Read Online To the Dark Tower by Francis King - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Francis King
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stream which sloped artfully, made sudden waterfalls, trickled into pools, and at intervals was spanned by bridges of wood. This stream—but the coolies knew where the water came from.
Hugh and Lucy strolled over the lawns, she twirling a parasol of vivid green. From her wrists dangled bracelets, lockets, charms, which tinkled as she walked. She was, as Mrs. Meakins put it, "a lovely girl". Hair piled on to her head in auburn turrets, swelling enbonpoint , thighs moving firmly under rustling silk—these were the tastes of that era. Hugh approved.
"Do you ride?” she was asking. "I mean, do you find the time?"
"Oh, yes."
"Would you come riding with me? Susie’s nearly sixteen—Papa’s promised me another—would you?" This was the way she spoke, jumping from one thought to another, tripping here, slurring there. The parasol swung in an arc.
"That would be delightful."
"Oh, good! Couldn’t we ride for miles and miles—I mean, right into the jungle—Papa won’t let me—but if you said..."
At that moment they came to one of the wooden bridges. How cool the water flowed! How clear! They both looked down, hands moving along the rail. Fingers met, momentarily. When they walked on, descending the little incline of the bridge, Hugh gallantly helped her. Slipping one arm round her waist, he pressed upwards that fine embonpoint .
"You brute! You utter beast!” She pulled away, tears of rage filling her eyes. The wide-brimmed hat quivered.
"But really—"
"Don’t talk to me! Don’t touch me!"
Over the smooth lawns she darted. The dress fluttered, the bracelets tinkled. She clutched her hat. Then she had disappeared.
Hugh stood on the bridge, gazing ruefully at his own reflection, dapper, dashing almost, buttons gleaming, teeth gleaming, hair gleaming with fixative. "Damn it," he thought. "Damn it. So she was frigid. So that was it. The little fool!" He felt enraged with her. He would like to smack her face. Any opposition annoyed him; with women he was used to having his way.
Then suddenly he decided: he would go and see Andrée. Andrée would understand. Dear Andrée!
But Lucy wept.
Hugh had ‘had’ his first woman when he was seventeen. He, S. N. George, and two other school friends had visited Paris for a week: in Paris he fell. Later, in retrospect, he never romanticised the incident as so many people do. It was a beginning; and that was all. He was too truthful to romanticise his lust. His abnormal sexual energy was expended on women just as his abnormal physical energy was expended on hockey, polo, tennis; and in either case without the expenditure he felt ill. But there was no romance there, no sentimentality.
For his school-friends, on that visit to Paris, it had been sufficient to drink absinthe in a Montmartre café where the sexes danced together—women mooning round in each others’ arms, men swaying together. But to him this had merely seemed trivial: he had outgrown his adolescence. So that when, one evening, the others had set out, believing this to be Life and Sin and all the things that had been rigidly excluded from the tradition of Dr. Arnold, he complained of a headache and stayed at the hotel.
Later, after they had gone, he began to walk the streets with a perseverance which marked all his activities. He walked Les Gobelins quarter, because that was where the hotel was: had he known Paris better he might have seen the absurdity of this locale. It was raining as he explored those endless terraces and squares, to which clung, like a film of moisture, the gentility of a down-at-heel bourgeoisie. No one seemed to be out that night—only a cat that whisked through his legs, then stopped, returned, and pressed voluptuously against him. Far away, in the mist, there was asthmatic coughing. Lights blurred as though he were seeing them through tears.
For two hours he walked, hands deep in his pockets, the moisture gradually seeping through his clothes. Sometimes he thought of the promised
Hugh and Lucy strolled over the lawns, she twirling a parasol of vivid green. From her wrists dangled bracelets, lockets, charms, which tinkled as she walked. She was, as Mrs. Meakins put it, "a lovely girl". Hair piled on to her head in auburn turrets, swelling enbonpoint , thighs moving firmly under rustling silk—these were the tastes of that era. Hugh approved.
"Do you ride?” she was asking. "I mean, do you find the time?"
"Oh, yes."
"Would you come riding with me? Susie’s nearly sixteen—Papa’s promised me another—would you?" This was the way she spoke, jumping from one thought to another, tripping here, slurring there. The parasol swung in an arc.
"That would be delightful."
"Oh, good! Couldn’t we ride for miles and miles—I mean, right into the jungle—Papa won’t let me—but if you said..."
At that moment they came to one of the wooden bridges. How cool the water flowed! How clear! They both looked down, hands moving along the rail. Fingers met, momentarily. When they walked on, descending the little incline of the bridge, Hugh gallantly helped her. Slipping one arm round her waist, he pressed upwards that fine embonpoint .
"You brute! You utter beast!” She pulled away, tears of rage filling her eyes. The wide-brimmed hat quivered.
"But really—"
"Don’t talk to me! Don’t touch me!"
Over the smooth lawns she darted. The dress fluttered, the bracelets tinkled. She clutched her hat. Then she had disappeared.
Hugh stood on the bridge, gazing ruefully at his own reflection, dapper, dashing almost, buttons gleaming, teeth gleaming, hair gleaming with fixative. "Damn it," he thought. "Damn it. So she was frigid. So that was it. The little fool!" He felt enraged with her. He would like to smack her face. Any opposition annoyed him; with women he was used to having his way.
Then suddenly he decided: he would go and see Andrée. Andrée would understand. Dear Andrée!
But Lucy wept.
Hugh had ‘had’ his first woman when he was seventeen. He, S. N. George, and two other school friends had visited Paris for a week: in Paris he fell. Later, in retrospect, he never romanticised the incident as so many people do. It was a beginning; and that was all. He was too truthful to romanticise his lust. His abnormal sexual energy was expended on women just as his abnormal physical energy was expended on hockey, polo, tennis; and in either case without the expenditure he felt ill. But there was no romance there, no sentimentality.
For his school-friends, on that visit to Paris, it had been sufficient to drink absinthe in a Montmartre café where the sexes danced together—women mooning round in each others’ arms, men swaying together. But to him this had merely seemed trivial: he had outgrown his adolescence. So that when, one evening, the others had set out, believing this to be Life and Sin and all the things that had been rigidly excluded from the tradition of Dr. Arnold, he complained of a headache and stayed at the hotel.
Later, after they had gone, he began to walk the streets with a perseverance which marked all his activities. He walked Les Gobelins quarter, because that was where the hotel was: had he known Paris better he might have seen the absurdity of this locale. It was raining as he explored those endless terraces and squares, to which clung, like a film of moisture, the gentility of a down-at-heel bourgeoisie. No one seemed to be out that night—only a cat that whisked through his legs, then stopped, returned, and pressed voluptuously against him. Far away, in the mist, there was asthmatic coughing. Lights blurred as though he were seeing them through tears.
For two hours he walked, hands deep in his pockets, the moisture gradually seeping through his clothes. Sometimes he thought of the promised
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