you like a friend?’ she asked. ‘I can’t tell. I’ve never had one.’
He had a sudden wish to tell her everything, from what he was fleeing and for what cause, but caution and a feeling of peace restrained him. He wished to forget it himself and cling only to this growing sense of intimacy, of two minds moving side by side, and watch the firelight gleam downwards into the dark amber of the tea.
‘It’s strange,’ he said, ‘how often I’ve longed for a tea like this. In a rough, hurrying sort of life with men, one longs sometimes for refinement – and tea seems to me a symbol of that – peace, security, women, idle talk – and the night outside.’
‘A loaf of bread,’ she said, ‘no jam, no cakes.’
That’s nothing,’ he brooded over the thick china cup, which he held awkwardly with an unaccustomed hand.
‘Why are you here?’ she asked. ‘You don’t belong. You should be a student, I think. You look like a man who day-dreams.’
‘Doesn’t even a student need courage?’ he questioned bitterly. ‘And I’m not a dreamer. I hate dreams.’
‘Is there anything you care for or want?’ She watched him as though he were a new and curious animal.
‘To be null and void,’ he said without hesitation.
‘Dead?’
The sound of the word seemed to draw his eyes to the window, which stared now on complete darkness.
‘No, no,’ he said, ‘not that.’ He gave a small shiver and spoke again. ‘When music plays, one does not see or think: one hardly hears. A bowl – and the music is poured in until there is no “I”, I
am
the music.’
‘But why, why,’ she asked, ‘did you ever come to live like this?’ and with a small gesture of her hand she seemed to enclose his fear, his misery, his fugitive body and mind.
‘My father did it before me,’ he replied.
‘Was that all?’ she asked.
‘No, I was fascinated,’ he said. ‘There’s a man I know with a voice as near to music as any voice I’ve ever heard,’ he hesitated and then looked up at her, ‘except for yours.’
She paid no attention to the compliment, but frowning a little at the fire nipped her lip between small sharp teeth.
‘Can’t he help you now that you are in trouble?’ she asked. ‘Can’t you go to him?’
He stared at her in amazement. He had forgotten that she was ignorant of his story and of his flight from Carlyon, and because he had forgotten, her remark came to him with the force of a wise suggestion. ‘Andrews, Andrews,’ an echo of a soft melancholy voice reached him. ‘Why are you frightened? It’s Carlyon, merely Carlyon.’ The voice was tipped always with the cool, pure poetry which it loved. Why, indeed, should he not go to Carlyon and confess the wrong he had done and explain? That voice could not help but understand. He would go as the woman who had sinned to Christ, and the comparison seemed to him to carry no blasphemy, so strong was the impulse to rise and go to the door and go out into the night.
‘Is it of him you are frightened?’ she asked, watching the changes in his face. He had thought her voice also near to music, and now he sat still, watching with a strange disinterestedness the two musics come in conflict for the mastery of his movements. One was subtle, a thing of suggestions and of memories; the other, plain, clear-cut, ringing. One spoke of a dreamy escape from reality; the other was reality, deliberately sane. If he stayed sooner or later he must face this fear; if he went he left calmness, clarity, instinctive wisdom for a vague and uncertain refuge. How would Carlyon greet his confession? Carlyon was a romantic with his face in the clouds, who hated any who gave him contact with a grubby earth. Andrews remembered suddenly, his mind still drifting between the two differing musics, another Carlyon, a Carlyon who had shot one of his own men in the back, because on a cargo-running night the man had raped a young girl. No trouble followed, for the man had been a coward
He had a sudden wish to tell her everything, from what he was fleeing and for what cause, but caution and a feeling of peace restrained him. He wished to forget it himself and cling only to this growing sense of intimacy, of two minds moving side by side, and watch the firelight gleam downwards into the dark amber of the tea.
‘It’s strange,’ he said, ‘how often I’ve longed for a tea like this. In a rough, hurrying sort of life with men, one longs sometimes for refinement – and tea seems to me a symbol of that – peace, security, women, idle talk – and the night outside.’
‘A loaf of bread,’ she said, ‘no jam, no cakes.’
That’s nothing,’ he brooded over the thick china cup, which he held awkwardly with an unaccustomed hand.
‘Why are you here?’ she asked. ‘You don’t belong. You should be a student, I think. You look like a man who day-dreams.’
‘Doesn’t even a student need courage?’ he questioned bitterly. ‘And I’m not a dreamer. I hate dreams.’
‘Is there anything you care for or want?’ She watched him as though he were a new and curious animal.
‘To be null and void,’ he said without hesitation.
‘Dead?’
The sound of the word seemed to draw his eyes to the window, which stared now on complete darkness.
‘No, no,’ he said, ‘not that.’ He gave a small shiver and spoke again. ‘When music plays, one does not see or think: one hardly hears. A bowl – and the music is poured in until there is no “I”, I
am
the music.’
‘But why, why,’ she asked, ‘did you ever come to live like this?’ and with a small gesture of her hand she seemed to enclose his fear, his misery, his fugitive body and mind.
‘My father did it before me,’ he replied.
‘Was that all?’ she asked.
‘No, I was fascinated,’ he said. ‘There’s a man I know with a voice as near to music as any voice I’ve ever heard,’ he hesitated and then looked up at her, ‘except for yours.’
She paid no attention to the compliment, but frowning a little at the fire nipped her lip between small sharp teeth.
‘Can’t he help you now that you are in trouble?’ she asked. ‘Can’t you go to him?’
He stared at her in amazement. He had forgotten that she was ignorant of his story and of his flight from Carlyon, and because he had forgotten, her remark came to him with the force of a wise suggestion. ‘Andrews, Andrews,’ an echo of a soft melancholy voice reached him. ‘Why are you frightened? It’s Carlyon, merely Carlyon.’ The voice was tipped always with the cool, pure poetry which it loved. Why, indeed, should he not go to Carlyon and confess the wrong he had done and explain? That voice could not help but understand. He would go as the woman who had sinned to Christ, and the comparison seemed to him to carry no blasphemy, so strong was the impulse to rise and go to the door and go out into the night.
‘Is it of him you are frightened?’ she asked, watching the changes in his face. He had thought her voice also near to music, and now he sat still, watching with a strange disinterestedness the two musics come in conflict for the mastery of his movements. One was subtle, a thing of suggestions and of memories; the other, plain, clear-cut, ringing. One spoke of a dreamy escape from reality; the other was reality, deliberately sane. If he stayed sooner or later he must face this fear; if he went he left calmness, clarity, instinctive wisdom for a vague and uncertain refuge. How would Carlyon greet his confession? Carlyon was a romantic with his face in the clouds, who hated any who gave him contact with a grubby earth. Andrews remembered suddenly, his mind still drifting between the two differing musics, another Carlyon, a Carlyon who had shot one of his own men in the back, because on a cargo-running night the man had raped a young girl. No trouble followed, for the man had been a coward
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