So I love chastity now, because it is the peace that comes of fucking. I love being chaste now. I love it as snowdrops love the snow. I love this chastity, which is the pause of peace of our fucking, between us now like a snowdrop of forked white fire. And when the real spring comes, when the drawing together comes, then we can fuck the little flame brilliant and yellow, brilliant. But not now, not yet! Now is the time to be chaste, it is so good to be chaste, like a river of cool water in my soul. I love the chastity now that it flows between us. It is like fresh water and rain. How can men want wearisomely to philander. What a misery to be like Don Juan, and impotent ever to fuck oneself into peace, and the little flame alight, impotent and unable to be chaste in the cool between-whiles, as by a river.

  Well, so many words, because I can’t touch you. If I could sleep with my arms round you, the ink could stay in the bottle. We could be chaste together just as we can fuck together. But we have to be separate for a while, and I suppose it is really the wiser way. If only one were sure.

  Never mind, never mind, we won’t get worked up. We really trust in the little flame, and in the unnamed god that shields it from being blown out. There’s so much of you here with me, really, that it’s a pity you aren’t all here.

  Never mind about Sir Clifford. If you don’t hear anything from him, never mind. He can’t really do anything to you. Wait, he will want to get rid of you at last, to cast you out. And if he doesn’t, we’ll manage to keep clear of him. But he will. In the end he will want to spew you out as the abominable thing.

  Now I can’t even leave off writing to you.

  But a great deal of us is together, and we can but abide by it, and steer our courses to meet soon. John Thomas says good-night to Lady Jane, a little droopingly, but with a hopeful heart.

  THE END

  The Novellas

  THE LADYBIRD

  How many swords had Lady Beveridge in her pierced heart! Yet there always seemed room for another. Since she had determined that her heart of pity and kindness should never die. If it had not been for this determination she herself might have died of sheer agony, in the years 1916 and 1917, when her boys were killed, and her brother, and death seemed to be mowing with wide swaths through her family. But let us forget.

  Lady Beveridge loved humanity, and come what might, she would continue to love it. Nay, in the human sense, she would love her enemies. Not the criminals among the enemy, the men who committed atrocities. But the men who were enemies through no choice of their own. She would be swept into no general hate.

  Somebody had called her the soul of England. It was not ill said, though she was half Irish. But of an old, aristocratic, loyal family famous for its brilliant men. And she, Lady Beveridge, had for years as much influence on the tone of English politics as any individual alive. The close friend of the real leaders in the House of Lords and in the Cabinet, she was content that the men should act, so long as they breathed from her as from the rose of life the pure fragrance of truth and genuine love. She had no misgiving regarding her own spirit.

  She, she would never lower her delicate silken flag. For instance, throughout all the agony of the war she never forgot the enemy prisoners; she was determined to do her best for them. During the first years she still had influence. But during the last years of the war power slipped out of the hands of her and her sort, and she found she could do nothing any more: almost nothing. Then it seemed as if the many swords had gone home into the heart of this little, unyielding Mater Dolorosa. The new generation jeered at her. She was a shabby, old-fashioned little aristocrat, and her drawing-room was out of date.

  But we anticipate. The years 1916 and 1917 were the years when the old spirit died for ever in England. But Lady Beveridge struggled on. She was being beaten.

  It was in the winter of 1917 — or in the late autumn. She had been for a fortnight sick, stricken, paralysed by the fearful death of her youngest boy. She felt she must give in, and just die. And then she remembered how many others were lying in agony.

  So she rose, trembling, frail, to pay a visit to the hospital where lay the enemy sick and wounded, near London. Countess Beveridge was still a privileged woman. Society was beginning to jeer at this little, worn bird of an out-of-date righteousness and aesthetic. But they dared not think ill of her.

  She ordered the car and went alone. The Earl, her husband, had taken his gloom to Scotland. So, on a sunny, wan November morning Lady Beveridge descended at the hospital, Hurst Place. The guard knew her, and saluted as she passed. Ah, she was used to such deep respect! It was strange that she felt it so bitterly, when the respect became shallower. But she did. It was the beginning of the end to her.

  The matron went with her into the ward. Alas, the beds were all full, and men were even lying on pallets on the floor. There was a desperate, crowded dreariness and helplessness in the place: as if nobody wanted to make a sound or utter a word. Many of the men were haggard and unshaven, one was delirious, and talking fitfully in the Saxon dialect. It went to Lady Beveridge’s heart. She had been educated in Dresden, and had had many dear friendships in the city. Her children also had been educated there. She heard the Saxon dialect with pain.

  She was a little, frail, bird-like woman, elegant, but with that touch of the blue-stocking of the nineties which was unmistakable. She fluttered delicately from bed to bed, speaking in perfect German, but with a thin, English intonation: and always asking if there was anything she could do. The men were mostly officers and gentlemen. They made little requests which she wrote down in a book. Her long, pale, rather worn face, and her nervous little gestures somehow inspired confidence.

  One man lay quite still, with his eyes shut. He had a black beard. His face was rather small and sallow. He might be dead. Lady Beveridge looked at him earnestly, and fear came into her face.

  ‘Why, Count Dionys!’ she said, fluttered. ‘Are you asleep?’

  It was Count Johann Dionys Psanek, a Bohemian. She had known him when he was a boy, and only in the spring of 1914 he and his wife had stayed with Lady Beveridge in her country house in Leicestershire.

  His black eyes opened: large, black, unseeing eyes, with curved black lashes. He was a small man, small as a boy, and his face too was rather small. But all the lines were fine, as if they had been fired with a keen male energy. Now the yellowish swarthy paste of his flesh seemed dead, and the fine black brows seemed drawn on the face of one dead. The eyes, however, were alive: but only just alive, unseeing and unknowing.

  ‘You know me, Count Dionys? You know me, don’t you?’ said Lady Beveridge, bending forward over the bed.

  There was no reply for some time. Then the black eyes gathered a look of recognition, and there came the ghost of a polite smile.

  ‘Lady Beveridge.’ The lips formed the words. There was practically no sound.

  ‘I am so glad you can recognize me. And I am so sorry you are hurt. I am so sorry.’

  The black eyes watched her from that terrible remoteness of death, without changing.

  ‘There is nothing I can do for you? Nothing at all?’ she said, always speaking German.

  And after a time, and from a distance, came the answer from his eyes, a look of weariness, of refusal, and a wish to be left alone; he was unable to strain himself into consciousness. His eyelids dropped.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ she said. ‘If ever there is anything I can do — ’

  The eyes opened again, looking at her. He seemed at last to hear, and it was as if his eyes made the last weary gesture of a polite bow. Then slowly his eyelids closed again.

  Poor Lady Beveridge felt another sword-thrust of sorrow in her heart, as she stood looking down at the motionless face, and at the black fine beard. The black hairs came out of his skin thin and fine, not very close together. A queer, dark, aboriginal little face he had, with a fine little nose: not an Aryan, surely. And he was going to die.

  He had a bullet through the upper part of his chest, and another bullet had broken one of his ribs. He had been in hospital five days.

  Lady Beveridge asked the matron to ring her up if anything happened. Then she drove away, saddened. Instead of going to Beveridge House, she went to her daughter’s flat near the park — near Hyde Park. Lady Daphne was poor. She had married a commoner, son of one of the most famous politicians in England, but a man with no money. And Earl Beveridge had wasted most of the large fortune that had come to him, so that the daughter had very little, comparatively.

  Lady Beveridge suffered, going in the narrow doorway into the rather ugly flat. Lady Daphne was sitting by the electric fire in the small yellow drawing-room, talking to a visitor. She rose at once, seeing her little mother.

  ‘Why, mother, ought you to be out? I’m sure not.’

  ‘Yes, Daphne darling. Of course I ought to be out.’

  ‘How are you?’ The daughter’s voice was slow and sonorous, protective, sad. Lady Daphne was tall, only twenty-five years old. She had been one of the beauties, when the war broke out, and her father had hoped she would make a splendid match. Truly, she had married fame: but without money. Now, sorrow, pain, thwarted passion had done her great damage. Her husband was missing in the East. Her baby had been born dead. Her two darling brothers were dead. And she was ill, always ill.

  A tall, beautifully-built girl, she had the fine stature of her father. Her shoulders were still straight. But how thin her white throat! She wore a simple black frock stitched with coloured wool round the top, and held in a loose coloured girdle: otherwise no ornaments. And her face was lovely, fair, with a soft exotic white complexion and delicate pink cheeks. Her hair was soft and heavy, of a lovely pallid gold colour, ash-blond. Her hair, her complexion were so perfectly cared for as to be almost artificial, like a hot-house flower.

  But alas, her beauty was a failure. She was threatened with phthisis, and was far too thin. Her eyes were the saddest part of her. They had slightly reddened rims, nerve-worn, with heavy, veined lids that seemed as if they did not want to keep up. The eyes themselves were large and of a beautiful green-blue colour. But they were full, languid, almost glaucous.

  Standing as she was, a tall, finely-built girl, looking down with affectionate care on her mother, she filled the heart with ashes. The little pathetic mother, so wonderful in her way, was not really to be pitied for all her sorrow. Her life was in her sorrows, and her efforts on behalf of the sorrows of others. But Daphne was not born for grief and philanthropy. With her splendid frame, and her lovely, long, strong legs, she was Artemis or Atalanta rather than Daphne. There was a certain width of brow and even of chin that spoke a strong, reckless nature, and the curious, distraught slant of her eyes told of a wild energy dammed up inside her.

  That was what ailed her: her own wild energy. She had it from her father, and from her father’s desperate race. The earldom had begun with a riotous, dare-devil border soldier, and this was the blood that flowed on. And alas, what was to be done with it?

  Daphne had married an adorable husband: truly an adorable husband. Whereas she needed a dare-devil. But in her mind she hated all dare-devils: she had been brought up by her mother to admire only the good.

  So, her reckless, anti-philanthropic passion could find no outlet — and should find no outlet, she thought. So her own blood turned against her, beat on her own nerves, and destroyed her. It was nothing but frustration and anger which made her ill, and made the doctors fear consumption. There it was, drawn on her rather wide mouth: frustration, anger, bitterness. There it was the same in the roll of her green-blue eyes, a slanting, averted look: the same anger furtively turning back on itself. This anger reddened her eyes and shattered her nerves. And yet her whole will was fixed in her adoption of her mother’s creed, and in condemnation of her handsome, proud, brutal father, who had made so much misery in the family. Yes, her will was fixed in the determination that life should be gentle and good and benevolent. Whereas her blood was reckless, the blood of daredevils. Her will was the stronger of the two. But her blood had its revenge on her. So it is with strong natures today: shattered from the inside.

  ‘You have no news, darling?’ asked the mother.

  ‘No. My father-in-law had information that British prisoners had been brought into Hasrun, and that details would be forwarded by the Turks. And there was a rumour from some Arab prisoners that Basil was one of the British brought in wounded.’

  ‘When did you hear this?’

  ‘Primrose came in this morning.’

  ‘Then we can hope, dear.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Never was anything more dull and bitter than Daphne’s affirmative of hope. Hope had become almost a curse to her. She wished there need be no such thing. Ha, the torment of hoping, and the insult to one’s soul. Like the importunate widow dunning for her deserts. Why could it not all be just clean disaster, and have done with it? This dilly-dallying with despair was worse than despair. She had hoped so much: ah, for her darling brothers she had hoped with such anguish. And the two she loved best were dead. So were most others she had hoped for, dead. Only this uncertainty about her husband still rankling.

  ‘You feel better, dear?’ said the little, unquenched mother.

  ‘Rather better,’ came the resentful answer.

  ‘And your night?’

  ‘No better.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘You are coming to lunch with me, Daphne darling?’

  ‘No, mother dear. I promised to lunch at the Howards with Primrose. But I needn’t go for a quarter of an hour. Do sit down.’

  Both women seated themselves near the electric fire. There was that bitter pause, neither knowing what to say. Then Daphne roused herself to look at her mother.

  ‘Are you sure you were fit to go out?’ she said. ‘What took you out so suddenly?’

  ‘I went to Hurst Place, dear. I had the men on my mind, after the way the newspapers had been talking.’

  ‘Why ever do you read the newspapers!’ blurted Daphne, with a certain burning, acid anger. ‘Well,’ she said, more composed. ‘And do you feel better now you’ve been?’

  ‘So many people suffer besides ourselves, darling.’

  ‘I know they do. Makes it all the worse. It wouldn’t matter if it were only just us. At least, it would matter, but one could bear it more easily. To be just one of a crowd all in the same state.’

  ‘And some even worse, dear.’

  ‘Oh, quite! And the worse it is for all, the worse it is for one.’

  ‘Is that so, darling? Try not to see too darkly. I feel if I can give just a little bit of myself to help the others — you know — it alleviates me. I feel that what I can give to the men lying there, Daphne, I give to my own boys. I can only help them now through helping others. But I can still do that, Daphne, my girl.’

  And the mother put her little white hand into the long, white cold hand of her daughter. Tears came to Daphne’s eyes, and a fearful stony grimace to her mouth.

  ‘It’s so wonderful of you that you can feel like that,’ she said.

  ‘But you feel the same, my love. I know you do.’

  ‘No, I don’t. Everyone I see suffering these same awful things, it makes me wish more for the end of the world. And I quite see that the world won’t end — ’

  ‘But it will get better, dear. This time it’s like a great sickness — like a terrible pneumonia tearing the breast of the world.’

  ‘Do you believe it will get better? I don’t.’

  ‘It will get better. Of course it will get better. It is perverse to think otherwise, Daphne. Remember what has been before, even in Europe. Ah, Daphne, we must take a bigger view.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose we must.’

  The daughter spoke rapidly, from the lips, in a resonant, monotonous tone. The mother spoke from the heart.

  ‘And Daphne, I found an old friend among the men at Hurst Place.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Little Count Dionys. You remember him?’

  ‘Quite. What’s wrong?’

  ‘Wounded rather badly — through the chest. So ill.’

  ‘Did you speak to him?’

  ‘Yes. I recognized him in spite of his beard.’

  ‘Beard!’

  ‘Yes — a black beard. I suppose he could not be shaven. It seems strange that he is still alive, poor man.’

  ‘Why strange? He isn’t old. How old is he?’

  ‘Between thirty and forty. But so ill, so wounded, Daphne. And so small. So small, so sallow — smorto, you know the Italian word. The way dark people look. There is something so distressing in it.’

  ‘Does he look very small now — uncanny?’ asked the daughter.

  ‘No, not uncanny. Something of the terrible far-awayness of a child that is very ill and can’t tell you what hurts it. Poor Count Dionys, Daphne. I didn’t know, dear, that his eyes were so black, and his lashes so curved and long. I had never thought of him as beautiful.’

  ‘Nor I. Only a little comical. Such a dapper little man.’

  ‘Yes. And yet now, Daphne, there is something remote and in a sad way heroic in his dark face. Something primitive.’

  ‘What did he say to you?’

  ‘He couldn’t speak to me. Only with his lips, just my name.’

  ‘So bad as that?’

  ‘Oh yes. They are afraid he will die.’

  ‘Poor Count Dionys. I liked him. He was a bit like a monkey, but he had his points. He gave me a thimble on my seventeenth birthday. Such an amusing thimble.’

  ‘I remember, dear.’

  ‘Unpleasant wife, though. Wonder if he minds dying far away from her. Wonder if she knows.’

  ‘I think not. They didn’t even know his name properly. Only that he was a colonel of such and such a regiment.’