A call : $b The tale of two passionsFord, Ford Madox
General
A call : $b The tale of two passions
Ford, Ford Madox
English fiction -- 20th century
His passion for Katya Lascarides! He hadn’t till that moment had any
doubt about it. But by then he knew it was gone; it was dead, and
in place of a passion he felt only remorse. And his longing to be
perpetually with Pauline Leicester--as he had told Ellida Langham--to
watch her going through all her life with her perpetual tender smile,
dancing, as it were, a gentle and infantile measure; this, too, he
couldn’t doubt. Acute waves of emotion went through him at the thought
of her--waves of emotion so acute that they communicated themselves
to his physical being, so that it was as if the thought of Katya
Lascarides stabbed his heart, whilst the thought of Pauline Leicester
made his hands toss beneath the sheets. For, looking at the matter
formally, and, as he thought, dispassionately, it had seemed to him
that his plain duty was to wait for Katya Lascarides, and to give
Pauline as good a time as he could. That Pauline would have this with
Dudley Leicester he hadn’t had till the moment of the meeting in Regent
Street the ghost of a doubt, but now ...
He said: “Good God!” for he was thinking that only the Deity--if even
He--could achieve the impossible, could undo what was done, could
let him watch over Pauline, which was the extent of the possession
of her that he thought he desired, and wait for Katya, which also
was, perhaps, all that he had ever desired to do. The intolerable
hours ticked on. The light shone down on him beside the bed. At the
foot Peter slept, coiled up and motionless. At the head the telephone
instrument, like a gleaming metal flower, with its nickel corolla and
black bell, shone with reflected light. He was accustomed on mornings
when he felt he needed a rest to talk to his friends from time to
time, and suddenly his whole body stirred in bed. The whites of his
eyes gleamed below the dark irises, his white teeth showed, and as he
clasped the instrument to him he appeared, as it were, a Shylock who
clutched to his breast his knife and demanded of the universe his right
to the peace of mind that knowledge at least was to give him.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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