…"

"Don't YOU ever want children?" she said abruptly.

"I suppose I do."

"You don't!"

"I haven't thought of them."

"A man doesn't, perhaps. But I have… I want them-like

hunger. YOUR children, and home with you. Really, continually you!

That's the trouble… I can't have 'em, Master, and I can't

have you."

She was crying, and through her tears she laughed.

"I'm going to make a scene," she said, "and get this over. I'm so

discontented and miserable; I've got to tell you. It would come

between us if I didn't. I'm in love with you, with everything-with

all my brains. I'll pull through all right. I'll be good, Master,

never you fear. But to-day I'm crying out with all my being. This

election-You're going up; you're going on. In these papers-you're

a great big fact. It's suddenly come home to me. At the back of my

mind I've always had the idea I was going to have you somehow

presently for myself-I mean to have you to go long tramps with, to

keep house for, to get meals for, to watch for of an evening. It's

a sort of habitual background to my thought of you. And it's

nonsense-utter nonsense!" She stopped. She was crying and

choking. "And the child, you know-the child!"

I was troubled beyond measure, but Handitch and its intimations were

clear and strong.

"We can't have that," I said.

"No," she said, "we can't have that."

"We've got our own things to do."

"YOUR things," she said.

"Aren't they yours too?"

"Because of you," she said.

"Aren't they your very own things?"

"Women don't have that sort of very own thing. Indeed, it's true!

And think! You've been down there preaching the goodness of

children, telling them the only good thing in a state is happy,

hopeful children, working to free mothers and children-"

"And we give our own children to do it?" I said.

"Yes," she said. "And sometimes I think it's too much to give-too

much altogether… Children get into a woman's brain-when she

mustn't have them, especially when she must never hope for them.

Think of the child we might have now!-the little creature with

soft, tender skin, and little hands and little feet! At times it

haunts me. It comes and says, Why wasn't I given life? I can hear

it in the night… The world is full of such little ghosts,

dear lover-little things that asked for life and were refused.

They clamour to me. It's like a little fist beating at my heart.

Love children, beautiful children. Little cold hands that tear at

my heart! Oh, my heart and my lord!" She was holding my arm with

both her hands and weeping against it, and now she drew herself to

my shoulder and wept and sobbed in my embrace. "I shall never sit

with your child on my knee and you beside me-never, and Iam a woman

and your lover!…"