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CHAPTER TWELVE

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    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
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