boutJacob'scharacter,notforthefirsttime.
Thetroublewasthisromanticveininhim."Butmixedwiththestupiditywhichleadshimintotheseabsurdpredicaments,"thoughtBonamy,"thereissomething—something"—hesighed,forhewasfonderofJacobthanofanyoneintheworld.
Jacobwenttothewindowandstoodwithhishandsinhispockets.TherehesawthreeGreeksinkiltsthemastsofshipsidleorbusypeopleofthelowerclassesstrollingorsteppingoutbriskly,orfallingintogroupsandgesticulatingwiththeirhands.Theirlackofconcernforhimwasnotthecauseofhisgloombutsomemoreprofoundconviction—itwasnotthathehimselfhappenedtobelonely,butthatallpeopleare.
Yetnextday,asthetrainslowlyroundedahillonthewaytoOlympia,theGreekpeasantwomenwereoutamongthevinestheoldGreekmenweresittingatthestations,sippingsweetwine.AndthoughJacobremainedgloomyhehadneversuspectedhowtremendouslypleasantitistobealoneoutofEnglandonone'sowncutofffromthewholething.ThereareverysharpbarehillsonthewaytoOlympiaandbetweenthemblueseaintriangularspaces.AlittleliketheCornishcoast.Wellnow,togowalkingbyoneselfallday—togetontothattrackandfollowitupbetweenthebushes—oraretheysmalltrees?—tothetopofthatmountainfromwhichonecanseehalfthenationsofantiquity—
"Yes,"saidJacob,forhiscarriagewasempty,"let'slookatthemap."Blameitorpraiseit,thereisnodenyingthewildhorseinus.Togallopintemperatelyfallonthesandtiredouttofeeltheearthspintohave—positively—arushoffriendshipforstonesandgrasses,asifhumanitywereover,andasformenandwomen,letthemgohang—thereisnogettingoverthefactthatthisdesireseizesusprettyoften.
TheeveningairslightlymovedthedirtycurtainsinthehotelwindowatOlympia.
"Iamfullofloveforeveryone,"thoughtMrs.WentworthWilliams,"—forthepoormostofall—forthepeasantscomingbackintheeveningwiththeirburdens.Andeverythingissoftandvagueandverysad.Itissad,itissad.Buteverythinghasmeaning,"thoughtSandraWentworthWilliams,raisingherheadalittleandlookingverybeautiful,tragic,andexalted."Onemustloveeverything."
Sheheldinherhandalittlebookconvenientfortravelling—storiesbyTchekov—asshestood,veiled,inwhite,inthewindowofthehotelatOlympia.Howbeautifultheeveningwas!andherbeautywasitsbeauty.ThetragedyofGreecewasthetragedyofallhighsouls.Theinevitablecompromise.Sheseemedtohavegraspedsomething.Shewouldwriteitdown.Andmovingtothetablewhereherhusbandsatreadingsheleantherchininherhandsandthoughtofthepeasants,ofsuffering,ofherownbeauty,oftheinevitablecompromise,andofhowshewouldwriteitdown.NordidEvanWilliamssayanythingbrutal,banal,orfoolishwhenheshuthisbookandputitawaytomakeroomfortheplatesofsoupwhichwerenowbeingplacedbeforethem.Onlyhisdroopingbloodhoundeyesandhisheavysallowcheeksexpressedhismelancholytolerance,hisconvictionthatthoughforcedtolivewithcircumspectionanddeliberationhecouldneverpossiblyachieveanyofthoseobjectswhich,asheknew,aretheonlyonesworthpursuing.Hisconsiderationwasflawlesshissilenceunbroken.
"Everythingseemstomeansomuch,"saidSandra.Butwiththesoundofherownvoicethespellwasbroken.Sheforgotthepeasants.Onlythereremainedwithherasenseofherownbeauty,andinfront,luckily,therewasalooking-glass.
"Iamverybeautiful,"shethought.
Sheshiftedherhatslightly.Herhusbandsawherlookingintheglassandagreedthatbeautyisimportantitisaninheritanceonecannotignoreit.Butitisabarrieritisinfactratherabore.Sohedrankhissoupandkepthiseyesfixeduponthewindow.
"Quails,"saidMrs.WentworthWilliamslanguidly."Andthengoat,Isupposeandthen…"
"Caramelcustardpresumably,"saidherhusbandinthesamecadence,withhistoothpickoutalready.
Shelaidherspoonuponherplate,andhersoupwastakenawayhalffinished.NeverdidshedoanythingwithoutdignityforherswastheEnglishtypewhichissoGreek,savethatvillagershavetouchedtheirhatstoit,thevicaragereveresitandupper-gardenersandunder-gardenersrespectfullystraightentheirbacksasshecomesdownthebroadterraceonSundaymorning,dallyingatthestoneurnswiththePrimeMinistertopickarose—which,perhaps,shewastryingtoforget,ashereyewanderedroundthedining-roomoftheinnatOlympia,seekingthewindowwhereherbooklay,whereafewminutesagoshehaddiscoveredsomething—somethingveryprofoundithadbeen,aboutloveandsadnessandthepeasants.
ButitwasEvanwhosighednotindespairnorindeedinrebellion.But,beingthemostambitiousofmenandtemperamentallythemostsluggish,hehadaccomplishednothinghadthepoliticalhistoryofEnglandathisfinger-ends,andlivingmuchincompanywithChatham,Pitt,Burke,andCharlesJamesFoxcouldnothelpcontrastinghimselfandhisagewiththemandtheirs."Yetthereneverwasatimewhengreatmenaremoreneeded,"hewasinthehabitofsayingtohimself,withasigh.HerehewaspickinghisteethinaninnatOlympia.Hehaddone.ButSandra'seyeswandered.
"Thosepinkmelonsaresuretobedangerous,"hesaidgloomily.Andashespokethedooropenedandincameayoungmaninagreychecksui