Those Barren Leaves - Aldous Huxley (e reader pdf best .TXT) 📗

the love of passion and because I saved him from death, I love him.” If that had been all, it might have been possible for Mrs. Aldwinkle to take Irene’s advice. But from the obscure caves of her being another voice was speaking. “He is young, he is beautiful. The days are so few and short. I am growing old. My body is thirsty.” How could she cease to think of him?

“And suppose he did come to love me a little,” Mrs. Aldwinkle went on, taking a perverse delight in tormenting herself in every possible way, “suppose he should come to love me just a little for what I am and think and do⁠—should come to love me because, to begin with, I love him and admire his work, and because I understand what an artist feels and can sympathize with him⁠—suppose all that, wouldn’t he be repelled at the same time by the fact that I’m old?” She peered into the mirror. “My face looks terribly old,” she said.

“No, no,” protested Irene encouragingly.

“He’d be disgusted,” Mrs. Aldwinkle went on. “It would be enough to drive him away even if he were attracted in some other way.” She sighed profoundly. The tears trickled slowly down her sagging cheeks.

“Don’t talk like that, Aunt Lilian,” Irene implored her. “Don’t talk like that.” She felt the tears coming into her own eyes. At that moment she would have done anything, given anything to make Aunt Lilian happy. She threw her arms round Mrs. Aldwinkle’s neck and kissed her. “Don’t be unhappy,” she whispered. “Don’t think any more about it. What does it matter about that man? What does it matter? You must think only of the people who do love you. I love you, Aunt Lilian. So much, so much.”

Mrs. Aldwinkle suffered herself to be a little comforted. She dried her eyes. “I shall make myself look still uglier,” she said, “if I go on crying.” There was a silence. Irene went on brushing her aunt’s hair; she hoped that Aunt Lilian had turned her thoughts elsewhere.

“At any rate,” said Mrs. Aldwinkle at last, breaking the long silence, “my body is still young.”

Irene was distressed. Why couldn’t Aunt Lilian think of something else? But her distress turned into an uneasy sense of embarrassment and shame as Mrs. Aldwinkle pursued the subject started by her last words into more and more intimate detail. In spite of her five years’ training in Aunt Lilian’s school, Irene felt profoundly shocked.

II

“We two,” said Mr. Cardan one late afternoon some fortnight after Chelifer’s arrival, “we two seem to be rather left out of it.”

“Left out of what?” asked Mr. Falx.

“Out of love,” said Mr. Cardan. He looked down over the balustrade. On the next terrace below, Chelifer and Mrs. Aldwinkle were walking slowly up and down. On the terrace below that strolled the diminished and foreshortened figures of Calamy and Miss Thriplow. “And the other two,” said Mr. Cardan, as if continuing aloud the enumeration which he and his companion had made in silence, with the eye alone, “your young pupil and the little niece, have gone for a walk in the hills. Can you ask what we’re left out of?”

Mr. Falx nodded. “To tell you the truth,” he said, “I don’t much like the atmosphere of this house. Mrs. Aldwinkle’s an excellent woman, of course, in many respects. But⁠ ⁠…” he hesitated.

“Yes; but⁠ ⁠…” Mr. Cardan nodded. “I see your point.”

“I shall be rather glad when I have got young Hovenden away from here,” said Mr. Falx.

“If you get him alone I shall be surprised.”

Mr. Falx went on, shaking his head: “There’s a certain moral laxity, a certain self-indulgence.⁠ ⁠… I confess I don’t like this way of life. I may be prejudiced; but I don’t like it.”

“Everyone has his favourite vice,” said Mr. Cardan. “You forget, Mr. Falx, that we probably don’t like your way of life.”

“I protest,” said Mr. Falx hotly. “Is it possible to compare my way of life with the way of life in this house? Here am I, working incessantly for a noble cause, devoting myself to the public good⁠ ⁠…”

“Still,” said Mr. Cardan, “they do say that there’s nothing more intoxicating than talking to a crowd of people and moving them the way you want them to go; they do say, too, that it’s piercingly delicious to listen to applause. And people who have tried both have told me that the joys of power are far preferable, if only because they are a good deal more enduring, to those one can derive from wine or love. No, no, Mr. Falx; if we chose to climb on to our high horses we should be as amply justified in disapproving of your laxity and self-indulgence as you are in disapproving of ours. I always notice that the most grave and awful denunciations of obscenity in literature are to be found precisely in those periodicals whose directors are most notoriously alcoholic. And the preachers and politicians with the greatest vanity, the most inordinate itch for power and notoriety, are always those who denounce most fiercely the corruptions of the age. One of the greatest triumphs of the nineteenth century was to limit the connotation of the word ‘immoral’ in such a way that, for practical purposes, only those were immoral who drank too much or made too copious love. Those who indulged in any or all of the other deadly sins could look down in righteous indignation on the lascivious and the gluttonous. And not only could but can⁠—even now. This exaltation of two out of the seven deadly sins is most unfair. In the name of all lechers and boozers I most solemnly protest against the invidious distinction made to our prejudice. Believe me, Mr. Falx, we are no more reprehensible than the rest of you. Indeed, compared with some of your political friends, I feel I have a right to consider myself almost a saint.”

“Still,” said Mr. Falx, whose face, where it was not covered by his prophetical white beard, had become very red with ill-suppressed indignation, “you won’t persuade me out of my conviction that