The Dark Flower

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THE DARK FLOWER

by John Galsworthy




"Take the flower from my breast, I pray thee,
Take the flower too from out my tresses;
And then go hence, for see, the night is fair,
The stars rejoice to watch thee on thy way."

--From "The Bard of the Dimbovitza."





THE DARK FLOWER



PART I--SPRING


I


He walked along Holywell that afternoon of early June with his short
gown drooping down his arms, and no cap on his thick dark hair. A youth
of middle height, and built as if he had come of two very different
strains, one sturdy, the other wiry and light. His face, too, was a
curious blend, for, though it was strongly formed, its expression was
rather soft and moody. His eyes--dark grey, with a good deal of light in
them, and very black lashes--had a way of looking beyond what they saw,
so that he did not seem always to be quite present; but his smile was
exceedingly swift, uncovering teeth as white as a negro's, and giving
his face a peculiar eagerness. People stared at him a little as he
passed--since in eighteen hundred and eighty he was before his time in
not wearing a cap. Women especially were interested; they perceived that
he took no notice of them, seeming rather to be looking into distance,
and making combinations in his soul.

Did he know of what he was thinking--did he ever know quite definitely
at that time of his life, when things, especially those beyond the
immediate horizon, were so curious and interesting?--the things he was
going to see and do when he had got through Oxford, where everybody
was 'awfully decent' to him and 'all right' of course, but not so very
interesting.

He was on his way to his tutor's to read an essay on Oliver Cromwell;
and under the old wall, which had once hedged in the town, he took out
of his pocket a beast. It was a small tortoise, and, with an extreme
absorption, he watched it move its little inquiring head, feeling it all
the time with his short, broad fingers, as though to discover exactly
how it was made. It was mighty hard in the back! No wonder poor old
Aeschylus felt a bit sick when it fell on his head! The ancients used
it to stand the world on--a pagoda world, perhaps, of men and beasts and
trees, like that carving on his guardian's Chinese cabinet. The Chinese
made jolly beasts and trees, as if they believed in everything having
a soul, and not only being just fit for people to eat or drive or make
houses of. If only the Art School would let him model things 'on his
own,' instead of copying and copying--it was just as if they imagined it
would be dangerous to let you think out anything for yourself!

He held the tortoise to his waistcoat, and let it crawl, till, noticing
that it was gnawing the corner of his essay, he put it back into his
pocket. What would his tutor do if he were to know it was there?--cock
his head a little to one side, and say: "Ah! there are things, Lennan,
not dreamed of in my philosophy!" Yes, there were a good many not
dreamed of by 'old Stormer,' who seemed so awfully afraid of anything
that wasn't usual; who seemed always laughing at you, for fear that you
should laugh at him. There were lots of people in Oxford like that. It
was stupid. You couldn't do anything decent if you were afraid of being
laughed at! Mrs. Stormer wasn't like that; she did things because--they
came into her head. But then, of course, she was Austrian, not English,
and ever so much younger than old Stormer.

And having reached the door of his tutor's house, he rang the bell....


II


When Anna Stormer came into the study she found her husband standing
at the window with his head a little on one side--a tall, long-legged
figure in clothes of a pleasant tweed, and wearing a low turn-over
collar (not common in those days) and a blue silk tie, which she had
knitted, strung through a ring. He was humming and gently tapping the
window-pane with his well-kept finger-nails. Though celebrated for the
amount of work he got through, she never caught him doing any in this
house of theirs, chosen because it was more than half a mile away from
the College which held the 'dear young clowns,' as he called them, of
whom he was tutor.

He did not turn--it was not, of course, his habit to notice what was not
absolutely necessary--but she felt that he was aware of her. She came to
the window seat and sat down. He looked round at that, and said: "Ah!"

It was a murmur almost of admiration, not usual from him, since, with
the exception of certain portions of the classics, it was hardly his
custom to admire. But she knew that she was looking her best sitting
there, her really beautiful figure poised, the sun shining on her brown
hair, and brightening her deep-set, ice-green eyes under their black
lashes. It was sometimes a great comfort to her that she remained so
good-looking. It would have been an added vexation indeed to have felt
that she ruffled her husband's fastidiousness. Even so, her cheekbones
were too high for his taste, symbols of that something in her character
which did not go with his--the dash of desperation, of vividness, that
lack of a certain English smoothness, which always annoyed him.

"Harold!"--she would never quite flatten her r's--"I want to go to the
mountains this year."

The mountains! She had not seen them since that season at San Martino di
Castrozza twelve years ago, which had ended in her marrying him.

"Nostalgia!"

"I don't know what that means--I am homesick. Can we go?"

"If you like--why not? But no leading up the Cimone della Pala for ME!"

She knew what he meant by that. No romance. How splendidly he had
led that day! She had almost worshipped him. What blindness! What
distortion! Was it really the same man standing there with those bright,
doubting eyes, with grey already in his hair? Yes, romance was over! And
she sat silent, looking out into the street--that little old street into
which she looked day and night. A figure passed out there, came to the
door, and rang.

She said softly: "Here is Mark Lennan!"

She felt her husband's eyes rest on her just for a moment, knew that he
had turned, heard him murmur: "Ah, the angel clown!" And, quite still,
she waited for the door to open. There was the boy, with his blessed
dark head, and his shy, gentle gravity, and his essay in his hand.

"Well, Lennan, and how's old Noll? Hypocrite of genius, eh? Draw up;
let's get him over!"

Motionless, from her seat at the window, she watched those two figures
at the table--the boy reading in his queer, velvety bass voice; her
husband leaning back with the tips of his fingers pressed together, his
head a little on one side, and that faint, satiric smile which never
reached his eyes. Yes, he was dozing, falling asleep; and the boy, not
seeing, was going on. Then he came to the end and glanced up. What eyes
he had! Other boys would have laughed; but he looked almost sorry. She
heard him murmur: "I'm awfully sorry, sir."

"Ah, Lennan, you caught me! Fact is, term's fagged me out. We're going
to the mountains. Ever been to the mountains? What--never! You should
come with us, eh? What do you say, Anna? Don't you think this young man
ought to come with us?"

She got up, and stood staring at them both. Had she heard aright?

Then she answered--very gravely:

"Yes; I think he ought."

"Good; we'll get HIM to lead up the Cimone della Pala!"


III


When the boy had said good-bye, and she had watched him out into the
street, Anna stood for a moment in the streak of sunlight that came in
through the open door, her hands pressed to cheeks which were flaming.
Then she shut the door and leaned her forehead against the window-pane,
seeing nothing. Her heart beat very fast; she was going over and over
again the scene just passed through. This meant so much more than it had
seemed to mean....

Though she always had Heimweh, and especially at the end of the summer
term, this year it had been a different feeling altogether that made her
say to her husband: "I want to go to the mountains!"

For twelve years she had longed for the mountains every summer, but had
not pleaded for them; this year she had pleaded, but she did not long
for them. It was because she had suddenly realized the strange fact that
she did not want to leave England, and the reason for it, that she
had come and begged to go. Yet why, when it was just to get away from
thought of this boy, had she said: "Yes, I think he ought to come!" Ah!
but life for her was always a strange pull between the conscientious
and the desperate; a queer, vivid, aching business! How long was it now
since that day when he first came to lunch, silent and shy, and suddenly
smiling as if he were all lighted up within--the day when she had said
to her husband afterwards: "Ah, he's an angel!" Not yet a year--the
beginning of last October term, in fact. He was different from all the
other boys; not that he was a prodigy with untidy hair, ill-fitting
clothes, and a clever tongue; but because of something--something--Ah!
well--different; because he was--he; because she longed to take his
head between her hands and kiss it. She remembered so well the day that
longing first came to her. She was giving him tea, it was quite early
in the Easter term; he was stroking her cat, who always went to him,
and telling her that he meant to be a sculptor, but that his guardian
objected, so that, of course, he could not start till he was of age. The
lamp on the table had a rose-coloured shade; he had been rowing--a very
cold day--and his face was glowing; generally it was rather pale. And
suddenly he smiled, and said: "It's rotten waiting for things, isn't
it?" It was then she had almost stretched out her hands to draw his
forehead to her lips. She had thought then that she wanted to kiss him,
because it would have been so nice to be his mother--she might just have
been his mother, if she had married at sixteen. But she had long known
now that she wanted to kiss, not his forehead, but his lips. He was
there in her life--a fire in a cold and unaired house; it had even
become hard to understand that she could have gone on all these years
without him. She had missed him so those six weeks of the Easter
vacation, she had revelled so in his three queer little letters,
half-shy, half-confidential; kissed them, and worn them in her dress!
And in return had written him long, perfectly correct epistles in her
still rather quaint English. She had never let him guess her feelings;
the idea that he might shocked her inexpressibly. When the summer term
began, life seemed to be all made up of thoughts of him. If, ten years
ago, her baby had lived, if its cruel death--after her agony--had not
killed for good her wish to have another; if for years now she had not
been living with the knowledge that she had no warmth to expect, and
that love was all over for her; if life in the most beautiful of all old
cities had been able to grip her--there would have been forces to check
this feeling. But there was nothing in the world to divert the current.
And she was so brimful of life, so conscious of vitality running to
sheer waste. Sometimes it had been terrific, that feeling within her,
of wanting to live--to find outlet for her energy. So many hundreds
of lonely walks she had taken during all these years, trying to lose
herself in Nature--hurrying alone, running in the woods, over the
fields, where people did not come, trying to get rid of that sense of
waste, trying once more to feel as she had felt when a girl, with the
whole world before her. It was not for nothing that her figure was
superb, her hair so bright a brown, her eyes so full of light. She
had tried many distractions. Work in the back streets, music, acting,
hunting; given them up one after the other; taken to them passionately
again. They had served in the past. But this year they had not
served.... One Sunday, coming from confession unconfessed, she had faced
herself. It was wicked. She would have to kill this feeling--must fly
from this boy who moved her so! If she did not act quickly, she would
be swept away. And then the thought had come: Why not? Life was to be
lived--not torpidly dozed through in this queer cultured place, where
age was in the blood! Life was for love--to be enjoyed! And she would
be thirty-six next month! It seemed to her already an enormous age.
Thirty-six! Soon she would be old, actually old--and never have known
passion! The worship, which had made a hero of the distinguished-looking
Englishman, twelve years older than herself, who could lead up the
Cimone della Pala, had not been passion. It might, perhaps, have become
passion if he had so willed. But he was all form, ice, books. Had he a
heart at all, had he blood in his veins? Was there any joy of life in
this too beautiful city and these people who lived in it--this place
where even enthusiasms seemed to be formal and have no wings, where
everything was settled and sophisticated as the very chapels and
cloisters? And yet, to have this feeling for a boy--for one almost young
enough to be her son! It was so--shameless! That thought haunted her,
made her flush in the dark, lying awake at night. And desperately she
would pray--for she was devout--pray to be made pure, to be given the
holy feelings of a mother, to be filled simply with the sweet sense that
she could do everything, suffer anything for him, for his good. After
these long prayers she would feel calmed, drowsy, as though she had
taken a drug. For hours, perhaps, she would stay like that. And then it
would all come over her again. She never thought of his loving her; that
would be--unnatural. Why should he love her? She was very humble about
it. Ever since that Sunday, when she avoided the confessional, she had
brooded over how to make an end--how to get away from a longing that
was too strong for her. And she had hit on this plan--to beg for the
mountains, to go back to where her husband had come into her life, and
try if this feeling would not die. If it did not, she would ask to be
left out there with her own people, away from this danger. And now the
fool--the blind fool--the superior fool--with his satiric smile, his
everlasting patronage, had driven her to overturn her own plan. Well,
let him take the consequences; she had done her best! She would have
this one fling of joy, even if it meant that she must stay out there,
and never see the boy again!

Standing in her dusky hall, where a faint scent of woodrot crept out
into the air, whenever windows and doors were closed, she was all
tremulous with secret happiness. To be with him among her mountains, to
show him all those wonderful, glittering or tawny crags, to go with him
to the top of them and see the kingdoms of the world spread out below;
to wander with him in the pine woods, on the Alps in all the scent of
the trees and the flowers, where the sun was hot! The first of July; and
it was only the tenth of June! Would she ever live so long? They would
not go to San Martino this time, rather to Cortina--some new place that
had no memories!

She moved from the window, and busied herself with a bowl of flowers.
She had heard that humming sound which often heralded her husband's
approach, as though warning the world to recover its good form before
he reached it. In her happiness she felt kind and friendly to him. If
he had not meant to give her joy, he had nevertheless given it! He came
downstairs two at a time, with that air of not being a pedagogue, which
she knew so well; and, taking his hat off the stand, half turned round
to her.

"Pleasant youth, young Lennan; hope he won't bore us out there!"

His voice seemed to have an accent of compunction, to ask pardon for
having issued that impulsive invitation. And there came to her an
overwhelming wish to laugh. To hide it, to find excuse for it, she ran
up to him, and, pulling his coat lapels till his face was within reach,
she kissed the tip of his nose. And then she laughed. And he stood
looking at her, with his head just a little on one side, and his
eyebrows just a little raised.


IV


When young Mark heard a soft tapping at his door, though out of bed,
he was getting on but dreamily--it was so jolly to watch the mountains
lying out in this early light like huge beasts. That one they were going
up, with his head just raised above his paws, looked very far away out
there! Opening the door an inch, he whispered:

"Is it late?"

"Five o'clock; aren't you ready?"

It was awfully rude of him to keep her waiting! And he was soon down in
the empty dining-room, where a sleepy maid was already bringing in their
coffee. Anna was there alone. She had on a flax-blue shirt, open at the
neck, a short green skirt, and a grey-green velvety hat, small, with one
black-cock's feather. Why could not people always wear such nice things,
and be as splendid-looking! And he said:

"You do look jolly, Mrs. Stormer!"

She did not answer for so long that he wondered if it had been rude to
say that. But she DID look so strong, and swift, and happy-looking.

Down the hill, through a wood of larch-trees, to the river, and across
the bridge, to mount at once by a path through hay-fields. How could old
Stormer stay in bed on such a morning! The peasant girls in their
blue linen skirts were already gathering into bundles what the men had
scythed. One, raking at the edge of a field, paused and shyly nodded to
them. She had the face of a Madonna, very calm and grave and sweet,
with delicate arched brows--a face it was pure pleasure to see. The boy
looked back at her. Everything to him, who had never been out of England
before, seemed strange and glamorous. The chalets, with their long wide
burnt-brown wooden balconies and low-hanging eaves jutting far beyond
the walls; these bright dresses of the peasant women; the friendly
little cream-coloured cows, with blunt, smoke-grey muzzles. Even the
feel in the air was new, that delicious crisp burning warmth that lay so
lightly as it were on the surface of frozen stillness; and the special
sweetness of all places at the foot of mountains--scent of pine-gum,
burning larch-wood, and all the meadow flowers and grasses. But
newest of all was the feeling within him--a sort of pride, a sense
of importance, a queer exhilaration at being alone with her, chosen
companion of one so beautiful.

They passed all the other pilgrims bound the same way--stout square
Germans with their coats slung through straps, who trailed behind them
heavy alpenstocks, carried greenish bags, and marched stolidly at a pace
that never varied, growling, as Anna and the boy went by: "Aber eilen
ist nichts!"

But those two could not go fast enough to keep pace with their spirits.
This was no real climb--just a training walk to the top of the Nuvolau;
and they were up before noon, and soon again descending, very hungry.
When they entered the little dining-room of the Cinque Torre Hutte, they
found it occupied by a party of English people, eating omelettes,
who looked at Anna with faint signs of recognition, but did not cease
talking in voices that all had a certain half-languid precision, a
slight but brisk pinching of sounds, as if determined not to tolerate a
drawl, and yet to have one. Most of them had field-glasses slung round
them, and cameras were dotted here and there about the room. Their faces
were not really much alike, but they all had a peculiar drooping smile,
and a particular lift of the eyebrows, that made them seem reproductions
of a single type. Their teeth, too, for the most part were a little
prominent, as though the drooping of their mouths had forced them
forward. They were eating as people eat who distrust the lower senses,
preferring not to be compelled to taste or smell.

"From our hotel," whispered Anna; and, ordering red wine and schnitzels,
she and the boy sat down. The lady who seemed in command of the English
party inquired now how Mr. Stormer was--he was not laid up, she hoped.
No? Only lazy? Indeed! He was a great climber, she believed. It seemed
to the boy that this lady somehow did not quite approve of them. The
talk was all maintained between her, a gentleman with a crumpled collar
and puggaree, and a short thick-set grey-bearded man in a dark Norfolk
jacket. If any of the younger members of the party spoke, the remark was
received with an arch lifting of the brows, and drooping of the lids, as
who should say: "Ah! Very promising!"

"Nothing in my life has given me greater pain than to observe the
aptitude of human nature for becoming crystallized." It was the lady in
command who spoke, and all the young people swayed their faces up
and down, as if assenting. How like they were, the boy thought, to
guinea-fowl, with their small heads and sloping shoulders and speckly
grey coats!

"Ah! my dear lady"--it was the gentleman with the crumpled collar--"you
novelists are always girding at the precious quality of conformity. The
sadness of our times lies in this questioning spirit. Never was there
more revolt, especially among the young. To find the individual judging
for himself is a grave symptom of national degeneration. But this is not
a subject--"

"Surely, the subject is of the most poignant interest to all young
people." Again all the young ones raised their faces and moved them
slightly from side to side.

"My dear lady, we are too prone to let the interest that things arouse
blind our judgment in regard to the advisability of discussing them. We
let these speculations creep and creep until they twine themselves round
our faith and paralyze it."

One of the young men interjected suddenly: "Madre"--and was silent.

"I shall not, I think"--it was the lady speaking--"be accused of licence
when I say that I have always felt that speculation is only dangerous
when indulged in by the crude intelligence. If culture has nothing to
give us, then let us have no culture; but if culture be, as I think it,
indispensable, then we must accept the dangers that culture brings."

Again the young people moved their faces, and again the younger of the
two young men said: "Madre--"

"Dangers? Have cultured people dangers?"

Who had spoken thus? Every eyebrow was going up, every mouth was
drooping, and there was silence. The boy stared at his companion. In
what a strange voice she had made that little interjection! There seemed
a sort of flame, too, lighted in her eyes. Then the little grey-bearded
man said, and his rather whispering voice sounded hard and acid:

"We are all human, my dear madam."

The boy felt his heart go thump at Anna's laugh. It was just as if she
had said: "Ah! but not you--surely!" And he got up to follow her towards
the door.

The English party had begun already talking--of the weather.

The two walked some way from the 'hut' in silence, before Anna said:

"You didn't like me when I laughed?"

"You hurt their feelings, I think."

"I wanted to--the English Grundys! Ah! don't be cross with me! They WERE
English Grundys, weren't they--every one?"

She looked into his face so hard, that he felt the blood rush to his
cheeks, and a dizzy sensation of being drawn forward.

"They have no blood, those people! Their voices, their supercilious eyes
that look you up and down! Oh! I've had so much of them! That woman with
her Liberalism, just as bad as any. I hate them all!"

He would have liked to hate them, too, since she did; but they had only
seemed to him amusing.

"They aren't human. They don't FEEL! Some day you'll know them. They
won't amuse you then!"

She went on, in a quiet, almost dreamy voice:

"Why do they come here? It's still young and warm and good out here. Why
don't they keep to their Culture, where no one knows what it is to ache
and feel hunger, and hearts don't beat. Feel!"

Disturbed beyond measure, the boy could not tell whether it was in her
heart or in his hand that the blood was pulsing so. Was he glad or sorry
when she let his hand go?

"Ah, well! They can't spoil this day. Let's rest."

At the edge of the larch-wood where they sat, were growing numbers
of little mountain pinks, with fringed edges and the sweetest scent
imaginable; and she got up presently to gather them. But he stayed where
he was, and odd sensations stirred in him. The blue of the sky, the
feathery green of the larch-trees, the mountains, were no longer to him
what they had been early that morning.

She came back with her hands full of the little pinks, spread her
fingers and let them drop. They showered all over his face and neck.
Never was so wonderful a scent; never such a strange feeling as they
gave him. They clung to his hair, his forehead, his eyes, one even got
caught on the curve of his lips; and he stared up at her through their
fringed petals. There must have been something wild in his eyes then,
something of the feeling that was stinging his heart, for her smile
died; she walked away, and stood with her face turned from him.
Confused, and unhappy, he gathered the strewn flowers; and not till he
had collected every one did he get up and shyly take them to her, where
she still stood, gazing into the depths of the larch-wood.