Autobiographical fiction; England -- Fiction; Marriage -- Fiction; Teachers -- Fiction
“You forgot! Well, after all, I forgot that it might be. We are indeed
young men.” He leant against the pedestal of Ilissus and remembered
their talk about the Spirit of Life. In his ignorance of what a child
means he wondered whether the opportunity he sought lay here.
“I am very glad,” said Tilliard, not without intention. “A child will
draw them even closer together. I like to see young people wrapped up
in their child.”
“I suppose I must be getting back to my dissertation,” said Ansell.
He left the Parthenon to pass by the monuments of our more reticent
beliefs—the temple of the Ephesian Artemis, the statue of the Cnidian
Demeter. Honest, he knew that here were powers he could not cope with,
nor, as yet, understand.
XXI
The mists that had gathered round Rickie seemed to be breaking. He had
found light neither in work for which he was unfitted nor in a woman
who had ceased to respect him, and whom he was ceasing to love. Though
he called himself fickle and took all the blame of their marriage on
his own shoulders, there remained in Agnes certain terrible faults of
heart and head, and no self-reproach would diminish them. The glamour
of wedlock had faded; indeed, he saw now that it had faded even before
wedlock, and that during the final months he had shut his eyes and
pretended it was still there. But now the mists were breaking.
That November the supreme event approached. He saw it with Nature’s
eyes. It dawned on him, as on Ansell, that personal love and marriage
only cover one side of the shield, and that on the other is graven the
epic of birth. In the midst of lessons he would grow dreamy, as one who
spies a new symbol for the universe, a fresh circle within the square.
Within the square shall be a circle, within the circle another square,
until the visual eye is baffled. Here is meaning of a kind. His mother
had forgotten herself in him. He would forget himself in his son.
He was at his duties when the news arrived—taking preparation. Boys
are marvellous creatures. Perhaps they will sink below the brutes;
perhaps they will attain to a woman’s tenderness. Though they despised
Rickie, and had suffered under Agnes’s meanness, their one thought this
term was to be gentle and to give no trouble.
“Rickie—one moment—”
His face grew ashen. He followed Herbert into the passage, closing
the door of the preparation room behind him. “Oh, is she safe?” he
whispered.
“Yes, yes,” said Herbert; but there sounded in his answer a sombre
hostile note.
“Our boy?”
“Girl—a girl, dear Rickie; a little daughter. She—she is in many ways
a healthy child. She will live—oh yes.” A flash of horror passed over
his face. He hurried into the preparation room, lifted the lid of his
desk, glanced mechanically at the boys, and came out again.
Mrs. Lewin appeared through the door that led into their own part of
the house.
“Both going on well!” she cried; but her voice also was grave,
exasperated.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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