Prologue
Limbering up
Nature. Animal. Human. Science.
Take a moment to think about what each of these terms mean to you.
What images come to mind?
There is no right answer, and we would hope to find some variation. But we might expect some readers to converge on the following:
Nature: the great green world out there, separated from Society. A valued place or thing that is often under threat, as well as an external force with the power to harm. You might imagine a park, a garden, the countryside, or the wilderness?
Animal: a mobile, living organism visible to the naked eye. Generally, not a human. Perhaps a dog or cat? Or maybe a tiger, panda, or polar bear? These might be seen as beasts of lesser moral status?
Human: a person. A special lifeform, blessed with language and a thinking (perhaps even rational) mind, superior to animals. Living in a body that is separate from the environment. Perhaps you saw yourself, a friend, a statue, or a famous person?
Science: the truth about the natural world. An objective way of producing knowledge that is not shaped by personal and social interests. Perhaps you see a person in a white coat in a laboratory, or in a suit reassuring the public? Maybe an explorer in some natural environment?
Were your answers similar to those above? Or were they different – perhaps a little, perhaps a lot? Take another moment to reflect on why there might be variations in how people respond to these prompts.
DOI: 10.4324/9781315164304-1
I.1 Are humans exceptional?
Are humans exceptional beings? Are humans distinct from the rest of Nature, perhaps separated by virtue of having souls, language, or the capacity to reason enabling self-conscious actions in the world? Or are humans a part of nature, not a distinct category but an entangled part of the whole? Maybe they are both – is that possible? Or perhaps neither?
These are profound questions that have long troubled thinkers. Many different responses have been given throughout human history and across different cultures. Answers are found in poetry and philosophy, in religion and art, in agriculture and architecture, in science and technology and law (Soper, 1995; Castree, 2005). These answers sometimes assert human exceptionalism, sometimes assert versions of human-nature holism, and sometimes attempt a middle ground (Figure I.1). Similar arguments for each of these positions have been made in different times and in different places, even when the specific words and ideas differ.
FigureI.1Different visualisations of human relationships with the Earth and other lifeforms.
This book traces a recent chapter in these conversations about the relationships between humans and worlds, this time situated within the academic discipline of human geography (and the related fields of anthropology and science studies). These ‘more-than-human’ geographers, and their colleagues in the wider academy, begin by rejecting a dualistic ontology (see Box I.1) that understands humans as exceptional and defined in opposition to Nature. They do so largely in a Western intellectual culture that has been dominated for several centuries by the assertion of human exceptionalism. As we shall see in Chapter 1, criticisms of exceptionalism have been building across the academy and in wider societies for some time. Indeed, criticism or outright rejection of dualistic ontologies have been consistently asserted by a diversity of marginalised and often colonised peoples, whose views have often been stifled, ignored, or violently repressed.
Box I.1 Ontology: dualism, holism, monism, hybridity, and entanglement
Ontology is the branch of philosophy concerned with the nature of being or existence. An ontology is a theory of what the world is. Many different ontologies exist, they have important consequences for how the world is understood, and on how different people act in the world. A group of people sharing the same ontology may come into conflict with another group when their different ontologies are incompatible or incommensurable.
We use the term dualism to describe an ontology in which humans are understood as separate from and distinct to Nature. Dualism asserts a very particular understanding of humans as exceptional beings, elevated from the rest of the world. It asserts a very loaded understanding of Nature (as indicated by the capitalisation ‘N’), which is held to be a singular, timeless, and universal material world that pre-exists human action (an earlier book in this series explores the concept in detail, see Castree, 2005).
In the tradition of Western empirical philosophy, the dualist position is usually identified with the work of French philosopher Rene Descartes, who emphasised the distinction between (i) humans as thinking beings with souls, and (ii) the soul-less, unthinking material world. As such, it is commonly known as Cartesian dualism. We explore this philosophy, and its implications, in more detail in Chapter 1.
By contrast, the philosophical idea of holismsuggests that the things of the world exist as, and can only be understood as, parts of a whole. A holist ontology thus directs analytical attention to the relations through which worlds are made and re-made. A similar, although not identical, philosophical concept is monism which asserts the one-ness of all existence. Rather than two kinds of existence (like thought/matter, or souls/bodies in Descartes’ work for example), a monist holds that there is but a single substance. In Western thought, monism is usually associated with European continental philosophy but both monist and holist views are also widespread in systems of thought beyond the Western tradition.
As this book proceeds, we will introduce a further range of nondualist ontologies, all of which emerge out of criticisms of Cartesian dualism. We will encounter hybrids composed of a mixture of Nature and Society. We will meet cyborgs: part human, part animal, and part machine. We will be presented with a figure of the human as a superorganism, a multispecies ecology, or a holobiont composed of microbial life. We will move far from the false certainties of the dualism to encounter a world of entanglement: a meshwork of beings in constant processes of becoming otherwise.
Box I.1: Different ontologies
I.2 Five beginnings
But we are getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s begin with five events that illustrate this shift away from human exceptionalism:
First, on 20 March 2017, the New Zealand Parliament passed the Te Awa Tupua (Whanganui River Claims Settlement) Bill to recognise the understandings of the Whanganui River held by the indigenous iwi tribe. The official parliament website explained how the Bill:
Was widely reported in New Zealand and overseas for one particularly innovative effect: it confers a legal personality on the Whanganui River. A legal person is an entity that has the same rights and responsibilities as a person. In New Zealand law, a number of entities have legal personhood including companies, trusts, and societies. The move reflects Whanganui iwi’s unique ancestral relationship with the river. Iwi who lived along the river not only relied on it as an essential food source, but held with it a deep spiritual connection. From the 1880s to 1920s, the Crown –with little or no iwi consultation – conducted works to establish a steamer service on the river and extract minerals from its bed, eroding its ecological quality, destroying eel weirs and fisheries, and degrading the river’s cultural and spiritual value. Whanganui
iwi first petitioned Parliament in the 1870s, continuing for decades to seek compensation and justice through several courts and the Waitangi Tribunal. The bill will provide a settlement of $80 million to redress these “actions and omissions” of the Crown. It will recognise Te Awa Tupua as an indivisible and living whole, comprising the Whanganui River from the mountains to the sea, and all its physical and metaphysical elements.
(NZ Parliament, 2017)
Second, on 18 August 2012, The Economist magazine (for many decades a publishing stalwart of Western liberalism) pictured on its cover a re-worked version of Michelangelo’s drawing of the Vitruvian Man, with the head replaced with an artist’s impression of microbial life. The issue was entitled ‘Microbes Maketh Man’ and the accompanying leader article explained that
Political revolutionaries turn the world upside down. Scientific ones more often turn it inside out. And that, almost literally, is happening to the idea of what, biologically speaking, a human being is. The traditional view is that a human body is a collection of 10 trillion cells which are themselves the products of 23,000 genes. If the revolutionaries are correct, these numbers radically underestimate the truth. For in the nooks and crannies of every human being, and especially in his or her guts, dwells the microbiome: 100 trillion bacteria of several hundred species bearing 3m non-human genes.
(Anon, 2012)
Third, on 31st August 2016, the American magazine National Geographic (a bastion of armchair exploration) published a video on their website entitled ‘Rare Video Shows Elephant’s ‘Mourning’ Matriarch’s Death’. The scare quotes around the idea of ‘mourning’ suggested that this was, in some sense, a controversial suggestion. The accompanying text explained that:
It has become rare for wild African elephants to live to old age, thanks to their brutal slaughter by ivory poachers. Rarer still is the
chance for scientists to observe elephants as they cope with the death of their family leader. Shifra Goldenberg, a Colorado State University doctoral student, is among the lucky few. She watched the final days as Queen Victoria, one of the last surviving old matriarchs in the Samburu National Reserve in northern Kenya, died of natural causes in 2013, with her family members close by. When Goldenberg returned to the carcass a few weeks later, she encountered elephants from three separate families inspecting the bones. Were they paying respect? … Elephants have long been regarded for their ability, along with dolphins and chimpanzees, among others, to express emotion, even empathy. But their response to death remains a mystery. Do they have the human characteristic of grief? The examples are mounting, though the science remains incomplete.
(Parker, 2016)
Fourth, on 10 December 2021, Netflix released a dark comedy with a cast list including some of Hollywood’s most famous actors. Don’t Look Up! is a film about irrational human behaviour; the failures of climate change policy; and the relationships between scientists, the media, and politicians. It is described in its own promotional material thus:
Kate Dibiasky (Jennifer Lawrence), an astronomy grad student, and her professor Dr Randall Mindy (Leonardo DiCaprio) make an astounding discovery of a comet orbiting within the solar system. The problem — it’s on a direct collision course with Earth. The other problem? No one really seems to care. Turns out warning mankind about a planet-killer the size of Mount Everest is an inconvenient fact to navigate. … With only six months until the comet makes impact, managing the 24-hour news cycle and gaining the attention of the social media obsessed public before it’s too late proves shockingly comical — what will it take to get the world to just look up?!
(Anon, 2022)
These four events all speak in different ways to a wider fifth event: the diagnosis of the Anthropocene (Box I.2). Taken together, these five
developments illustrate the themes of this book. As we shall see, grieving elephants, microbial companions, and rivers that are legal persons challenge Western ideas of human exceptionalism. Recognising human actions as capable of shaping global-scale earth systems undermines the idea of the natural world as singular, timeless, and separate to humans. In different ways, each of the events illustrates the nuanced relationships between science and politics, and they each point to the possibility of multiple understandings of material worlds. And we learn that even bingeing on films can help to reinforce the sense that all is not well with the rationalist model of Science and Politics that undergirds Western liberalism.
Box I.2 The Anthropocene and the end of nature
On 21 May 2019, a working group of the International Commission on Stratigraphy recommended that the Earth be placed in a new unit of geological time (AWG, 2019). They formally approved the concept of the Anthropocene, defined as
The epoch of geological time during which human activity is considered to be the dominant influence on the environment, climate, and ecology of the earth, a formal chronostratigraphic unit with a base which has been tentatively defined as the mid-twentieth century.
(OED, 2016)
This was a significant step in long process that began in 2000 when the atmospheric chemist Paul Crutzen (2002) first proposed the Anthropocene as a replacement for the Holocene – suggesting that the Holocene no longer existed due to the magnitude of human impacts on the Earth System.
The Anthropocene Working Group suggest that a new division be made in the timeline of Earth history to recognise that humans (as a singular species) have become a planet changing force.
They have proposed a start date of 1945, indexed to the first tests of nuclear weapons, whose fallout will leave a clear, universal, and synchronous signal in the fossil record, thus providing the evidence that future geologists will need to indicate the start of a new epoch (Lewis and Maslin, 2018).
The diagnosis of the Anthropocene has catalysed much debate in the natural sciences (Malhi, 2017), and it quickly escaped the confines of the sciences as it was picked up by a range of environmental activists and social scientists who found it useful as an umbrella term for a related collection of contemporary environmental crises (Bonneuil and Fressoz, 2017). The Anthropocene describes the contemporary environmental zeitgeist – or the spirit of the age (Lorimer, 2016).
The Anthropocene also gives general expression to the growing unease with models of human exceptionalism and the models of development it underpins. For some, it serves as a public proclamation of ‘the end of Nature’ – where nature is only natural when it is unmarked by human influence. For environmental activists like Bill McKibben (1989), there can be no such thing as Nature on a used planet in which human influence is ubiquitous.
Meanwhile, the naming of the Anthropocene has been contested by social scientists who suggest it is unjust to attribute responsibility to humans as a species, given the vast social inequalities in causing environmental harm, in benefitting from environmental change, and in the ability to adapt to future environments (Malm and Hornborg, 2014). They propose that we ‘name the system, not the species’ offering alternative titles like the Capitalocene or the Plantationocene (Moore, 2016).
I.3 More-than-human geography
In this book, we set out the challenges that have been posed to the taken- for-granted assumptions of Western social science, and specifically geography, by those rethinking nature and humans in non-
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The first-floor flat of a building in Hertford Street seemed removed, thought Christopher as he walked up to it on a very thick carpet, and ignored the lift, which had anyhow not been suggested by the hardened porter, from the necessity for travelling by tube. Yet she had said she always went to The Immortal Hour by tube. Was it possible that there existed people who enjoyed tubes? He thought it was not possible. And to emerge from the quiet mahoganied dignity of the entrance hall of these flats and proceed on one’s feet to the nearest tube instead of getting into at least a taxi, caused wonder to settle on his mind. A Rolls-Royce wouldn’t have been out of the picture, but at least there ought to be a taxi.
Why did she do such things, and tire herself out, and get her lovely little feet wet? He longed to take care of her, to prevent her in all her doings, to put his great strong body between her and everything that could in any way hurt her. He hoped George had taken this line. He was sure he must have. Any man would. Any man—the words brought him back to Stephen, who was, he was convinced, a suitor, even if she did forget his name. Perhaps she forgot because he was one of many. What so likely? One of many....
He felt suddenly uneasy again, and rang the bell of the flat in a great hurry, as if by getting in quickly he could somehow forestall and confound events.
The door was opened by Mrs. Mitcham, whom he was later so abundantly to know. All unconscious of the future they looked upon each other for the first time; and he saw a most respectable elderly person, not a parlourmaid, for she was without a cap, nor a lady’s maid he judged for some reason, though he knew little of ladies’ maids, but more like his idea —he had often secretly wished he had one—of a nanny; and she saw a fair, long-legged young man, with eyes like the eyes of children when they arrive at a birthday party.
‘Will Mrs. Cumfrit be in soon?’ he asked; and the way he asked matched the look in his eyes. ‘I know she is out—but how soon will she be in?’
‘I couldn’t say, sir,’ said Mrs. Mitcham, considering the eager-eyed young gentleman.
‘Well, look here—could I come in and wait?’
Naturally Mrs. Mitcham hesitated.
‘Well, I’ll only have to wait downstairs, then, and I can’t stand that porter.’
Mrs. Mitcham happened not to be able to stand the porter either, and her face relaxed a little.
‘Is Mrs. Cumfrit expecting you, sir?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Christopher boldly; for so she was, the following Sunday week.
‘She usually tells me——’ began Mrs. Mitcham doubtfully; but she did draw a little aside, upon which he promptly went in. And as he gave her his hat and coat she hoped it was all right, for she thought she had her mistress’s friends and acquaintances at her fingers’ ends, and the young gentleman had certainly never been there before.
She took him towards the drawing-room.
‘What name shall I say, sir, when Mrs. Cumfrit comes in?’ she inquired, turning to him at the door.
‘Mr. Christopher Monckton,’ he said,—abstractedly, because he was going to see Catherine’s room, the room she probably spent most of her time in, her shrine; and Mrs. Mitcham hesitating a little—for suppose she had done wrong, letting in a stranger, and the tea-table put ready with poor Mr. Cumfrit’s silver spoons and sugar-basin on it? Ought she not rather to have asked the young gentleman to wait in the hall?—Mrs. Mitcham, with doubt in her heart, opened the door and allowed him to pass in, eyeing him as he passed.
No, he didn’t look like that sort of person at all, she rebuked and encouraged herself. She knew a gentleman when she saw one. Still, she left the door a tiny crack open, so that she would be able to hear if—— Also, she thought it as well to cross the hall with careful footsteps, and cast an appraising eye over his coat.
It was the coat of a gentleman; a rough coat, a worn coat, but unmistakable, and she went softly back into her kitchen, leaving its door wide open, and while she as noiselessly as possible cut bread and butter she listened for the sound of her mistress coming in, and, even more attentively, in order to be quite on the safe side, for the sound of any one going out.
The last thing, however, in the world that the young man who had just got into the drawing-room wanted to do was to go out of it again. He wanted to stay where he was for ever. Wonderful to have this little time alone with her things before she herself appeared. It was like reading the enchanting preface to a marvellous book. Next to being with her, this was
the happiest of situations. For these things were as much expressions of herself as the clothes she wore. They would describe her to him, let him into at least a part, and a genuine part, of her personality.
And then, at his very first glance round, he felt it was not her room at all, but a man’s room. George’s room. George still going on. And going on flagrantly, shamelessly, in his great oak chairs and tables, and immense oil paintings, and busts, marble busts, corpsey white things on black pedestals in corners. Did nobody ever really die, then? he asked himself indignantly. Was there no end to people’s insistence on somehow surviving? Hardened into oak, gathered up into busts and picture frames, the essence of George still solidly cohabited with his widow. How in such a mausoleum could she ever leave off remembering him? Clearly she didn’t want to, or she would have chucked all this long ago, and had bright things, colour, flowers, silky soft things, things like herself, about her. She didn’t want to. She had canonised George, in that strange way people did canonise quite troublesome and unpleasant persons once they were safely dead.
He stood staring round him, and telling himself that he knew how it had happened—oh yes, he could see it all—how at the moment of George’s death Catherine, flooded with pity, with grief, perhaps with love now that she was no longer obliged to love, had clung on to his arrangements, not suffering a thing to be touched or moved or altered, pathetically anxious to keep it exactly as he used to, to keep him still alive at least in his furniture. Other widows he had heard of had done this; and widowers—but fewer of them—had done it too. He could imagine it easily, if one loved some one very much, or was desperately sorry because one hadn’t. But to go on year after year? Yet, once one had begun, how stop? There was only one way to stop happily and naturally, and that was to marry again.
And then, as he was looking round, his nose lifted in impatient scorn of George’s post-mortem persistence, and quite prepared to see whisky and cigars, grown dusty, on some table in a corner—why not? they would only be in keeping with all the rest—he caught sight of a little white object on the heavy sofa at right angles to a fireplace in which feebly flickered the minutest of newly lit fires. A bit of her. A trace, at last, of her.
He darted across and pounced on it. Soft, white, sweet with the sweetness he had noticed when he was near her, it was a small fox fur, a thing a woman puts round her neck.
He snatched it up, and held it to his face. How like her, how like her. He was absorbed in it, buried in it, breathing its delicate sweet smell; and Catherine, coming in quietly with her latchkey, saw him like this, over there by the sofa with his back to the door.
She stood quiet in the doorway, watching him with surprised amusement, because it seemed so funny. Really, to have this sort of thing happening to one’s boa at one’s age! Queer young man. Perhaps having all that flaming red hair made one....
But, though he had heard no sound, he was aware of her, and turned round quickly, and caught her look of amusement, and flushed a deep red.
He put the fur carefully down on the sofa again and came over to her. ‘Well, why shouldn’t I?’ he said defiantly, throwing back his head.
She laughed and shook hands and said she was very glad he had come. She was so easy, so easy; taking things so much as a matter of course, things that were so little a matter of course that they made him tremble— things like drying her shoes the night before in the taxi, or feeling on his face the soft white fur. If she would be shy, be self-conscious for even an instant, he thought, he would be more master of himself as well as of her. But she wasn’t. Not a trace of it. Just simple friendliness, as if everything he said and did was usual, was inevitable, was what she quite expected, or else didn’t matter one way or the other. She wasn’t even surprised to see him. Yet he had assured her he never could get away on Saturdays.
‘I couldn’t help coming,’ he said, the flush fixed on his face. ‘You didn’t expect me to wait really till Sunday week, did you?’
‘I’m very glad you didn’t,’ she said, ringing the bell for tea and sitting down at the tea-table and beginning to pull off her gloves.
They stuck because they were wet with the rain she had been out in.
‘Let me do that,’ he said, eagerly, watching her every movement.
She held out her hands at once.
‘You’ve been walking in the rain,’ he said reproachfully, pulling away at the soaked gloves. Then, looking down at her face, the grey hard daylight of the March afternoon full on it from the high windows, he saw that she was tired—fagged out, in fact—and he added, alarmed, ‘What have you been doing?’
‘Doing?’ she repeated, smiling up at the way he was staring at her. ‘Why, coming home as quickly as I could out of the rain.’
‘But why do you look so tired?’
She laughed. ‘Do I look tired?’ she said. ‘Well, I’m not a bit.’
‘Then why do you look as if you had walked hundreds of miles and not slept for weeks?’
‘I told you you ought to see me in daylight,’ she said, with amused eyes on his face of concern. ‘You’ve only seen me lit up at night, or in the dark. I looked just the same then, only you couldn’t see me. Anybody can look not tired if it’s dark enough.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ he said. ‘You’ve been walking about, and going in tubes. Look here, I wish you’d tell me something——’
‘I’ll tell you anything,’ she said.
What sweet eyes she had, what incredibly sweet eyes, if only they weren’t so tired....
‘But you must sit down,’ she went on. ‘You’re so enormous that it hurts my neck to have to look up at you.’
He threw himself into the chair next to her. ‘What I want to know is ——’ he began, leaning forward.
He broke off as the door opened, and Mrs. Mitcham came in with the tea.
‘Go on,’ said Catherine encouragingly. ‘Unless it’s something overwhelmingly indiscreet.’
‘Well, I was only going to ask you—do you like tubes?’
She laughed. She was always laughing. ‘No,’ she said, pouring out the tea.
The teapot was impressive; all the tea arrangements were impressive, except the part you ate. On that had descended a severely restraining hand, thinning the butter on the bread, withholding the currants from the cake. Not that Christopher saw anything of this, because he saw only Catherine; but afterwards, when he went over the visit in his head, he somehow was aware of a curious contrast between the tea and the picture frames.
‘Then why do you go in them?’ he asked, Mrs. Mitcham having gone again and shut the door.
‘Because they’re cheap.’
His answer to that was to glance round the room—round, in his mind’s eye, Hertford Street as well, and Park Lane so near by, and the reserved expensiveness of the entrance hall, and the well-got-up, even if personally objectionable, porter.
She followed his glance. ‘Tubes and this,’ she said. ‘Yes, I know. They don’t match, do they. Perhaps,’ she went on, ‘I needn’t be so frightfully careful. But I’m rather scared just to begin with. I shall know better after the first year——’
‘What first year?’ he asked, as she paused; but he wasn’t really listening, because she had put up her hands and taken off her hat, and for the first time he saw her without her being half extinguished.
He gazed at her. She went on talking. He didn’t hear. She had dark hair, brushed off her forehead. It had tiny silver threads in it. He saw them. She was, as he had felt, as he had somehow known she was, older than himself, —but only a little; nothing to matter; just enough to make it proper that he should adore her, that his place should be at her feet. He gazed at her forehead,—so candid, with something dove-like about it, with something extraordinarily good, and reassuring, and infinitely kind, but with faint lines on it as though she were worried. And then her grey eyes, beautifully spaced, very light grey with long dark eyelashes, had a pathetic look in them of having been crying. He hadn’t noticed that before. At the theatre they had shone. He hoped she hadn’t been crying, and wasn’t worried, and that her laughing now wasn’t only being put on for him, for the visitor.
She stopped short in what she had been saying, noticing that he wasn’t listening and was looking at her with extreme earnestness. Her expression changed to amusement.
‘Why do you look at me so solemnly?’ she asked.
‘Because I’m terribly afraid you’ve been crying.’
‘Crying?’ she wondered. ‘What should I have been crying about?’
‘I don’t know. How should I know? I don’t know anything.’
He leaned over and timidly touched her sleeve. He had to. He couldn’t help it. He hoped she hadn’t noticed.
‘Tell me some things,’ he said.
‘I have been telling you, and you didn’t listen,’ she said.
‘Because I was looking at you. You know, I’ve never seen you once in my life before without your hat.’
‘Never once in your life before,’ she repeated smiling. ‘As if you had been seeing me since your cradle.’
‘I’ve always known you,’ he said solemnly; and at this she rather quickly offered him some cake, which he ignored.
‘In my dreams,’ he went on, gazing at her with eyes which were, she was afraid, a little—well, not those of an ordinary caller.
‘Oh—dreams. My dear Mr. Monckton. Do,’ she said, waving intangiblenesses aside, ‘have some more tea.’
‘You must call me Chris.’
‘But why?’
‘Because we’ve known each other always. Because we’re going to know each other always. Because I—because I——’
‘Well but, you know, we haven’t,’ she interrupted—for who could tell what her impetuous new friend might be going to say next? ‘Not really. Not outside make-believe. Not beyond The Immortal Hour. Can you see the cigarettes anywhere? Yes—there they are. Over there on that table. Will you get them?’
He got up and fetched them.
‘You’ve no idea how lonely I am,’ he said, putting them down near her.
‘Are you? I’m very sorry. But—are you really? I should imagine you with heaps and heaps of friends. You’re so—so——’ She hesitated. ‘So warm-hearted,’ she finished; and couldn’t help smiling as she said it, for he was apparently very warm-hearted indeed. His heart, like his hair, seemed incandescent.
‘Heaps and heaps of friends don’t make one less lonely as long as one hasn’t got—well, the one person. No, I won’t smoke. Who is Stephen?’
How abrupt. She couldn’t leap round with this quickness. ‘Stephen?’ she repeated, a little bewildered. Then she remembered, and her face again brimmed with amusement.
‘Oh yes—you thought I was going to take him to the Zoo to-morrow,’ she said. ‘The Zoo! Why, he’s preaching to-morrow evening at St. Paul’s. You’d better go and listen.’
He caught hold of her hands. ‘You must tell me one thing,’ he said. ‘You must.’
‘I told you I’ll tell you anything,’ she said, pulling her hands away.
‘Is Stephen—are you—you’re not going to marry Stephen?’
For a moment she stared at him in profound astonishment. Then she burst into laughter, and laughed and laughed till her eyes really did cry.
‘Oh, my dear boy—oh, my dear, dear boy!’ she laughed, wiping her eyes while he sat and watched her.
And at that moment Mrs. Mitcham appeared at the door and announced two ladies—their miserable name sounded like Fanshawe—and two ladies, who might well be Fanshawes, immediately swam in and enveloped Catherine in arms of enormous length, it seemed to him, kissing her effusively—how deeply he hated them—and exclaiming in incoherent twitters that they had come to carry her off, that the car was there, that they wouldn’t take no, that Ned was waiting——
Lord, what snakes.
He went away at once. No good staying just to see her being clawed away by Fanshawes to the waiting Ned. And who the devil was Ned? Yes, there he was—waiting right enough, sitting snugly in a Daimler that looked very new and expensive, while the porter, a changed man, hovered solicitously near. Ned needed every bit of the new Daimler and the fur rug and the hideously smart chauffeur to make up for the shape of his silly nose, thought Christopher, scornfully striding off down the street.
IV
T the following Friday his week was harassed. It was wonderful to be in love, to have found her, but it would have been still more wonderful if he had known a little more about her. He wanted to be able to think of her and follow her through each minute of the day,—picture her, see her in his mind’s eye doing this and doing that, going here and going there; and there was nothing but a blank.
They were such strangers. Only, of course, strangers on the lower level of everyday circumstances. On the higher level, the starry level of splendid, unreasoning love, he had, as he told her, always known her. But to know her
on that level and not on any other was awkward. It cut him off so completely. He couldn’t think what to do next.
Once, before he met her, in those dark days when he was still a fool and reasoned, he had remarked to Lewes that he thought it a pity and liable to lead to disappointment that love should begin, as it apparently did begin, suddenly, at the top of emotion. There ought, he said, to be a gradual development in acquaintanceship, a steady unfolding of knowledge of each other, a preparatory and of course extremely agreeable crescendo, leading up to the august passion itself. As it was, ignorant of everything really about the woman except what she looked and sounded like, why—there you were. It was bad, finished Christopher, aloofly considering the faulty arrangements of nature, to start with infatuation, because you couldn’t possibly do anything after that but cool off.
Now, remembering this when he couldn’t sleep one night, he laughed himself to scorn for a prig and an idiot. That’s all one knew about it when one wasn’t in love oneself. Love gave one a sixth sense. It instantly apprehended. The symbol of the sweet outer aspect of the loved one was before one’s eyes; from it one was aware of her inward and spiritual grace. The beloved looked so and so; therefore she was so and so. Love knew. But, on a lower level, on the level of mere convenience, it would be better, he admitted, to have had some preliminary acquaintance. He worshipped Catherine, and they were strangers. This was awkward. It cut him off. He didn’t know what to do next.
‘I must see you,’ he wrote, after three evenings at The Immortal Hour by himself. ‘When can I?’
And he sent the note with some roses,—those delicate pale roses in bud that come out so exquisitely in a warm atmosphere. They reminded him of her. They too were symbols, he said to himself, symbols of what would happen to her also if only she would let him be her atmosphere, her warmth; and though these roses were very expensive—ever so much for each bud— he sent three dozen, a real bunch of them, rejoicing in the extravagance, in doing something for her that he couldn’t really afford.
She wrote back: ‘But you are coming to tea on Sunday. Didn’t we say you were? Your roses are quite beautiful. Thank you so very, very much.’
And when he saw the letter, her first letter, the first bit of her handwriting, by his plate at breakfast, he seized it so quickly and turned so
red that Lewes was painfully clear as to who had written it. Poor Chris. Cumfrit. Clutches. ...
So he wasn’t to see her till the next Sunday. Well, this state of things couldn’t be allowed to go on. It was simply too starkly ridiculous. He must get on quicker next time; manage somehow to explain, to put things on their right footing. What the things were, and what the right footing was, he was far too much perturbed to consider.
Of course he had gone to St. Paul’s on the Sunday after his visit, but he had not seen her. He might as easily have hoped to find the smallest of needles in the biggest of haystacks as Catherine at that evening service, with the lights glaring in one’s eyes, and rows and rows of dark figures, all apparently exactly alike, stretching away into space.
Stephen he had seen, and also heard, and had dismissed him at once from his mind as one about whom he needn’t worry. No wonder she had laughed when he asked if she were going to marry him. Marry Stephen? Good God. The same age as she was, indeed! Why, he was old enough to be her father. Standing up in the pulpit he looked like a hawk, a dry hawk. What he said, after the first sentence, Christopher didn’t know, because of how earnestly he was still searching for Catherine; but his name, he saw on the service paper a sidesman thrust into his hand, was Colquhoun,—the Rev. Stephen Colquhoun, Rector of Chickover with Barton St. Mary, wherever that might be, and he was preaching, so Christopher gathered from the text and the first sentence, in praise of Love.
What could he know about it, thought Christopher, himself quivering with the glorious thing,—what could he know, that hawk up there, that middle-aged bone? As well might they put up some congealed spinster to explain to a congregation of mothers the emotions of parenthood. And he thought no more about Stephen. He no longer wanted him stoned. It would be waste of stones.
Of Ned that week he did sometimes think, because although Ned was manifestly a worm he was also equally manifestly a rich worm, and might as such dare to pester Catherine with his glistening attentions. But he felt too confident in Catherine’s beautiful nature to be afraid of Ned. Catherine, who loved beauty, who was so much moved by it—witness her rapt face at The Immortal Hour—would never listen to blandishments from anyone with Ned’s nose. Besides, Ned was elderly. In spite of the fur rug up to his
chin, Christopher had seen that all right. He was an elderly, puffy man. Elderliness and love! He grinned to himself. If only the elderly could see themselves....
Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday he went to The Immortal Hour, and sat and wilted because she wasn’t there. Thursday morning he sent her the roses. Friday morning he got her letter, and spent several hours when he ought to have been working in assuring himself that this couldn’t go on, this being separated, this having to wait two more whole days and a half, and then perhaps call there only to find ossifications like the Fanshawes calling there too, and turgescences like Ned, and that callosity Stephen.
At lunch-time on Friday he telephoned to her, and held his breath while he waited, for fear she should be out.
No—there was her voice, her heavenly little coo. ‘Oh, my darling!’ he was within an ace of crying down the thing in his relief. Only just did he manage not to, and as it took him a moment to gulp the word back again she repeated with gentle inquiry—what a perfect telephone voice—‘Yes—who is it?’
‘It’s me. Chris. Look here——’
‘Who?’
‘Chris. Oh, you know. You said you’d call me Chris. Christopher, then. Monckton. Look here, I wish you’d come and dine, will you? To-night? There’s an awfully jolly little restaurant—what? You can’t? Oh, but you must. Why can’t you? What? I can’t hear if you laugh. You’re not going to that thing again? Why, what nonsense. It’s becoming an obsession. We’ll go to it to-morrow night. Why didn’t you go last night? And the night before? No—I want to talk. No—we can’t talk there. No, we must talk. No it isn’t— not at all the same thing. I’ll come and fetch you at half-past seven. Yes but you must. I think I’d better be at your place at seven. You’ll be ready, won’t you? Yes I know—but that can wait till to-morrow night. All right then— seven. I say, it’s simply frightfully ador—nice of you. Hullo—hullo—are you there? They tried to cut us off. Look here—I’d better fetch you a little before seven—say a quarter to—because the place might be crowded. And I say, look here—hullo, hullo—don’t cut us off—oh, damn.’
The last words were addressed to deafness. He hung up the receiver, and snatching at his hat went off to the restaurant, an amusing one that specialised in Spanish dishes and might, he thought, interest her, to choose
and secure his table. He then went out and bought some more of the roses she said were quite beautiful, and took them to the head waiter, who was all intelligence, and instructed him to keep them carefully apart in water till a quarter to seven, when they were to be put on his table. Then he went to Wyndham Place to see if Lewes, who was working at economics and sat indoors writing most of the day, would come out and play squash with him, for he couldn’t go back to his office as if it were a day like any other day, and exercise he must have,—violent exercise, or he felt he would burst.
Lewes went. He sighed to himself as he pushed his books aside, seeing in this break-up of his afternoon a further extension of the Cumfrit clutches. Poor Chris. He was in the bliss-stage now, the merest glance at his face showed it; but—Lewes, besides being a highly promising political economist, was also attached to the poets—
Full soon his soul would have her earthly freight, And widows lie upon him with a weight Heavy as frost....
Alas, alas, how could he have committed such a profanity? Lewes loathed himself. The woman, of course, goading him,—Mrs. Cumfrit. And his feeling towards a woman who could lower him to parody a beautiful poem became as icily hostile as Adam’s ought to have been to Eve after she had lowered him to the eating of half the apple; instead of which the inexperienced man was weak, and let himself be inveigled into doing that which had ultimately produced himself, Chris, and Mrs. Cumfrit.
Adam and Chris, reflected Lewes, sadly going to the club where they played, and not speaking a word the whole way, were alike in this that they neither of them could do without a woman. And always, whenever there was a woman, trouble began; sooner or later trouble began. Or, if not actual trouble, what a deadly, what a disintegrating dulness.
Lewes knew from his friend’s face, from the way he walked, from the sound of his voice, and presently also from the triumphant quickness and accuracy with which he beat him at squash, that something he considered marvellous had happened to him that day. What had the widow consented to? Neither of them now ever mentioned her; and if he, Lewes, said the least thing about either women or love,—and being so deep in Donne and wanting to discuss him it was difficult not to mention these two disturbers
of a man’s peace—if ever he said the least thing about them, his poor friend at once began talking, very loud and most unnaturally, on subjects such as the condition of the pavement in Wyndham Place, or the increasing number of chocolate-coloured omnibuses in the streets. Things like that. Stupid things, about which he said more stupid things. And he used to be so intelligent, so vivid-minded. It was calamitous.
‘Shall we go and dine somewhere together to-night, old man?’ he couldn’t resist suggesting, as Christopher walked back with him, more effulgent than ever after the satisfaction of his triumphant exercise, and chatting gaily on topics that neither of them cared twopence for. Just to see what he would say, Lewes asked him.
‘I can’t to-night,’ said Christopher, suddenly very short.
‘The Immortal Hour again, I suppose,’ ventured Lewes after a pause, trying to sound airy.
‘No,’ snapped Christopher. ‘I’m dining out.’
And Lewes, silenced, resigned, and melancholy, gave up.
VW Christopher got to Hertford Street Catherine wasn’t ready because he was earlier than he had said he would be; but Mrs. Mitcham opened the door, wide and welcomingly this time, and looked pleased to see him and showed him at once into the drawing-room, saying her mistress would not be long.
The fire had been allowed to go out, and the room was so cold that his roses were still almost as much in bud as ever. People had been there that afternoon, he saw; the chairs were untidy, and there were cigarette ashes. Well, not one of them was taking her out to dinner. They might call, but he took her out to dinner.
Directly she came in he noticed she had a different hat on. It was a very pretty hat, much prettier than the other one. Was it possible she had put it on for him? Yet for whom else? Absorbed in the entrancingness of this thought he had the utmost difficulty in saying how do you do properly. He stared very hard, and gripped her hand very tight, and for a moment didn’t say anything. And round her shoulders was the white fox thing he had held to
his face the other day; and her little shoes—well, he had better not look at them.
‘This is great fun,’ she said as he gripped her hand, and she successfully hid the agony caused by her fingers and her rings being crushed together.
‘It’s heaven,’ said Christopher.
‘No, no, that’s not nearly such fun as—just fun,’ she said, furtively rubbing her released hand and making a note in her mind not to wear rings next time her strong young friend was likely to say how do you do.
The pain had sent the blood flying up into her face. Christopher gazed at her. Surely she was blushing? Surely she was no longer so self-possessed and sure? Was it possible she was beginning to be shy? It gave him an extraordinary happiness to think so, and she, looking at him standing there with such a joyful face, couldn’t but catch and reflect some at least of his light.
She laughed. It really was fun. It made her feel so young, frolicking off like this with a great delighted boy. He was such an interesting, unusual boy, full of such violent enthusiasms. She wished he need never grow older. How charming to be as young and absurd as that, she thought, laughing up at the creature. One never noticed how delightful youth was till one’s own had finished. Well, she was going to be young for this one evening. He treated her as if she were; did he really think it? It was difficult to believe, yet still more difficult not to believe when one watched his face as he said all the things he did say. How amusing, how amusing. She had been solemn for so long, cloistered in duties for such years; and here all of a sudden was somebody behaving as if she were twenty. It made her feel twenty; feel, anyhow, of his own age. What fun. For one evening....
She laughed gaily. (No, he thought, she wasn’t shy. She was as secure as ever, and as sure of her little darling self. He must have dreamed that blush.) ‘Where are we going?’ she asked. ‘I haven’t been to a restaurant for ages. Though I’m not sure we wouldn’t have been happier at The Immortal Hour.’
‘I am,’ said Christopher. ‘Quite sure. Don’t you know we’ve got marvellous things to say to each other?’
‘I didn’t,’ she said, ‘but I daresay some may come into my head as we go along. Shall we start? Help me into my coat.’
‘What a jolly thing,’ he said, wrapping her in it with joyful care. He knew nothing about women’s clothes, but he did feel that this was wonderful—so soft, so light, and yet altogether made of fur.
‘It’s a relic,’ she said, ‘of past splendour. I used to be well off. Up to quite a little while ago. And things like this have lapped over.’
‘I want to know all about everything,’ he said.
‘I’ll tell you anything you ask,’ she answered. ‘But you must promise to like it,’ she added, smiling.
‘Why? Why shouldn’t I like it?’ he asked quickly, his face changing. ‘You’re not—you’re not going to be married?’
‘Oh—don’t be silly. There. I’m ready. Shall we go down?’
‘I suppose you insist on walking down?’
‘We can go in the lift if you like,’ she said, pausing surprised, ‘but it’s only one floor.’
‘I want to carry you.’
‘Oh—don’t be silly,’ she said again, this time with a faint impatience. The evening wouldn’t be at all amusing if he were going to be silly, seriously silly. And if he began already might he not grow worse? George, she remembered, used to be quite different after dinner from what he was before dinner. Always kind, after dinner he became more than kind. But he was her husband. One bore it. She had no wish for more than kindness from anybody else. Besides, whatever one might pretend for a moment, one wasn’t twenty, and one naturally didn’t want to be ridiculous.
She walked out of the flat thoughtfully. Perhaps she had better begin nipping his effusiveness in the bud a little harder, whenever it cropped up. She had nipped, but evidently not hard enough. Perhaps the simplest way— and indeed all his buds would be then nipped for ever at once—would be to tell him at dinner about Virginia. If seeing her as he had now done in full daylight hadn’t removed his misconceptions, being told about Virginia certainly would. Only—she hadn’t wanted to yet; she had wanted for this one evening to enjoy the queer, sweet, forgotten feeling of being young again, of being supposed to be young; which really, if one felt as young as she quite often very nearly did, amounted to the same thing.
‘You’re not angry with me?’ he said, catching her up, having been delayed on the stairs by Mrs. Mitcham who had pursued him with his
forgotten coat.
She smiled. ‘No, of course not,’ she said; and for a moment she forgot his misconceptions, and patted his arm reassuringly, because he looked so anxious. ‘You’re giving me a lovely treat. We’re going to enjoy our evening thoroughly,’ she said.
‘And what are you giving me?’ he said—how adorable of her to pat him; and yet, and yet—if she had been shy she wouldn’t have. ‘Aren’t you giving me the happiest evening of my whole life?’
‘Oh,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘we mustn’t talk on different levels. When I say something ordinary you mustn’t answer’—she laughed—‘with a shout. If you do, the conversation will be trying.’
‘But how can I help what you call shouting when I’m with you at last, after having starved, starved——’
‘Oh,’ she interrupted quickly, putting her hands up to her ears, ‘you wouldn’t like it, would you, if I went deaf?’
He must go slower. He knew he must. But how go slower? He must hold on to himself tightly. But how? How? And in another minute they would be shut up close and alone in one of those infernal taxis.... Perhaps they had better go by tube; yet that seemed a poor way of taking a woman out to dinner. No, he couldn’t possibly do that. Better risk the taxi, and practise self-control.
‘You know,’ she said when they were in it,—fortunately it was a very fast one and would soon get there—‘only a few days ago you used to sit at The Immortal Hour all quiet and good, and never say anything except intelligent things about Celts. Now you don’t mention Celts, and don’t seem a bit really intelligent. What has happened to you?’
‘You have,’ he said.
‘That can’t be true,’ she reasoned, ‘for I haven’t seen you for nearly a week.’
‘That’s why,’ he said. ‘But look here, I don’t want to say things that’ll make you stop your ears up again, and I certainly shall if we don’t talk about something quite—neutral.’
‘Well, let’s. What is neutral enough?’ she smiled.
‘I don’t believe there’s anything,’ he said, thinking a moment. ‘There’s nothing that wouldn’t lead me back instantly to you. There’s nothing in the
whole world that doesn’t make me think of you. Why, just the paving stones —you walked on them. Just the shop-windows—Catherine has looked into these. Just the streets—she has passed this way. Now don’t, don’t stop up your ears—please don’t. Do listen. You see, you fill the world—oh don’t put your fingers in your ears——’
‘I wasn’t going to,’ she said. ‘I was only just thinking that I believe I’m going to have a headache.’
‘A headache?’
‘One of my headaches.’
‘Oh no—not really?’
He was aghast.
‘You’ll be all right when you’ve had some food,’ he said. ‘Are they bad? Do you get bad ones?’
‘Perhaps if we don’t talk for a little while——’ she murmured, shutting her eyes.
He went as dumb as a fish. His evening ... it would be too awful if it were spoiled, if she had to go home....
She sat in her corner, her eyes tight shut.
He sat stiff in his, as if the least movement might shake the taxi and make her worse, stealing anxious looks at her from time to time.
She didn’t speak again, nor did he.
In this way they reached the restaurant, and as he helped her out, his alarmed eyes on her face, she smiled faintly at him and said she thought it was going to be all right. And to herself she said, ‘At dinner I’ll tell him about Virginia.’ VI
B she was weak; it was such fun; she couldn’t spoil it; not for this one evening.
There were the roses, sisters to the roses in her room, making the table a thing apart and cared for among the flock of tables decorated cynically with a sad daffodil or wrinkled tulip stuck in sprigs of box and fir; and there the welcoming head waiter, himself hovering over the proper serving of dishes which all seemed to be what she chanced to like best, and there sat
Christopher opposite her, flushed with happiness and so obviously adoring that the other diners noticed it and sent frequent discreet glances of benevolent and sympathetic interest across to their corner, and nobody seemed to think his attitude was anything but natural, for she couldn’t help seeing that the glances, after dwelling benevolently on him, dwelt with equal benevolence on her. It was too funny. It wouldn’t have been human not to like it; and whatever misconception it was based on, and however certainly it was bound to end, while it lasted it was—well, amusing.
On the wall to her left was a long strip of looking-glass, and she caught sight of herself in it. No, she didn’t seem old,—not unsuitably old, even for Christopher; in fact not old at all. It was really rather surprising. When did one begin? True, the rose-coloured lights were very kindly in this restaurant, and besides, she was amused and enjoying herself, and amusement and enjoyment do for the time hide a lot of things in one’s face, she reflected. What would Stephen say if he saw her at this moment?
She looked up quickly at Christopher, the thought laughing in her eyes; but meeting his, fixed on her face in adoration, the thought changed to: What would Stephen say if he saw Christopher?—and the laughter became a little uneasy. Well, she couldn’t bother about that to-night; she would take the good the gods were providing. There was always to-morrow, and tomorrow and to-morrow to be dusty and dim in. For the next two hours she was Cinderella at the ball; and afterwards, though there would be the rags, all the rags of all the years, still she would have been at the ball.
‘What are you laughing at?’ asked Christopher, himself one large laugh of joy.
‘I was wondering what Stephen—your friend Stephen—would say if he saw us now.’
‘Poor old Jack-in-the-Box,’ said Christopher with easy irreverence. ‘I suppose he’d think us worldly.’
She leaned forward. ‘What?’ she asked, her face rippling with a mixture of laughter and dismay, ‘what was it you called him?’
‘I said poor old Jack-in-the-Box. So he is. I saw him in his box on Sunday at St. Paul’s. I went, of course. I’d go anywhere on the chance of seeing you. And there he was, poor old back number, gassing away about love. What on earth he thinks he knows about it——’
‘Perhaps——’ She hesitated. ‘Perhaps he knows a great deal. He has got’—she hesitated again—‘he has got a quite young wife.’
‘Has he? Then he ought to be ashamed of himself. Old bone.’
She stared at him. ‘Old what?’ she asked.
‘Bone,’ said Christopher. ‘You can’t get love out of a bone.’
‘But—but he loves her very much,’ she said.
‘Then he’s a rocky old reprobate.’
‘Oh Christopher!’ she said, helplessly.
It was the first time she had called him that, and it came out now as a cry, half of rebuke, half of horrified amusement; but in whatever form it came out the great thing to his enchanted ears was that it had got out, for from that to Chris would be an easy step.
‘Well, so he is. He shouldn’t at that age. He should pray.’
‘Oh Christopher!’ cried Catherine again. ‘But she loves him too.’
‘Then she’s a nasty girl,’ said Christopher stoutly; and after staring at him a moment she went off into a fit of laughter, and laughed in the heavenly way he had already seen her laugh once before—yes, that was over Stephen too—so it was; Stephen seemed a sure draw—with complete abandonment, till she had to pull out her handkerchief to wipe her eyes.
‘I don’t mind your crying that sort of tears,’ said Christopher benignly, ‘but I won’t have any others.’
‘Oh,’ said Catherine, trying to recover, diligently wiping her eyes, ‘oh, you’re so funny—you’ve no idea how funny——’
‘I can be funnier than that,’ said Christopher proudly, delighted that he could make her laugh.
‘Oh, don’t be—don’t be—I couldn’t bear it. I haven’t laughed like this since—I can’t remember when. Not for years, anyhow.’
‘Was George at all like his furniture?’
‘His furniture?’
‘Well, you’re not going to persuade me that that isn’t George’s, all that solemn stuff in your drawing-room. Was he like that? I mean, because if he was naturally you didn’t laugh much.’
‘Oh—poor darling,’ said Catherine quickly, leaving off laughing.
He had been tactless. He had been brutal. He wanted to throw himself at her feet. It was the champagne, of course; for in reality he had the highest opinion of George, who not only was so admirably dead but also had evidently taken great care of Catherine while he wasn’t.
‘I say, I’m most awfully sorry,’ he murmured, deeply contrite,— whatever had possessed him to drag George into their little feast? ‘And I like George most awfully. I’m sure he was a thoroughly decent chap. And he can’t help it if he’s got a bit crystallised,—in his furniture, I mean, and still hangs round——’
His voice trailed out. He was making it worse. Catherine’s face, bent over her plate, was solemn.
Christopher could have bitten out his tongue. He was amazed at his own folly. Had ever any man before, he asked himself distractedly, dragged in the deceased husband on such an occasion? No kind of husband, no kind at all, could be mentioned with profit at a little party of this nature, but a deceased one was completely fatal. At one stroke Christopher had wiped out her gaiety. Even if she hadn’t been fond of George, she was bound in decency to go solemn directly he was brought in. But she was fond of him; he was sure she was; and his own folly in digging him up at such a moment was positively fantastic. He could only suppose it must be the champagne. Impatiently he waved the waiter away who tried to give him more, and gazed at Catherine, wondering what he could say to get her to smile again.
She was looking thoughtfully at her plate. Thinking of George, of course, which was absolute waste of the precious, precious time, but entirely his own idiotic fault.
‘Don’t,’ he murmured beseechingly.
She lifted her eyes, and when she saw his expression she couldn’t help smiling a little, it was such intense, such concentrated entreaty. ‘Don’t what?’ she asked.
‘Don’t think,’ he begged. ‘Not now. Not here. Except about us.’
‘But,’ she said, ‘that’s exactly what I was doing till——’
‘I know. I’m a fool. I can’t help somehow blurting things out to you. And yet if you only knew the things I’ve by a miracle managed not to blurt. Why, as if I didn’t know this is no place for George——’
