erhewaspesteredbyguides.ThiswasonMonday.
ButonWednesdayhewroteatelegramtoBonamy,tellinghimtocomeatonce.Andthenhecrumpleditinhishandandthrewitinthegutter.
"Foronethinghewouldn'tcome,"hethought."AndthenIdaresaythissortofthingwearsoff.""Thissortofthing"beingthatuneasy,painfulfeeling,somethinglikeselfishness—onewishesalmostthatthethingwouldstop—itisgettingmoreandmorebeyondwhatispossible—"IfitgoesonmuchlongerIshan'tbeabletocopewithit—butifsomeoneelsewereseeingitatthesametime—BonamyisstuffedinhisroominLincoln'sInn—oh,Isay,damnitall,Isay,"—thesightofHymettus,Pentelicus,Lycabettusononeside,andtheseaontheother,asonestandsintheParthenonatsunset,theskypinkfeathered,theplainallcolours,themarbletawnyinone'seyes,isthusoppressive.LuckilyJacobhadlittlesenseofpersonalassociationheseldomthoughtofPlatoorSocratesinthefleshontheotherhandhisfeelingforarchitecturewasverystronghepreferredstatuestopicturesandhewasbeginningtothinkagreatdealabouttheproblemsofcivilization,whichweresolved,ofcourse,soveryremarkablybytheancientGreeks,thoughtheirsolutionisnohelptous.ThenthehookgaveagreattuginhissideashelayinbedonWednesdaynightandheturnedoverwithadesperatesortoftumble,rememberingSandraWentworthWilliamswithwhomhewasinlove.
NextdayheclimbedPentelicus.
ThedayafterhewentuptotheAcropolis.Thehourwasearlytheplacealmostdesertedandpossiblytherewasthunderintheair.ButthesunstruckfullupontheAcropolis.
Jacob'sintentionwastositdownandread,and,findingadrumofmarbleconvenientlyplaced,fromwhichMarathoncouldbeseen,andyetitwasintheshade,whiletheErechtheumblazedwhiteinfrontofhim,therehesat.Andafterreadingapageheputhisthumbinhisbook.Whynotrulecountriesinthewaytheyshouldberuled?Andhereadagain.
NodoubthispositionthereoverlookingMarathonsomehowraisedhisspirits.Oritmayhavebeenthataslowcapaciousbrainhasthesemomentsofflowering.Orhehad,insensibly,whilehewasabroad,gotintothewayofthinkingaboutpolitics.
Andthenlookingupandseeingthesharpoutline,hismeditationsweregivenanextraordinaryedgeGreecewasovertheParthenoninruinsyettherehewas.
(Ladieswithgreenandwhiteumbrellaspassedthroughthecourtyard—FrenchladiesontheirwaytojointheirhusbandsinConstantinople.)
Jacobreadonagain.Andlayingthebookonthegroundhebegan,asifinspiredbywhathehadread,towriteanoteupontheimportanceofhistory—upondemocracy—oneofthosescribblesuponwhichtheworkofalifetimemaybebasedoragain,itfallsoutofabooktwentyyearslater,andonecan'trememberawordofit.Itisalittlepainful.Ithadbetterbeburnt.
JacobwrotebegantodrawastraightnosewhenalltheFrenchladiesopeningandshuttingtheirumbrellasjustbeneathhimexclaimed,lookingatthesky,thatonedidnotknowwhattoexpect—rainorfineweather?
JacobgotupandstrolledacrosstotheErechtheum.Therearestillseveralwomenstandingthereholdingtheroofontheirheads.Jacobstraightenedhimselfslightlyforstabilityandbalanceaffectthebodyfirst.Thesestatuesannulledthingsso!Hestaredatthem,thenturned,andtherewasMadameLucienGraveperchedonablockofmarblewithherkodakpointedathishead.Ofcourseshejumpeddown,inspiteofherage,herfigure,andhertightboots—having,nowthatherdaughterwasmarried,lapsedwithaluxuriousabandonment,grandenoughinitsway,intothefleshygrotesqueshejumpeddown,butnotbeforeJacobhadseenher.
"Damnthesewomen—damnthesewomen!"hethought.AndhewenttofetchhisbookwhichhehadleftlyingonthegroundintheParthenon.
"Howtheyspoilthings,"hemurmured,leaningagainstoneofthepillars,pressinghisbooktightbetweenhisarmandhisside.(Asfortheweather,nodoubtthestormwouldbreaksoonAthenswasundercloud.)
"Itisthosedamnedwomen,"saidJacob,withoutanytraceofbitterness,butratherwithsadnessanddisappointmentthatwhatmighthavebeenshouldneverbe.
(Thisviolentdisillusionmentisgenerallytobeexpectedinyoungmenintheprimeoflife,soundofwindandlimb,whowillsoonbecomefathersoffamiliesanddirectorsofbanks.)
Then,makingsurethattheFrenchwomenhadgone,andlookingcautiouslyroundhim,JacobstrolledovertotheErechtheumandlookedratherfurtivelyatthegoddessontheleft-handsideholdingtheroofonherhead.SheremindedhimofSandraWentworthWilliams.Helookedather,thenlookedaway.Helookedather,thenlookedaway.Hewasextraordinarilymoved,andwiththebatteredGreeknoseinhishead,withSandrainhishead,withallsortsofthingsinhishead,offhestartedtowalkrightuptothetopofMountHymettus,alone,intheheat.
ThatveryafternoonBonamywentexpresslytotalkaboutJacobtoteawithClaraDurrantinthesquarebehindSloaneStreetwhere,onhotspringdays,therearestripedblindsoverthefrontwindows,singlehorsespawingthemacadamoutsidethedoors,andelderlygentlemeninyellowwaistcoatsringingbellsandsteppinginverypolitelywhenthemaiddemurelyrepliesthatMrs.Durrantisathome.
BonamysatwithClarainthesunnyfrontroomwiththebarrelorganpipingsweetlyoutsi