‘And then?’
‘Then we shall have stepped into the shoes of God.’
‘You are very naughty, darling,’ she said.
In a long room that smelt of newly polished wood, with windows overlooking the sea front, we took our siesta, and then the waiter brought up tea.
‘Tip him well, darling,’ Sylvia said. ‘He’s been quite good to us.’
Leaving the hotel, she gave the lady-manager her hand. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘my husband and I have enjoyed ourselves very much.’
As we descended the hill in the train, the sea stretched open before us. A big steamer was coming in, finding her way carefully into the harbour; while there was another steamer just sailing out to sea; and the image of it, coupled with the humming life of the sea front vibrating in the sunlight, portended of a peace — a peace uttered long before us. I thought: I shall perish: but the Universe is mine.
‘If the whole world doesn’t matter, then what matters? And what is the reason, anyhow, of this “not-mattering” existing at all? For if life were there for no intelligent reason and from no intelligent cause, it would be more than ever a mystery that it was there at all. And if there were no life at all, only death — it would be no less strange and mysterious that death was — a vast sleeping Nothing.’
‘The world beyond — Darling, I know nothing of the world beyond, only what my little heart cries about and whines, like a baby,’ she said, ‘who is crying for milk. Will the mother turn up?’
‘Oh, she will! Oh, she will!’
And when we descended into town, it swarmed with busy little people, like beetles — dark human beetles who rushed in all directions, and among the many dark ones there rushed a few white beetles, shouldering the white man’s burthen. And I hated myself.
‘But if we can hate ourselves and laugh at ourselves — whence this sense of humour in us? What is that in us which laughs, that will not stand solemnities, that will not be impressed by life? What portent is that safety-valve, that constant rise from certain fact into uncertain sublimation? Is that not the real God from which we cannot tire?’
‘You are so naughty, darling,’ she said.
It was nearing dinner-time, and the evening air was tinged by a faint breeze that made breathing tolerable. The sinuous music that reached us from some café or dancing hall stirred our thirst for life; the shaded table lights beckoned to us to partake of their seclusion.
‘Let’s dine here, darling.’
‘No, no, maman will wonder where we are.’
We rickshawed about; got out at the square and looked at the statue of the Duke of Connaught. Then got back into our rickshaws and drove to the shore.
Life is wiser than reason, I thought. Life is, and so being, it has nothing to reason about: while reason is only a partial discovery of what is—incomplete and therefore inquisitive.
‘Darling, she’s waiting for you to step inside.’
We stepped into the sampan.
It was the old complaint which, when we are overworked, we put down to drudgery, or when we are lovesick we put down to love. It wasn’t drudgery. It wasn’t love. It was different. Sylvia, sitting close by my side, looked moved and gravely enchanted, and, by some mute agreement, we did not speak. Her large luminous hazel eyes gazed intently, in silent awe. Hong-Kong behind us, too, seemed in a spell of languor, stirring not, dreaming not: looking on, content just to be. There was no sound but that of the water lapping against the sides of the sampan; and the Chinese face of the woman who worked at the oar, fashioned no doubt in the image of God, was yet so different from ours. She either expected no miracles, or she took them for granted; she looked out to sea with a lethargic, expressionless stare, and worked dumbly and evenly at the oar. The Rhinoceros, with its white marble deck-house, looked like a sea-shell, translucent in the evening sunlight, wondrous and spellbound. The sturdy ship which was afraid neither of storms nor of space nor of darkness, looked moved and strangely tranquil as she lay out in midstream; like a hard-faced being melting to a cherished phrase of music, or a hardy seaman smiling at a child. And as you looked over the water at the wide expanse of sea and sky and back at the pearly city shimmering in the fading sunlight, you had a feeling then as if we were indeed immortal.
‘Jesus!’ she purled, ‘how I want to go on living for ever!’
Tears welled up from her eyes and hung on them, which made them seem golden, like Salomé’s. She smiled, and this shook them from her lashes.
But at dinner that night she was already laughing, drinking much wine and cooing gaily and, as always, half-audibly. Her teeth glittered as she held the glass, like a flower on a stem, and nearly spilt the wine, and because of this and her inherent gaiety, laughed more. Uncle Emmanuel and I had donned white flannels, and white almost transparent jackets — clean and crisp out of the wash — and Aunt Teresa and Aunt Molly, Berthe and Sylvia were also clad in gay white open lace; it was spring, almost summer now, and we were full of the joy of life. Aunt Molly with the children was at another table, and round the corner was Captain Negodyaev with his consort and Natàsha who kept looking round at us at intervals, laughing in her gurgling way. And suddenly she was crying softly.
‘What is it, Natàsha?’
‘What is it, dear?’
She cried very softly.
‘Darling, what is it?’
‘A wasp,’ she sobbed.
Harry laughed.
During dinner Uncle Emmanuel drank much wine and talked of the Governor’s ball that night and the mistake he had made in not calling on him. ‘I would have liked to go, too.’
‘I’m not going: I have no dress uniform.’
‘It’s a great pity.’
It transpired that Aunt Teresa, accompanied by Berthe, had also been on the Peak railway. ‘It pulled,’ she complained, ‘before I had sat down.’
‘That happens,’ I rejoined, ‘sometimes in sleep. One night I jumped clean out of bed.’
‘Oh yes, I remember!’ Sylvia cried happily.
‘Excuse me’—my uncle turned to her, looking suddenly like a detective—‘but how do you remember?’
‘Sorry,’ she said, lowering her lashes.
‘That won’t do at all.’
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’
‘The point is that I jumped out clean on to the carpet.’
‘That is very interesting, I am sure,’ said he.
There was a stiff little pause. My uncle cleared his throat. ‘I suspected something all along. I suspected it.’
‘And I wish you joy of it!’
‘I would have advised you to be more careful, though.’
‘When I want your advice I shall cable for it.’
‘If we were here alone I would give you a bit of my mind.’
‘Then we should exchange our minds like visiting cards.’
‘She has no brother,’ he whimpered. ‘Anatole—’ And the tears came to his eyes.
‘I loved Ophelia; forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum.’
‘What has Ophelia got to do with it?’
‘I had made her happy.’
‘My poor daughter …’
Languidly I sipped my brandy. Wearily I raised my eyes at him. ‘Must I really blow your silly brains out?’
‘This is scandalous! a scandalous affair!’
‘The only equity for your existence that I can tentatively advance, mon oncle, is that you may be a blessing in disguise.’
I may be — intermittently — a cynic; but he is worse: he does not know he is a cynic. His daughter! His daughter! But the daughter wanted me to love her, and her father meantime loved other men’s daughters. So why does he squeak and squeal, this future censor of films?