John Powys - Wood and Stone

Looking about, however, in her deliberate feline way, for some method of pleasant revenge, she had suddenly hit upon this bathing adventure as a heaven-inspired opportunity. The thought of it when it first came to her as she languidly sunned herself, like a great cat, on the hot parapet of the pond, had made her positively laugh for joy. She would compel her cousin to accompany her on these occasions!

Lacrima was not only terrified of water, but was abnormally reluctant and shy with regard to any risk of being observed in strange or unusual garments.

Gladys had stretched herself out on the Leonian margin of the pond with a thrilling sense of delight at the prospect thus offered. She would be able to gratify, at one and the same time, her profound need to excel in the presence of an inferior, and her insatiable craving to outrage that inferior’s reserve.

The sun-warmed slabs of Leonian stone, upon which she had so often basked in voluptuous contentment seemed dumbly to encourage and stimulate her in this heathen design. How entirely they were the accomplices of all that was dominant in her destiny — these yellow blocks of stone that had so enriched her house! They answered to her own blond beauty, to her own sluggish remorselessness. She loved their tawny colour, their sandy texture, their enduring strength. She loved to see them around and about her, built into walls, courts, terraces and roofs. They gave support and weight to all her pretensions.

Thus it had been with an almost mystical thrill of exultation that she had felt the warmth of the Leonian slabs caress her limbs, as this new and exciting scheme passed through her mind.

And now, luxuriously seated in her low chair by her friend’s side she was beginning to taste the reward of her inspiration.

“Yes,” she said, crossing her hands negligently over her knees, “it is so dull bathing alone. I really think you’ll have to do it with me, dear! You’ll like it all right when once you begin. It is only the effort of starting. The water isn’t so very cold, and where the sun warms the parapet it is lovely.”

“I can’t, Gladys,” pleaded the other, from her bed, “I can’t — I can’t!”

“Nonsense, child. Don’t be so silly! I tell you, you’ll enjoy it. Besides, there’s nothing like bathing to keep one healthy. Mother was only saying last night to father how much she wished you would begin it.”

Lacrima’s fingers let her book slip through them. It slid down unnoticed upon the floor and lay open there.

She sat up and faced her cousin.

“Gladys,” she said, with grave intensity, “if you make your mother insist on my doing this, you are more wicked than I ever dreamed you would be.”

Gladys regarded her with indolent interest.

“Its only at first the water feels cold,” she said. “You get used to it, after the first dip. I always race round the lawn afterwards, to get warm. What’s the matter now, baby?”

These final words were due to the fact that the Pariah had suddenly put up her hands to her face and was shaking with sobs. Gladys rose and bent over her. “Silly child,” she said, “must I kiss its tears away? Must I pet it and cosset it?”

She pulled impatiently at the resisting fingers, and loosening them, after a struggle, did actually go so far as to touch the girl’s cheek with her lips. Then sinking back into her chair she resumed her interrupted discourse.

The taste of salt tears had not, it seemed, softened her into any weak compliance. Really strong and healthy natures learn the art, by degrees, of proving adamant, to the insidious cunning of these persuasions.

“Girls of our class,” she announced sententiously, “must set the lower orders in England an example of hardiness. Father says it is dreadful how effeminate the labouring people are becoming. They are afraid of work, afraid of fresh air, afraid of cold water, afraid of discipline. They only think of getting more to eat and drink.”

The Pariah turned her face to the wall and lay motionless, contemplating the cracks and crevices in the oak panelling.

Under the same indifferent stars the other Pariah of Nevilton was also staring hopelessly at the wall. What secrets these impassive surfaces, near the pillows of sleepers, could reveal, if they could only speak!

“Father says that what we all want is more physical training,” Gladys went on. “This next winter you and I must do some practising in the Yeoborough Gymnasium. It is our superior physical training, father says, which enables us to hold the mob in check. Just look at these workmen and peasants, how clumsily they slouch about!”

Lacrima turned round at this. “Your father and his friends are shamefully hard on their workmen. I wish they would strike again!”

Gladys smiled complacently. The scene was really beginning to surpass even what she had hoped.

“Why are you such a baby, Lacrima?” she said. “Stop a moment. I will show you the things you shall wear.”

She glided off into her own room, and presently returned with a child’s bathing dress.

“Look, dear! Isn’t it lucky? I’ve had these in my wardrobe ever since we were at Eastbourne, years and years ago. They will not be a bit too small for you. Or if they are — it doesn’t matter. No one will see us. And I’ll lend you my mackintosh to go out in.”

Lacrima’s head sank back upon her pillows and she stared at her cousin with a look of helpless terror.

“You needn’t look so horrified, you silly little thing. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Besides, people oughtn’t to give way to their feelings. They ought to be brave and show spirit. It’s lucky for you you did come to us. There’s no knowing what a cowardly little thing you’d have grown into, if you hadn’t. Mother is quite right. It will do you ever so much good to bathe with me. You can’t be drowned, you know. The water isn’t out of your depth anywhere. Father says every girl in England ought to learn to swim, so as to be able to rescue people. He says that this is the great new idea of the Empire — that we should all join in making the race braver and stronger. You are English now, you know — not Italian any more. I am going to take fencing lessons soon. Father says you never can tell what may happen, and we ought all to be prepared.

Lacrima did not speak. A vision of a fierce aggressive crowd of hard, hostile, healthy young persons, drilling, riding, shooting, fencing, and dragging such renegades as herself remorselessly along with them, blocked every vista of her mind.

“I hate the Empire!” she cried at last. Gladys had subsided once more into her chair — the little bathing-suit, symbol of our natural supremacy, clasped fondly in her lap.

“I know,” she said, “where you get your socialistic nonsense from. Yes, I do! You needn’t shake your head. You get it from Maurice Quincunx.”

“I don’t get it from anybody,” protested the Pariah; and then, in a weak murmur, “it grows up naturally, in my heart.”

“What is that you’re saying?” cried Gladys. “Sometimes I think you are really not right in your mind. You mutter so. You mutter, and talk to yourself. It irritates me more than I can say. It would irritate a saint.”

“I am sorry if I annoy you, cousin.”

“Annoy me? It would take more than a little coward like you to annoy me! But I am not going to argue about it. Father says arguing is only fit for feeble people. He says we Romers never argue. We think, and then we do . I’m going to bed. So there’s your book! I hope you’ll enjoy it Miss Socialism!”

She picked up the volume from the floor and flung it into her cousin’s lap. The gesture of contempt with which she did this would admirably have suited some Roman Drusilla tossing aside the culture of slaves.