Armed With Madness полностью

Now Scylla minded this. Minded also that Philip had not even thought to approach her as his wife’s friend. What was left her now but observation? She had had enough of grief. There was only her amusement left, the contrast between Lydia’s naïve eroticism and her formidable wits: Philip’s technique with her no more than the length of rope on which he had to hang himself. His method was to cut conversation, to interrupt whatever was said; and when he spoke, interrupt himself, so that there should never be any continuity. Perfectly sound. The quickest way to exasperate Scylla. He was reckoning that he could, not quite such a fool as these grand ladies thought him. Could shew them that not being a gentleman was worth something: give Lydia’s lady friend something else to call him than a misplaced insect.

And Scylla no longer believed that her reserve of charity was an arsenal. She did not want Lydia if she could not tell her the story of the cup, draw on her learning, and on her instinct for tradition, which might have been created to meet the situation. Without that story her summer in the South was no story, and how often had Lydia been down with them in the wood? Philip once, had followed her there, uninvited, and found her singing them troubador songs. Had bawled jazz and almost dragged her away. Impulses cold, cruel, and insolent grew in Scylla, along with understanding perfecting itself.

A new aspect of the worst had arrived. They were already too accustomed to it. Had seen too many designs broken, whose assembly had been mysteries of harmony. Until they had forgotten unity, harvest ahead of vintage; forgotten that there could be any condition but emulation, advantage, and personal success. She despised herself because she had not the clean surgery to cut out memory and hope. As the story of the house could not be told without the wood, the house-party could not be described without the cup. As well talk politics to Picus as speak of the cup with Philip in the room.

“What happened down South?” said Lydia. “London makes me ache for it. I hear the waves turning over—don’t interrupt, Phil—and the branches turning round in the wood.” Scylla thought: ‘Concentrate on Carston. Make him funny—with the fun left out.’ Nothing that she said held together, who had Picus and under Gault to tell to the proper person to hear it, sœur douce amie. Lydia must know that because of Philip she could not tell. Lydia had refused to dine alone with her. Scylla did not know the stupid scene he had made when Lydia had tried to go, until he had made love to her, and snatched a promise she did not dare break.

Lydia knew and was not consoled. There might be news of Clarence. She was a jealous woman. Scylla had had Clarence to herself: had looked up at Philip, smiling. Already she knew what she had married, what they would become. Soon she would not be with Scylla’s people, or even in their world. And Scylla stayed in and walked out of it so airily. Soft, bitter, little laps of far-seeing. The quickest thing to do was hate, before it was taken out of her in sorrow. Hadn’t Scylla come to triumph? Her husband’s delicious voice and vulgar accent enchanted and fretted her. His words and the beauty of his wrist as he lit Scylla’s cigarette. How could she keep him? And keep him Phil? Be sure of him and improve him? Possible or impossible, it was not her job. Who should have been advising Scylla, correcting and fortifying her.

Exasperated, the lion’s paw fell, claws astretch.

What follows can be as well represented operatically—it began:

Philip: (recitative) “Lydia and I are often thinking of you, Scylla—and I’m sure you won’t take us up wrong.”

Lydia: “We were both thinking if it is quite the thing for you to be there alone with all those men!”

Scylla: (song) “Felix is my chaperone, chaperone,” etc.

Philip and Lydia: (duet) “In the end it does not do, does not do,

People know you for that kind of woman.”

Scylla: “What sort of a woman?”

Philip and Lydia: (recit.) “We feel it since we married. It does not do, it does not do, to go against society.”

Philip: “I’ve seen a good deal of the world, you know—perhaps not quite the same society as yours, but—”

Philip, Lydia and Scylla: (trio) “People say—”

“What do they say?”

“You know the things they say.”

“What have they said?”

“We’d rather not tell you and go into details.”

“Go into details!”

“You’re doing it for MY GOOD.”

Philip and Lydia: (duet) “Of course we are, of course we are.

We wouldn’t hurt your feelings,

BUT—”

Philip: “I’m so fond of you, Scylla.”

Lydia: “We’re so fond of you, Scylla.

BUT—

We’ve found it out, we’ve found it out.

The world has reason on its side.”

Scylla: (solo) “What is the world?

Lydia’s world was my world,

And I don’t know Philip’s world.

What reason has the world got, anyhow?”

Philip and Lydia: (anthem) “IT DOES NOT DO.

IT DOES NOT DO.”