The Lotus and the Wind

by John Masters

  Her mother’s ugly, halting explanations that were no more than innuendoes made Anne begin to blush as she remembered them. Then she said humbly, ‘No, Mrs. Savage.’ Mrs. Savage smiled quickly and leaned forward in her chair to kiss Anne gently on the cheek. ‘I think that you know passion but have not had experience. I could wish that you had. I am positive that Robin has not either, and . . .’ She got up, walked slowly to the window, looked out for a time, and sat down again. ‘I am the only mother he has. I cannot have this chance for his happiness, and yours, risked by misunderstandings, shyness, ignorance. You know’--she smiled at Anne--’the best person to tell you would be someone like Major Hayling. It would be less clinical, and he’s a good man. But those days have not come yet. . .

  ‘Robin’s mother was murdered in the Mutiny; he was only two and a half, and unconscious, but he says he saw it done. Really he remembers what Lachman has told him since, but it’s real to him. Men he had trusted and loved all his short years picked him up by the heels and swung his head against a wall. His father carried him in a sack for hours, and later, with my help, dropped him down a sixty-foot shaft--to save his life, but he didn’t know that. How could he? All he remembers is that we prised his fingers loose and pushed him down.

  ‘Oh, there were many more cruelties. I am not going to have him saddled with another one, the idea that physical love is degrading to you and brutalizing to him. I am going to tell you that the body of the man you love, in you, is love. Haven’t you ever felt that you wanted to wrap your love around Robin? God made us so that with our bodies we can physically do it. Haven’t you ever felt that you were incomplete without him, that you were empty and aching for his love to fill you? That is love, Anne, and it comes about when passion--lust, I don’t care what they call it--melts you together. You will never know anything more close to God’s kindness, except bearing Robin’s child. I am a nurse--but that’s nothing. I am a mother, a wife, and’--she touched Anne’s head with her fingers--’a lover. My dear new daughter, listen while I tell you the wonderful way God made these things to come about.’

  Anne had gone home at last, warm inside and crying happily into her handkerchief so that her mother asked what her high and mighty ladyship had said to hurt her. But Anne could only shake her head and run to her bedroom and lie down and remember. She dozed off, thinking of Caroline Savage’s last words and final, brief smile. ‘Now forget all the details, Anne, You are not going to take an examination for a degree--though some of our fallen sisters do exactly that, did you know?’ Anne thought Mrs. Savage might have winked; certainly her eyes had crinkled up as she continued. ‘You do not have to think physical love into existence, but only to take it--I know it is there between you and Robin--and grow it.’

  The lamp on the table sputtered, and the wall at which she had been looking came into focus. She said, ‘Shall we retire, Robin? We’re both tired.’

  In the bedroom she turned naturally, in front of the mirror, and asked him to undo her dress at the back. His fingers were slow and cool. ‘There, it’s undone.’ She took off her petticoats and corset and sat down in her chemise in front of the mirror. Her husband stood a little behind her. She watched his face as she combed out her hair, bent her head, and began to brush the long, falling mass, stroking it hard.--’

  Robin said, ‘You have beautiful hair. The lights in it run in long bands as if it were made of something solid. It will be difficult to get that effect.’

  She said, ‘Painting? Do you--? Oh, Robin!’ She put down the brush. ‘Did you paint those pictures in your room in Peshawar?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You never told me. I didn’t know.’

  ‘I’m going to paint you to-morrow. I’ve never tried to do a person before, but I must.’

  ‘Thank you, Robin. I shall love it.’ She took up the brush and after fifty strokes on each side of her head put it down. Slowly she took off her stockings. She sat down on the edge of the bed, wearing only the chemise and wide, split-legged drawers. Robin took off his coat.

  She stood up and came half a step towards him and looked him in the eyes. His eyes were unchanged, like the moving browns and greens of a river, friendly, unreadable. She bent her head to kiss his hand. ‘Robin, I love you.’ The trust and the utter confidence swelled up inside her and passed through her lips. She did not know what shyness or lust or good or evil were.

  He said, ‘I know, Anne. I can feel it in my hand.’ He lifted it up and looked at it, where she had kissed it. ‘There. Now.’ He kissed her hand as she had kissed his. It was only--a kiss, and she looked blankly at him because she knew he loved her, and where, oh God, where was the barrier?

  He made her sit down again and sat beside her. Then he said, ‘We have two days. After that we won’t be together again until I come back from the training they are going to give me for my job--about five months. I have a lot to learn. When I do come back it may only be for a day or two. Then I’ll have to go again, on the job itself.’

  She could not prove anything important to him by sitting here half undressed and holding his hand. Mrs. Savage was wonderful, but even she had supposed that there would be an opportunity. She had said nothing about making one. Anne took her nightdress and went into the bathroom. The nightdress was nothing but a plain white cotton gown with no lace and no frills. She looked at it doubtfully, put it on, and applied some perfume behind her ears. Were these, after all, woman’s weapons and power, as they whispered in the ladies’ rooms and behind the fans? These--line and shape, feel and smell--and not trust, affection, love? Or could not the outward designs serve the inward purpose? She waited, hearing the rustling movements of his undressing. Then there was stillness, and she came out.

  He was standing near the light on the little occasional table in the middle of the room. She slipped into her bed, the one nearest the window. He turned down the lamp, and in the tiny glow she saw his face staring down at the wick as it died. Lying stiff as a bolt, she heard him kick his slippers off under the other bed. Then he walked barefoot across the matting floor. His breathing was close above her. His body moved, and she heard the small thump of his knees as he knelt beside her. She reached up tentatively. Above all, she must not seize him. He must forget that the huntress had ever existed; instead he must know that she was his heart and throbbed now in a perfect rhythmical ecstasy of trust, each beat reaching out farther, like a wave, than the one before.

  He said, not whispering, so that the words beat very loudly against her ears in the darkness, ‘Anne, I think I’m learning what love is. I couldn’t bear to see you hurt yourself. Is that love?’

  She said, ‘Yes, but--Robin, with you I won’t, I can’t. Oh, darling, don’t you see I’m hurt because I can’t get close to you--only this way?’

  After a long time he said, ‘I can feel you crying. I shall feel it all the time I’m away. It’ll be worse, it will be impossible to bear, if you come to cry because there is nothing this way either.’

  ‘There is, there must be.’

  ‘Anne, I’m frightened. The closer I get to you the more frightened I become--for you. No, that’s a bloody lie. For myself.’

  She heard the nawar creak in the other bed. Half the night rats ran around on the ceiling cloth. Boards creaked suddenly in the centre room, and the waning fire crackled. She had not actually wept--Robin had felt those tears inside her--and, she clenched her teeth together, she would not cry now. She would not feel shame or outrage or disappointment--anything.

  But it became difficult to order her feelings. In the early hours she saw Robin’s love and trust as apples on top of a wall, beyond her reach. Caroline Savage’s ladder wasn’t long enough, or the ground wasn’t firm enough to set it up--something was wrong. She did not feel the old misery of despair, because there must be a way to climb the wall that was Robin’s nature. Somebody must know. Robin could not bear to hurt her, but because she loved him she would be hurt only if the wall proved to be unclimbable. Then her wound would be most desperate
.

  She was hunting again. Robin had not sought out her love or forced it from her. How could he know its depth and its power of perseverance? She was like nothing but a lioness, padding up and down, up and down, lashing her tail.

  But, dear God, I only want to make him unafraid.

  How do you expect him to believe that?

  By getting close to him, and--oh, please, please! Someone must know.

  Two weeks later, on a Sunday morning, dressed in her best and having come back from church, she told her mother that she was going out calling. Her mother said, ‘Upon whom?’ She answered, ‘Just calling, Mother,’ smiled thinly, and left the bungalow. She was a bride now; in five months and two weeks she would be a matron.

  Ten minutes later she turned into Edith Collett’s drive. The bearer came in answer to her call, looked at her in some surprise, but ushered her into a sparsely furnished drawing room and hurried out to announce her. ‘Mrs. Savage,’ she had said her name was. She called after the man, ‘Say, “Robin Savage Memsahib.” While she waited she examined the room with interest. The colours of the furnishings were much lighter than she had ever seen in a house before. Long curtains of light blue swept back in gentle, hanging curves from the windows. None of the wood was mahogany. It was not a cosy place, nor particularly tidy, but it was striking. One would have to notice it.

  Edith Collett swept in with a rustle of blue Madras muslin. She sank down on a pouffe as Anne rose, and pulled Anne down with a pleasant laugh. ‘Our most beautiful bride. I am glad you have come. Would you like some tea?’

  ‘No, thank you, Mrs. Collett. I--just wanted to call.’

  ‘Now that you’re married you’d like to disassociate yourself from your mother’s rudeness?’ said Mrs. Collett, suddenly ceasing to smile. Anne knew that her mother had never called. Mrs. Collett went on. ‘That’s very kind of you. But I knew it wasn’t your fault, Anne.’

  Anne blurted out, ‘I’ve always wanted to call, honestly I have. And now I’m married it’s different.’

  ‘I’m sure it is, Anne. Nicer too, if you’re lucky.’

  Anne took a deep breath. ‘Mrs. Collett, you see, you’re alone here, and I wondered--I thought--would you possibly let me come and share it with you--I mean live here and learn about housekeeping and do the work if it wouldn’t be a nuisance for you--if you’d help me, tell me what to do so that I could learn, and not be in your way?’

  Somehow she had offended the other woman. Mrs. Collett leaned forward sharply. ‘You mean, not in the way of what your mother doubtless calls my amours? But the truth is that you can’t bear living under the same roof with her any longer, isn’t it? Any port in a storm?’

  Anne jumped up, feeling miserable and muddled. ‘No, no, Mrs. Collett! I mean, I can’t bear it at home but I do want to come and live with you too. I haven’t asked my mother, or mentioned it even. She’d have a fit.’

  ‘Why?’ said Mrs. Collett, less angrily, and waited, half smiling, for Anne’s answer. Anne could not speak because the answer was ‘My mother thinks you are an unpaid harlot.’

  Mrs. Collett said, ‘You needn’t answer. I know quite well what your mother thinks of me. The point is, do you agree?’ Anne said, ‘Of course not, Mrs. Collett. But--well, I wouldn’t care if the worst she thought was true. You’ve always been kind to me. I admire you and--and I want to be like you. I don’t want any more mothers, not even Mrs. Savage. I could go there, and she would be wonderful. It’s not what I want. I’m married--but I don’t know anything. I don’t mean about babies, I know that, I mean about being a lady, a woman--well, being something more than a girl, anyway.’ She had stated the problem as accurately as she could, and in terms as personal as she cared to use at this stage. Later, if she could bring herself to talk about Robin, and if Mrs. Collett was as understanding close to as she was at a distance, she might. . .

  But Mrs. Collett seemed to know already; she was saying ‘ . . sure of yourself, confident, as a girl, and now you’re not sure of anything all of a sudden, is that it? My poor dear! Now, now, don’t worry about it. It’s good. Some of these modern young women are too hard or too stupid to realize that they lack something.’

  Edith Collett rose quickly but smoothly from the pouffe and left the room. Her skirts were as tight as Anne’s, but she did not hobble; she swept out, and how she did it was a mystery of locomotion. Anne waited quietly until she returned, carrying a silver tray with a decanter and two glasses. She did not pour out the wine but set the tray down and looked steadily at Anne. Then she said, ‘Anne, before you come here you must know that sometimes I am an immoral woman. There is a reason. My husband happens not to like women. I suppose I should report him to the police, but he’s a very kind man and I can’t do it. I can’t even divorce him, because it would take away his--oh, call it his protective coloration. He’ll be discovered one day. Then he’ll shoot himself. Meantime, as I can’t be a good wife, I have to try and be a good woman. When men are lonely or frightened, that isn’t what it sounds--at least not in my opinion. Why do you think I told you that?’ she finished suddenly.

  Anne did not understand all she had heard, but she knew that Mrs. Collett was weary and sad and, like herself, fighting. She said, ‘I don’t know, Mrs. Collett. I’m glad you did tell me, though.’

  Mrs. Collett said, ‘Is Robin one too, like my husband? Is that the trouble? There’s something the matter with you, Anne. Can’t you trust me?’

  Anne dropped her head. She couldn’t bring herself to say, ‘My husband won’t give me my connubial rights’--Mrs. Savage said it should be ‘rites.’ Besides, that was a result of the trouble, not the trouble itself. The trouble was her lack of savoir-faire. Women who had savoir-faire could make a man believe anything--why not, then, the truth? She said, ‘I love Robin, Mrs. Collett, but I don’t think---well, I’m twenty-three and yet with him I feel as if I were seven or eight. Can you, will you--?’

  She felt Mrs. Collett’s plump arms around her and her low, rather hoarse voice in her ear. ‘Of course I will, Anne. It gets lonely here sometimes, but together we can have a good time and enjoy ourselves. And now we will have a glass of this wine.’ The wine was the colour of pale straw.

  ‘Oh, thank you, I couldn’t, Mrs. Collett. I’m not allowed to take wine until the evening, and then only--’

  ‘Not allowed, Mrs. Savage? Call me Edith. This is Manzanilla. Some very dry sherries are called Manzanillas, but that’s wrong. It’s different, it’s a wine by itself, it’s--well, taste it. Have you ever had anything like that before?’

  ‘No. It’s like water. No, it’s like fire, only it’s smooth.’ She sipped again. ‘There, I had it on my tongue, but it’s gone, and there’s no taste left in my mouth. Now there is again! It’s bitter, Edith--not for long. It’s sort of half sweet, just for a moment. Why, it’s fascinating!’

  ‘Exactly, Anne. You’ve been a good, straightforward, wholesome Madeira for much too long.’

  CHAPTER 10

  As the ponies slid gingerly down the last scree slope of the last hill Robin glanced back over his shoulder. Jagbir, twenty yards behind him, looked out of place on horseback. It was the effect of his infantryman’s uniform and had not been the case while he had been wearing the loose woollen robes and felt boots of a Hazara tribesman.

  They were returning from their five months’ training. Robin turned forward and with his eye swept the Peshawar plain. In the distance he saw the trees surrounding the city and the cantonment. In the foreground a goatherd piped on a sarnai, leaning back against a rock, his rifle between his knees. He stood up as they came closer and held his rifle loosely ready in his hand. Robin said, ‘May you never be tired!’

  ‘May you never be tired!’

  ‘Are you well?’

  ‘I am well.’

  ‘Are you right well?’

  ‘I am right well.’

  ‘Are you in good health?’

  ‘I am in right good health.’

  The goatherd remained standing b
y the rock, watching them. The ponies wended on across the stony level among the scattered grazing goats. The sun of mid-July beat back from the gravelly surface, and heat poured out in waves from the oven-like hills.

  In Peshawar cantonment the few passers-by gazed curiously at them as they walked the drooping horses towards the Hildreths’ bungalow. There Robin dismounted. It was only just after noon, and the family should not be asleep yet. He called quietly, ‘Koi hai!’ The bearer shambled out of the bungalow, recognized him with a surprised salaam, and hurried back inside. On Robin’s order Jagbir led the ponies to the stable. Robin found that he still had difficulty with the Gurkhali tongue; it was only a week since they had reverted to speaking it to each other.

  Major Hildreth came on to the verandah, a newspaper in his hand, and stared with screwed-up eyes into the shimmering noon. ‘Well, I’m damned! Robin. I say, come in, boy.’ In the dark hall he grasped Robin’s hand and peered closely into his face. ‘Why, boy, you’re as black as the ace of spades! I mean the sun has burned you. Where have you been? Oh, suppose you’re not allowed to tell me, h’m?’

  ‘Afghanistan, sir. It’s, a big country. Where’s Anne?’

  ‘Anne? Didn’t you know? Here, sit down a minute. Anne’s been--ah, living with Mrs. Collett since you went away. Much more convenient, you know--I mean, well, boy, two women in one house! Mrs. Hildreth’s got a notion about Edith Collett, but it isn’t so. She’s a fine woman.’

  ‘I understand, sir,’ said Robin, smiling. He remembered hearing some gossip about Mrs. Collett while he was here last. Not much, because few people had been talking to him then. It was good of Anne, and typical, to go to her.

  ‘Want a glass of beer, my boy?’

  ‘Yes, please, sir.’

  The bearer brought the beer and poured it out, stooping obsequiously beside Robin’s chair. Major Hildreth’s popping eyes ran cautiously over Robin’s dusty uniform. ‘You didn’t get much beer in Afghanistan, I suppose?’