I don’t believe in harmony and people loving
one another. I believe in the fight and in nothing
else. I believe in the fight which is in everything.
And if it is a question of women, I believe in the
fight of love, even if it blinds me. And if it
is a question of the world, I believe in fighting
it and in having it hate me, even if it breaks my
legs. I want the world to hate me, because I
can’t bear the thought that it might love me.
For of all things love is the most deadly to me,
and especially from such a repulsive world as I think
this is. . . .”
Well, here was a letter for a poor old man to receive.
But, in the dryness of his withered mind, Aaron got
it out of himself. When a man writes a letter
to himself, it is a pity to post it to somebody else.
Perhaps the same is true of a book.
His letter written, however, he stamped it and sealed
it and put it in the box. That made it final.
Then he turned towards home. One fact remained
unbroken in the debris of his consciousness: that
in the town was Lilly: and that when he needed,
he could go to Lilly: also, that in the world
was Lottie, his wife: and that against Lottie,
his heart burned with a deep, deep, almost unreachable
bitterness.—Like a deep burn on his deepest
soul, Lottie. And like a fate which he resented,
yet which steadied him, Lilly.
He went home and lay on his bed. He had enough
self-command to hear the gong and go down to dinner.
White and abstract-looking, he sat and ate his dinner.
And then, thank God, he could go to bed, alone, in
his own cold bed, alone, thank God. To be alone
in the night! For this he was unspeakably thankful.
CLEOPATRA, BUT NOT ANTHONY
Aaron awoke in the morning feeling better, but still
only a part himself. The night alone had restored
him. And the need to be alone still was his
greatest need. He felt an intense resentment
against the Marchesa. He felt that somehow,
she had given him a scorpion. And his instinct
was to hate her. And yet he avoided hating her.
He remembered Lilly—and the saying that
one must possess oneself, and be alone in possession
of oneself. And somehow, under the influence
of Lilly, he refused to follow the reflex of his own
passion. He refused to hate the Marchesa.
He did like her. He did esteem
her. And after all, she too was struggling with
her fate. He had a genuine sympathy with her.
Nay, he was not going to hate her.
But he could not see her. He could not bear
the thought that she might call and see him.
So he took the tram to Settignano, and walked away
all day into the country, having bread and sausage
in his pocket. He sat for long hours among the
cypress trees of Tuscany. And never had any trees
seemed so like ghosts, like soft, strange, pregnant
presences. He lay and watched tall cypresses
