Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  The bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed the question properly.

  “Hee-poof — I’ve swallowed a pollywog, Mr. Beebe, water’s wonderful, water’s simply ripping.”

  “Water’s not so bad,” said George, reappearing from his plunge, and sputtering at the sun.

  “Water’s wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do.”

  “Apooshoo, kouf.”

  Mr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible, looked around him. He could detect no parishioners except the pine-trees, rising up steeply on all sides, and gesturing to each other against the blue. How glorious it was! The world of motorcars and rural Deans receded inimitably. Water, sky, evergreens, a wind — these things not even the seasons can touch, and surely they lie beyond the intrusion of man?

  “I may as well wash too”; and soon his garments made a third little pile on the sward, and he too asserted the wonder of the water.

  It was ordinary water, nor was there very much of it, and, as Freddy said, it reminded one of swimming in a salad. The three gentlemen rotated in the pool breast high, after the fashion of the nymphs in Gotterdammerung. But either because the rains had given a freshness or because the sun was shedding a most glorious heat, or because two of the gentlemen were young in years and the third young in spirit — for some reason or other a change came over them, and they forgot Italy and Botany and Fate. They began to play. Mr. Beebe and Freddy splashed each other. A little deferentially, they splashed George. He was quiet: they feared they had offended him. Then all the forces of youth burst out. He smiled, flung himself at them, splashed them, ducked them, kicked them, muddied them, and drove them out of the pool.

  “Race you round it, then,” cried Freddy, and they raced in the sunshine, and George took a short cut and dirtied his shins, and had to bathe a second time. Then Mr. Beebe consented to run — a memorable sight.

  They ran to get dry, they bathed to get cool, they played at being Indians in the willow-herbs and in the bracken, they bathed to get clean. And all the time three little bundles lay discreetly on the sward, proclaiming:

  “No. We are what matters. Without us shall no enterprise begin. To us shall all flesh turn in the end.”

  “A try! A try!” yelled Freddy, snatching up George’s bundle and placing it beside an imaginary goal-post.

  “Socker rules,” George retorted, scattering Freddy’s bundle with a kick.

  “Goal!”

  “Goal!”

  “Pass!”

  “Take care my watch!” cried Mr. Beebe.

  Clothes flew in all directions.

  “Take care my hat! No, that’s enough, Freddy. Dress now. No, I say!”

  But the two young men were delirious. Away they twinkled into the trees, Freddy with a clerical waistcoat under his arm, George with a wide-awake hat on his dripping hair.

  “That’ll do!” shouted Mr. Beebe, remembering that after all he was in his own parish. Then his voice changed as if every pine-tree was a Rural Dean. “Hi! Steady on! I see people coming you fellows!”

  Yells, and widening circles over the dappled earth.

  “Hi! hi! LADIES!”

  Neither George nor Freddy was truly refined. Still, they did not hear Mr. Beebe’s last warning or they would have avoided Mrs. Honeychurch, Cecil, and Lucy, who were walking down to call on old Mrs. Butterworth. Freddy dropped the waistcoat at their feet, and dashed into some bracken. George whooped in their faces, turned and scudded away down the path to the pond, still clad in Mr. Beebe’s hat.

  “Gracious alive!” cried Mrs. Honeychurch. “Whoever were those unfortunate people? Oh, dears, look away! And poor Mr. Beebe, too! Whatever has happened?”

  “Come this way immediately,” commanded Cecil, who always felt that he must lead women, though knew not whither, and protect them, though he knew not against what. He led them now towards the bracken where Freddy sat concealed.

  “Oh, poor Mr. Beebe! Was that his waistcoat we left in the path? Cecil, Mr. Beebe’s waistcoat — ”

  No business of ours, said Cecil, glancing at Lucy, who was all parasol and evidently “minded.”

  “I fancy Mr. Beebe jumped back into the pond.”

  “This way, please, Mrs. Honeychurch, this way.”

  They followed him up the bank attempting the tense yet nonchalant expression that is suitable for ladies on such occasions.

  “Well, I can’t help it,” said a voice close ahead, and Freddy reared a freckled face and a pair of snowy shoulders out of the fronds. “I can’t be trodden on, can I?”

  “Good gracious me, dear; so it’s you! What miserable management! Why not have a comfortable bath at home, with hot and cold laid on?”

  “Look here, mother, a fellow must wash, and a fellow’s got to dry, and if another fellow — ”

  “Dear, no doubt you’re right as usual, but you are in no position to argue. Come, Lucy.” They turned. “Oh, look — don’t look! Oh, poor Mr. Beebe! How unfortunate again — ”

  For Mr. Beebe was just crawling out of the pond, On whose surface garments of an intimate nature did float; while George, the world-weary George, shouted to Freddy that he had hooked a fish.

  “And me, I’ve swallowed one,” answered he of the bracken. “I’ve swallowed a pollywog. It wriggleth in my tummy. I shall die — Emerson you beast, you’ve got on my bags.”

  “Hush, dears,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who found it impossible to remain shocked. “And do be sure you dry yourselves thoroughly first. All these colds come of not drying thoroughly.”

  “Mother, do come away,” said Lucy. “Oh for goodness’ sake, do come.”

  “Hullo!” cried George, so that again the ladies stopped.

  He regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot, bare-chested, radiant and personable against the shadowy woods, he called:

  “Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!”

  “Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I shall bow.”

  Miss Honeychurch bowed.

  That evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for youth.

  Chapter XIII: How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome

  How often had Lucy rehearsed this bow, this interview! But she had always rehearsed them indoors, and with certain accessories, which surely we have a right to assume. Who could foretell that she and George would meet in the rout of a civilization, amidst an army of coats and collars and boots that lay wounded over the sunlit earth? She had imagined a young Mr. Emerson, who might be shy or morbid or indifferent or furtively impudent, especially learning of her present engagement to Cecil. She was prepared for all of these. But she had never imagined one who would be happy and greet her with the shout of the morning star, nor did she understand the source of her own thoughts.

  When meeting George at the pond, her eyes steadied upon his bare chest, instead of a hand that she might have shaken after a bow in the safety of a solitary room.

  Fate is strange and bewitching.

  First, there was George etched solidly in her mind — a field of violets, the Tuscan sun, and all that stood for love. But hateful Charlotte had forced her away from him, she muddled her mind with false reasoning. Then Cecil began to work on her mind, endearing himself to her, imploring her to love him. And as a result of Cecil’s entreaties, the vision of her true love had been clouded. Only now, Fate had once again slung its arrow. Cecil had resurrected George.

  Lucy’s mind drifted back to that hillside in Italy. To the violets. To the passionate love she shared with her Dear George. If only it had been the two of them present at the pool, their meeting might have been quite different. Lucy’s mind began to wander — nature frees the soul and loosens the loins. She felt the urge to disrobe and frolic amongst nature with George. Just she and George alone.

  “Lucy.” Her moth
er insisted that she curtsy.

  Though Lucy’s mind was lost in impassioned thought as she recast the scene.

  “George, I insist that we bathe.”

  Of course George did not object to Lucy’s fanciful whims and so without wasting a moment, he plucked off the clothing that clung to his flesh. He hopped toward the pool, turned back, and waved a playful hand for Lucy to join him in the water.

  She hesitated.

  Seeing her in deep contemplation, he called to her. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “Yes, I am. It’s just that, well George, it’s just that you take me for a sail every time I see you as you are truly meant to be. How uninhibited you are. So very frank, I dare say.”

  He laughed brazenly.

  “No, I mean so, George.”

  “Yes, of course you do.”

  “You’re chiding me.”

  “Never, my love.”

  “Then what?”

  “It is simply that we men, well,” — then he used her expression — “we are comfortable with ourselves.”

  “Whatever do you mean, George?”

  “We prefer to be dressed like this.” He held his arms to the sides, flaunting his nakedness. “We don’t mind the flesh.”

  “Yes, quite.” She tipped her head sideways to think. “I can see that.”

  “Come along or I’ll undress you myself.”

  “Yes, why don’t you.”

  George hurried from the edge of the pool and stood next to her in all of his nakedness.

  Amused by him, Lucy ventured forward and wrapped her delicate fingers around his manliness to bring him under her command.

  “Oh,” he started to speak, his voice lowering. “We’re not to bathe?”

  She didn’t answer right away, but massaged with a smooth stroke of her hand until he was subdued, no longer interested in boyish play.

  “Ah.” He tried to speak, but his breath caught in his throat. “Well, you’ve got me.”

  “Have I?” she said, gazing into his face with a smile, while stroking his member more firmly and sliding her hand the length of all he had to give.

  “And what say we now?”

  “You will do as I say or be punished.”

  He boldly laughed.

  “Turn around George. You will be punished for laughing at me.”

  “No, my love.”

  “Turn at once.”

  Smiling at her, he was compelled to obey, but still, he played hard to get. Although that didn’t last long, not with her in control.

  She clung to his member, stroking it softly as she turned him around. And when he glanced back at her, she said, “Look away, George.”

  “Must I?” he dared to ask.

  “You’ll be sorry not to.”

  He chuckled and did as she asked.

  She tipped him forward, continuing to stroke, until all of a sudden and without warning, she raised a hand and popped his rump.

  “Ouch!” He laughed crazily.

  To which she replied, “Oh, George, you are telling lies. I am certain that did not hurt at all. For that, I am afraid I owe you the obligation of another spank.”

  “Yes, please.”

  So she clapped a hand to his rump again and when he laughed even more, she clapped it again and again. And the more he laughed, the longer she continued to deliver her playful claps until she was overcome. His raucous laughter had gotten the better of her and so she began to giggle wildly herself.

  Dear George was quite the sport!

  Hearing her laughter, he turned quickly to her. He caught her in his arms and began kissing her with great enthusiasm. As their tongues swirled, he began to unbutton her dress. When he finished undressing her, he grasped her hands, drew back as he raised her arms to her sides, and for a long moment, he stood quietly, admiring the beauty of her naked flesh.

  “Isn’t this better?” he said.

  “Yes, my love. I feel so very free.”

  George placed his lips to hers and once again, they fell into a passionate kiss. Then he drew away, scooped her into his arms, and carried her to a soft spot in the grass.

  “Let us try something new,” he said.

  “Yes, let us.”

  “Lay back.”

  And when she was quite at ease, he mounted her so that his member was at her lips while he attended below to her feminine form below. With his tongue, he dipped into her cream and began paddling his way to and fro as she began suckling his member.

  Together they frolicked and played, giving each other such grand pleasure until Lucy cried with elation.

  “George, Dear George. How quickly you have done me in … dearest Geor — ” She strained to speak the words as she shuddered and crested.

  George dawdled a moment longer as she coursed through her release, and when her body came to a rest, he dismounted, and positioned himself between her legs. Grasping her close, he drew his member to her sheath and without cause for delay, entered her fully. He began stroking swiftly and urgently as a gazelle in flight. Before long, he was leaping from the cliffs until he plunged and expelled his seed with a thunderous roar.

  Satisfied, they collapsed into each other’s arms and rolled in the grass until George said, “Shall we?” He sprung from her and with a hand lifted her to her feet and together they ran and jumped in the pool, causing the water to rise into the air. It was time to play …

  And that was how Lucy recast this scene at the bathing pool …

  Mrs. Honeychurch suddenly cleared her throat, temporarily disengaging her daughter from her lustful thoughts.

  Lucy slowly rose from the silly curtsy her mother insisted she make.

  She began to muse once again until she was struck with a new and startling thought. What if she and George had been the ones to be caught? The very thought diverted her attention back to the shenanigans of Freddy and his chums.

  Lucy scolded herself for partaking in such impure assignations. She would be wise to consider that she was an engaged woman now. She belonged to Cecil. These thoughts of making love with George had to be dismissed at once. Life with George had ended back in Florence.

  Lucy was relieved when they finally took their leave, departing from the company of her brother and the other bathers.

  How curious Fate can be.

  Indoors herself, partaking of tea with old Mrs. Butterworth, she reflected that it is impossible to foretell the future with any degree of accuracy, that it is impossible to rehearse life. A fault in the scenery, a face in the audience, an irruption of the audience on to the stage, and all our carefully planned gestures mean nothing, or mean too much. “I will bow,” she had thought. “I will not shake hands with him. That will be just the proper thing.” She had bowed — but to whom? To gods, to heroes, to the nonsense of schoolgirls! She had bowed across the rubbish that cumbers the world and unchained the passion imprisoned deep within her soul. Fate had seen to that.

  So ran her thoughts, while her faculties were busy with Cecil. It was another of those dreadful engagement calls. Mrs. Butterworth had wanted to see him, and he did not want to be seen. He did not want to hear about hydrangeas, why they change their colour at the seaside. He did not want to join the C. O. S. When cross he was always elaborate, and made long, clever answers where “Yes” or “No” would have done. Lucy soothed him and tinkered at the conversation in a way that promised well for their married peace. No one is perfect, and surely it is wiser to discover the imperfections before wedlock. Miss Bartlett, indeed, though not in word, had taught the girl that this our life contains nothing satisfactory. Lucy, though she disliked the teacher, regarded the teaching as profound, and applied it to her lover.

  “Lucy,” said her mother, when they got home, “is anything the matter with Cecil?”

  The question was ominous; up till now Mrs. Honeychurch had behaved with charity and restraint.

  “No, I don’t think so, mother; Cecil’s all right.” Lucy couldn’t help but compare Cecil with George. How different th
ey were from one another. It wasn’t like Cecil to brood. George brooded. Cecil was always one to speak his mind. George took action.

  “Perhaps he’s tired.”

  Lucy compromised: perhaps Cecil was a little tired.

  “Because otherwise” — she pulled out her bonnet-pins with gathering displeasure — “because otherwise I cannot account for him.”

  “I do think Mrs. Butterworth is rather tiresome, if you mean that.”

  “Cecil has told you to think so. You were devoted to her as a little girl, and nothing will describe her goodness to you through the typhoid fever. No — it is just the same thing everywhere.”

  “Let me just put your bonnet away, may I?”

  “Surely he could answer her civilly for one half-hour?”

  “Cecil has a very high standard for people,” faltered Lucy, seeing trouble ahead. “It’s part of his ideals — it is really that that makes him sometimes seem — ”

  “Oh, rubbish! If high ideals make a young man rude, the sooner he gets rid of them the better,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, handing her the bonnet.

  “Now, mother! I’ve seen you cross with Mrs. Butterworth yourself!”

  “Not in that way. At times I could wring her neck. But not in that way. No. It is the same with Cecil all over.”

  “By-the-by — I never told you. I had a letter from Charlotte while I was away in London.”

  This attempt to divert the conversation was too puerile, and Mrs. Honeychurch resented it.

  “Since Cecil came back from London, nothing appears to please him. Whenever I speak he winces; — I see him, Lucy; it is useless to contradict me. No doubt I am neither artistic nor literary nor intellectual nor musical, but I cannot help the drawing-room furniture; your father bought it and we must put up with it, will Cecil kindly remember.”

  “I — I see what you mean, and certainly Cecil oughtn’t to. But he does not mean to be uncivil — he once explained — it is the things that upset him — he is easily upset by ugly things — he is not uncivil to PEOPLE.”

  “Is it a thing or a person when Freddy sings?”

  “You can’t expect a really musical person to enjoy comic songs as we do.”

  “Then why didn’t he leave the room? Why sit wriggling and sneering and spoiling everyone’s pleasure?”