Meanwhile as, filled with foreboding and curiosity, Emma left the house and walked toward the Crescent whence Tom was likely to return, he had been reflecting on the mysterious nature of physical love. What after all does it consist in? What makes it absolutely unlike anything else at all? Suddenly the reorientation of the world round one illumined point, all else in shadow. The total alteration of corporeal being, the minute electric sensibility of the nerves, the tender expectancy of the skin. The omnipresence of a ghostly sense of touch. The awareness of organs. The absolute demand for the presence of the beloved, the categorical imperative, the haunting. The fire that burns, the sun that expands, the beauty of all things. The certainty; and with it the great sad cool knowledge of change and decay. Emma was never on good terms with his own strong feelings, and with half of himself was determined not to love Tom, not to love him at all, since he was not yet in love. Even as he lay, he too, in the angelic clutch and felt Tom, with such wonderful trust, falling asleep in his arms, as he lay and held Tom feeling as protective as God and as all-powerful, while desire was blessedly diffused in a cloud of anguish, he was even then coldly planning how he would minimize, belittle and liquidate this happening as a part of his life, making it small and without consequence. He gloomily observed some utterly new happiness, something created ex nihilo, which had come to him and put its finger upon him. And when, this very morning, Tom had put his arms round his neck and cried ‘I love you,’ Emma had felt the joyful ‘whiff of eternity’ which accompanies any real love. But it would not do. He knew how impulsive and affectionate Tom was, how little perhaps it meant. Tom was a lover of all the world, constantly reaching out his warm hands to touch things and people. In any case, Tom was framed to delight in and be the delight of women. Maybe I’d better go to Brussels and see my mother, Emma thought. But he knew he would not.
‘What happened?’ said Emma. ‘What did he want?’
‘He wants me to marry his grand-daughter.’
‘What? No. You’re joking.’
‘Honest! He wants to dispose of her, he wants to marry her off, and he’s chosen me! Isn’t that crazy, isn’t it a laugh?’ And Tom laughed and continued to laugh as he look hold of his friend’s arm and began to lead him back in the direction of Travancore Avenue.
Emma pulled away. ‘But how - so you know this girl?’
‘No! Never set eyes on her! I think she’s never been here, she’s been living in America.’
‘He must be mad.’
‘Mad as a hatter, crazy as a coot, nutty as a fruitcake! And fancy his wanting me!’
‘You told him politely to get lost.’
‘No. I’ve agreed! The marriage is arranged! All I’ve got to do now is make her acquaintance! She’s in Ennistone — ’
‘Tom—’
‘He guaranteed she’s a virgin, she’s seventeen, he’s going to settle some money on us, we shall buy a house in the Crescent — ’
‘Stop talking like that, damn you.’
‘Don’t be cross. Why, I believe you’re jealous!’
This charge, whether seriously made or not, enraged Scarlett-Taylor. ‘You’re talking in a vile vulgar way which I resent!’
‘Well, don’t froth at the mouth, it’s not my idea!’
‘But of course you told him it was crazy, impossible — ’
‘I tried to, but he wouldn’t listen. He said marriages were sometimes arranged and he was trying to arrange one. He said I was to go and see her and he’d tell her I was coming. He thinks he can make people do things. He can make people do things.’
‘He can’t make you marry his grand-daughter!’
‘Can’t he? Time will show. I’ve agreed to try.’
‘You agreed? You agreed to something so absurd - so - so improper - so immoral?’
‘I don’t see what’s immoral about it — ’
‘He’s playing with you.’
‘Oh, I assure you he was serious!’
‘I mean one can’t proceed like that, one can’t do such things, a gentleman can’t — ’
‘Why not, what are you getting at? I’m not sure I’m a gentleman anyway.’
‘If you aren’t I don’t want anything more to do with you. And you oughtn’t to have told me about it.’
‘You oughtn’t to have asked me!’
‘You’re right. I oughtn’t to have asked you.’
‘Don’t be so bloody censorious then! Look, I just said I’d see her. He may be serious, but I’m not.’
‘You’re not serious?’
‘You got so bothered when I said I’d agreed - now you’re bothered because I say I haven’t really!’
‘You’re deceiving him, you lied to him!’
‘Are you on his side now?’
‘I’m going back to London!’ Emma stopped and actually stamped his foot, red in the face.
‘Oh come now - stop it, Emma, we mustn’t quarrel about this. I said I’d have a look at her. Why not? It seemed to me rather a lark.’
‘A lark?’
‘Well, why not? Come on, walk along with me, don’t stand there in a rage.’ They walked on.
‘You ought to have said no, clearly and simply.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you can’t intend to marry a seventeen-year-old girl you’ve never seen before. Think about her — ’
‘I can’t, I don’t know what she’s like — ’
‘How will she feel about this? You’ll simply upset her, you’ll upset yourself, and make a horrible painful muddle, a horrible moral muddle, something disgusting and vile. How can you have been such a crazy irresponsible fool!’
‘I can always say I’ve changed my mind. After all, I haven’t done anything yet.’
‘Thank heavens you haven’t. You’ll write and tell him it’s off?’
‘No, I don’t think I will. Not yet anyway. I want to meet her. Why ever not?’
‘I’ve told you why not.’
‘I’m curious. Wouldn’t you be? Let’s go and look at her together. Only do stop being angry. You distress me when you’re angry, you frighten me, and I don’t like being distressed and frightened.’
‘Leave me out. And don’t expect me to help you later when you’re wishing like hell you’d followed my advice!’
‘Of course I shall expect you to help me! Calm down. Why are you so excited?’
But Tom was shaken by Emma’s attack, not least because he saw the good sense in it. There could indeed be some sort of nasty mess: he preferred not to imagine the details. But he knew that he was caught; his curiosity, his vanity, a dotty sense of adventure, a sense of fate, urged him on. It was as if his value had been changed, and John Robert had made him a new person. How could he, having in his thought, even for this short time, touched this seventeen-year-old girl, promise as John Robert required (and he would have had to promise) not ever to come to know her? This prohibition alone was enough to ‘set him on’. And if he refused, he could never now be as he was. Some uncanny magic was already at work. He might indeed regret having tried, but he would even more, and bitterly, regret having funked the challenge. If he refused he would ‘lose’ Rozanov: Rozanov whom even this morning he had cared nothing about, had lived contentedly without, and who now represented some sort of necessity. He was no longer free, he was even perhaps no longer innocent: no longer happy.