After My Fashion

by John Cowper Powys

  She must be furiously angry with him though, if he had written to her in the style he had used to him!

  Thus, with the surface of his mind, as if before a jury of people of the world, did Richard pour righteous oil upon his embarrassment.

  In that deeper, subtler portion of his being, the part of him that did not condescend to use reason or logic, he was less sure, far less sure, of his position. Down in those depths, without any words, some honest cynical demon told him that Canyot was fatally near the truth. Of course there had been, directly he and Nelly met, and every second they were together, a thrilling vivid undercurrent of sympathy, of understanding. Canyot would have been a very insensitive lover if he hadn’t sensed that. He would have been a fool if he hadn’t seen it. No doubt he saw things in her expressions, in her tones, in her gestures, that made him know, with the breath of fate itself, that his hour was ended.

  No doubt he had challenged her – and, poor innocent inexperienced thing as she was, she had not been able convincingly to meet his challenge. Without meaning to do so, teased and persecuted in his bullying, she had betrayed herself to him. This subtler voice, among Richard’s interior demons, was supported in its conclusions by his vanity.

  It was as agreeable as it was touching: to think of a sweet young creature like this being driven into a corner till she admitted being more than a little interested in Mr Richard Storm!

  Finally, as he rose from his seat under the lime trees, crushing Canyot’s letter into his pocket the better, more normal Richard in him decided that the young man had recognized more quickly than either Nelly or himself which way the wind was blowing, and apart from the least admission on her side and simply from devotion to her interests, had brought matters to a head in this erratic manner.

  All that day and a good deal of the next was spent by Richard in meditating what he should do in this curious imbroglio. The end of it was that he decided to do nothing at all, except to leave Nelly Moreton alone for a while.

  To leave the neighbourhood was out of the question. It would be like running away for the second time.

  He replied in a friendly but quite non-committal manner to Canyot’s letter and said he would be very glad to see something more of him before he sailed for America. He avoided any mention of Miss Moreton’s name. His policy of remaining in retreat for the present and leaving the girl alone was made easier for him by a certain rush of energy in the sphere of his writing.

  He wrote steadily for several long uninterrupted mornings and afternoons making a conscious effort to keep the image of Nelly, as well as that other image, far back in the recesses of his consciousness.

  What, he thought fantastically to himself on one of these calm days, do these insidious phantoms of people, that for the time being we don’t want to think about, these bodiless haunters of our suppressed world, do with one another in that queer twilight? Do they gibber and squeak at one another – these Elises and Nellys – or are they, like the Queen of Carthage in the Elysian fields, silent and disdainful?

  He found, as he wrote, that it was possible to reduce all these human entanglements to a vague far-off world that hardly infringed upon the world he visioned in his present humour. This world, of his mystical consciousness, was a world in which the immediate pain of things and the immediate thrill of things were both held back to a certain distance. It was a world in which his immediate pain and his immediate pleasure were taken up and absorbed in the great stream of all the pleasures and pains of the human race.

  What he sought to give an enduring expression to, as he took his available words and squeezed out their subtler meanings and tried to make his thought clothe itself, rhythm within rhythm, with these delicate essences, was the large flowing tide of human experience as it gathered in great reiterated waves, under the old pressure of the old dilemmas, and rolled forward and drew back along the sea banks of necessity.

  What he groped after was an entrance into some larger consciousness, not remote from this earthly world, but carrying forward, generation after generation, the faint surmises, the dim guesses, the broken half-glimpses, of men and women and, with all these gathered up within it, itself growing more and more responsive to deeper vibrations from the Unknown, more and more aware of itself as the true Son of Man, as the true logos, into whose being had been poured all the thwarted and baffled aspirations of all souls.

  It was not that he wished to find some mere mystical sensation, inchoate and indistinct, and try to express the feeling of just that, in lulled and monotonous rhythms. It was that he wished to take the many poignant ‘little things’, bitter and sweet, tragic and grotesque, common and fantastic, such as the earth affords us all in our confused wayfaring, and to associate these, as each generation is aware of them before it passes away, as he himself was aware of them in his own hour, with some dimly conceived immortal consciousness that gave them all an enduring value and dropped none of them by the way.

  It was, so to speak, some tentative, hesitant, as yet only half-conscious soul of the earth, to which he sought to feel his way, a kind of half-human, half-elemental logos, nearer the Goat-foot Pass than any vague dream of the old Gnostics, and yet with a music in its being, beyond the breath of any reed of the marshes.

  It was comparatively easy to let the faint magic of his view of things ebb and flow before his mental vision in these long golden mornings in Selshurst, where the very streets were full of the fragrances of the fields. It was a very different matter when he came to attempt the task of putting all this into poetic form. How, in that little bedroom of his, opening on the light breaths of rosemary and balsam and newly budding lavender, where every now and then came lively voices from the back parlour, he wrestled with the obstinate mystery of words!

  Why not put these thoughts of his into the simpler cadences of prose? Because there are certain things that refuse to be expressed in prose, that demand the austerer rhythms, the more oracular gestures, the more broken, fragmentary, evasive hints, of poetry.

  But ‘Oh Prince, what labour, oh Prince, what pain!’ For the rhythms of poetry, expecially of the vers libre he was working in, are of such a kind that not only the general swing of the verse had to leap forth as the very exhalation of his own especial soul, but each separate line, nay! every word he uses, must fall into its place, not ‘by taking thought’, but by an indefinable movement of the energy of music in himself. The syllables have to form an essence compounded of strange subtleties; and as for the thoughts, they must be bitter and sweet, full of the mysterious saps and juices of the blood of life, cool-breathing, redolent of undying mornings and evenings, sprinkled with eternal dews.

  Day followed day without any interruption to these mental and psychic labours. ‘I have not run away a second time,’ he kept saying to himself; but that was the very thing, as he well knew in his secret heart, that he had done! To fall suddenly after those vibrant and thrilling first meetings with her, into dead silence, was nothing less than to abscond, to quit the field, to bolt.

  He did not attempt to bring into honest daylight the queer shadowy motives that tumbled over one another, like shifty humpbacked weasels in a rabbit hole, down there in the darkness of his hidden mind. But somehow by not actually clearing off, by not leaving Selshurst altogether, he satisfied the scruples of one part of his nature, while by offering the girl nothing but this profound silence he made a definite break with what had begun to occur between them, and in a queer sort of indirect way hit back at the meddling Canyot.

  It was all the more easy to hide himself like this just because that ‘threatening letter’, as he called it, of the impulsive painter had quite definitely broken up the special kind of sentimental attraction he had begun to feel for the young girl. In those first days he never thought of her without thinking of buttercups, and celandines; but now whenever he thought of her he thought of that ‘choosing definitely between us’; until the fair face of the maiden floated, in his mind, above a horrid iron prong, that jerked and prodded him into
that lamentable arena of duty where decisions are made!

  One morning, however, after more than a week of this recluse existence, his whole line of action was scattered to the winds by a letter from the girl herself.

  ‘Dear Mr Storm,’ the letter said, in a firm clear round rather childish hand. ‘When are you coming to see us again? – or have you left Selshurst? If you have gone away I hope they won’t forward this because it’s only a dull invitation which it will be a bore to receive in Paris or wherever you may be. It’s to ask you to come over to tea tomorrow, to meet my friend Mrs Shotover. Please try and come if you can, as my father took a great fancy to you; which is rare with him as you can guess. But of course if you have left it’s no use. In that case may I say I’m sorry we didn’t say goodbye?’ And the letter ended with an evident hesitation between ‘Sincerely’ and ‘Very sincerely’, avoided by a manufactured blot and a hurried ‘And with best wishes for the success of your work – from Nelly Moreton.’

  It is extraordinary what power a direct personal appeal has, to break up a whole fabric of moral speculation! The look of the letter, the way she had worded it, that blot at the last with the unconventional ending – all these things thrilled Richard as if they had been the very touch of her hand. ‘Ha! Ha! My good friend,’ one of his slyest demons whispered to him, ‘so, after all, the real reason for this retreat of yours was pure jealousy! You thought she did still care for Canyot!’

  Tea tomorrow? That means today – this very afternoon. And Richard rushed out of the Crown Inn passage, into the street, sans hat and stick, and made his way to the leafy cathedral close, walking upon air.

  He left an admirable lunch, that noon, very imperfectly dispatched, and found himself chatting to barmaids, gardeners, ostlers, boot boys, even to that old insinuating toper, half-beggar, half local-celebrity, who went by the name of Young Bill, with the most eager interest. –

  ‘I may as well start early,’ he said to himself. ‘It’s so horrid to meet people when one’s hot and rushed.’

  He started indeed so extremely early that it was hardly half past two when he arrived within a couple of miles of the place. I can’t appear yet for hours! he thought, and tried to settle himself down in a pleasant corner of a field, taking out of his pocket a little volume of Songs of Innocence and Experience. He got as far as the title on the cover, which struck his fancy as being singularly appropriate; but the words inside the book might have been written in Chinese, for all they conveyed to his mind.

  ‘Confound this waiting!’ he said to himself. ‘It makes a person nervous. Maybe I’d better take a bit of a detour.’ This diplomatic move had the effect of so entangling him between hedges and ditches, and hayfields where he knew he mustn’t tread down the grass, that it was quite four o’clock before he made his appearance, decidedly hot and very muddy, at the door of Littlegate Vicarage.

  Mrs Shotover had arrived, and with John Moreton and Nelly was standing on the lawn outside the vicar’s study.

  Richard’s joining them was the signal for Grace to bring out tea, preparations for which had already been made under the shelter of a wide-spreading sycamore.

  Nelly had blushed scarlet on first seeing him and had been so nervous that in introducing him to Mrs Shotover, she said the one thing which she had made up her mind she must on no account say, the one thing that it would be ‘perfectly awful’ to say. ‘Mrs Shotover,’ she said, ‘has been teasing me about you. She calls you my Stormy Petrel.’

  As soon as she had uttered the words she could have bitten off her tongue. Some devil must have said that through my mouth! she thought.

  A voice within the man she addressed did certainly not fail to point out that the jest was an ill-timed if not an ill-bred one; and that it was not pleasant to be the subject of ‘teasing’ between ladies. But this was only one voice among many that were uttering fantastic and carping comments in Richard’s brain; and the real Richard was very little affected by them. Indeed the girl looked at him so shyly and so wistfully after this blunder, that she could have said something far worse than that and he would have forgiven her.

  ‘I found a knapweed out this morning,’ remarked the vicar, after the first settling in seats and pouring out of tea had subsided. ‘I’ve never found one so early before; not in thirty years. It’s a remarkable season.’

  ‘Father always finds the first flower,’ said Nelly quickly. ‘He seems to know by instinct where to go for them. It’s quite queer sometimes. You’d think that no sooner were a new flower out, than it made a special signal to Father, over miles and miles, to come and see it.’

  ‘Mr Storm must come and see my garden,’ threw in the lady from West Horthing, ‘and I’ve got a few things in my house that no doubt would interest him still more.’

  ‘What things do you mean?’ asked Nelly with genuine curiosity. But her friend shook her head at her. ‘It’s Mr Storm I’m going to show them to, not you, dear. When you come to see me it’s all gossip and scandal, isn’t it? We’ve no time for serious things. Do you think it’s really true, Mr Storm, that women are fonder of gossip than men?’

  It was the old naturalist who unexpectedly replied to her.

  ‘Women, Betty, gossip out of pure malice; in order to satisfy their spitefulness and spleen. Men gossip out of a philosophical interest in human nature.’

  ‘I would put it rather differently.’ said Storm. ‘Men gossip about their enemies – women about their friends. Women think themselves privileged to abuse their friends.’

  ‘Mr Storm! That isn’t true,’ broke in Nelly. ‘Don’t interrupt him, dear,’ said the old lady. ‘He was going to say something else. I saw it coming.’

  What do you think yourself?’ inquired Storm, looking straight into her satiric screwed-up eyes.

  ‘I think we all gossip as fast as we can find subjects for it. Women’s subjects are more limited than men’s; so they’re bound to make more of them.’

  ‘Tell me this then—’ began Richard.

  ‘Oh no catechisms, I implore!’ cried Mrs Shotover. ‘That’s where you literary people are so unkind.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mean so boring,’ said Richard.

  ‘No, please, Granny dear; let Mr Storm finish his question. I’m sure it was thrilling. Ask me instead of her, won’t you?’ And Nelly smiled at him with a tender quiet little smile that seemed to say, ‘I love your catechisms!’

  ‘It probably wasn’t a proper question to put to you,’ chuckled Mrs Shotover. ‘Well, go ahead, young man, and be as unkind to the old lady as you like.’

  ‘I only meant – but there! we’ve driven your father away I’m afraid—’ and he stopped abruptly, as the vicar, nodding benevolently at them all, got up and shuffled across the lawn.

  ‘Oh no! Father never stays after he’s had his tea,’ cried Nelly. ‘Now Mr Storm, do finish your sentence!’

  ‘I only meant,’ Richard went on, cursing himself for having launched into the topic at all, ‘that it’s queer how women scold so bitterly and vindictively people that they’re really all the time actually in love with.’

  Mrs Shotover put back her head, dropped her lorgnette, and dropped into a cackling high-pitched laugh. Then she leered at Richard with her head on one side like some wicked very old fowl. ‘Do they do that? My goodness! You notice, Nelly, what experiences Mr Storm has had.’

  Richard glared at her angrily. ‘I’m afraid it wasn’t an original remark of mine,’ he retorted. ‘It’s that old well-known poem of Catullus I was thinking of. I hardly liked to bore you with it in Latin.’

  ‘In Latin!’ Mrs Shotover clapped her hands. ‘Oh Nelly, do put down that cake. You know you don’t want it. And listen to Mr Storm quoting Latin.’

  But Nelly’s face was very serious. It would never do for Mrs Shotover and Richard to quarrel at this juncture. ‘You two dear nice people!’ she cried, rising to her feet in order to deal more adequately with the situation. ‘How you do fight over these absurd problems! As Mr Storm says, I don�
��t think we need much experience to know what people are like when they love and hate at the same time! But I don’t think it’s only women who torment the people they care for. I’m sure men do it. I don’t know whether you’d count Father as an example? But he certainly does it. Well? Shall we go round the garden?’

  As they moved away Nelly thought to herself – The poor absurd darling! how sweet he looked when he got angry because she laughed. And how solemnly he began that old tiresome business about loving and scolding.

  What pompous vain conceited things the nicest of men are! But oh I’m so glad to see him again – and there’s the same feeling between us – just the same – he feels it and I feel it. How wonderful it is!

  And Richard thought in his heart – That vulgar impertinent old woman! Trying to make me look a fool before Nelly! But the sweet thing came to my rescue instead. Bless her heart! She may be innocent, but she’s got more intellect, any day, than that old harridan with false teeth and a grin like a hyena! Bless her heart! I was a silly ass to keep away all this time. What days I’ve wasted!

  And as he followed the old and the young woman round that pleasant little garden he smiled to himself to notice how naïvely and simply he had thought of those even days of work at the main purpose of his life as ‘wasted’ – because he had hidden himself away from a girl of twenty-two.

  Chapter 7

  Richard did not succeed in securing any private word with Nelly before he felt it incumbent upon him to say goodbye. The ‘laughing hyena’, as he named Mrs Shotover to himself, grinned her obstinate determination to ‘stick him out’ and be left alone with her young friend. He was only thankful she had a coachman and dog-cart; so that there was no question of his having to walk back with her to West Horthing. He cordially detested her; and made up his mind to attack Nelly on the subject, and express his wonder as to what she could see in such a spiteful and silly old creature!