Part 12

“But supposing now,” said Kangaroo, as if alert and interested, “your name was Cooley: Benjamin Cooley--Ben, for short. You’d prefer even Kangaroo to that.”

“In Australia the kangaroo is the king of beasts,” said Somers.

“_The kangaroo is the king of beasts,_ _Inviting the other ones out to feasts_,”

sang the big man, continuing: “Won’t you both come to dinner with the king of beasts? Won’t you come too, Mrs Somers?”

“You know you only want Lovat, to talk your _man’s_ stuff.”

“I’m not a man, I’m a kangaroo. Besides, yesterday I hadn’t seen you. If I had known, my dear Somers, that your wife, who is at this moment in her room hastily changing her dress, was such a beautiful person--I don’t say woman merely--I’d have invited you for her sake, and not for your own.”

“Then _I_ wouldn’t have come,” said Somers.

“Hear them, what a haughty pair of individuals! I suppose you expect the king of beasts to go down on his knees to you, like the rest of democratic kings to their constituents. Won’t you get ready, Mrs Somers?”

“You are quite sure you want me to come?” said Harriet suspiciously.

“Why, if you won’t come, I shall ask Lovat--dear Lovat, by the happiest fluke in the world not Lovelace--to let me stay here to tea, dinner, or supper--that is, to the next meal, whatever name it may bear.”

At this Harriet disappeared to put on a proper dress.

“We will go as soon as you are ready,” called Kangaroo. “We can all squeeze into that automobile at your gate.”

When Harriet reappeared the men rose. Kangaroo looked at her with admiration.

“What a remarkably beautiful person you are,” he said. “But mind, I don’t say _woman_. _Dio liberi!_” He scuttled hurriedly to the door.

They had a gay dinner. Kangaroo wasn’t really witty. But he had such an innocent charm, an extraordinary winsomeness, that it was much more delicious than wit. His presence was so warm. You felt you were cuddled cosily, like a child, on his breast, in the soft glow of his heart, and that your feet were nestling on his ample, beautiful “tummy.”

“I wonder you were never married,” said Harriet to him.

“I’ve been married several times,” he replied.

“Really!” she cried.

“First to Benny Cooley--then to immortal verse--after that to the law--once to a haughty lady--and now I’m wedded to my ideals. This time it is final. I don’t take another wife.”

“I don’t care about the rest. But were you ever married, really?”

“To a woman? A mere woman? Why, yes indeed. A young Baroness too. And after seven months she told me she couldn’t stand me for another minute, and went off with Von Rumpeldorf.”

“Is it true?”

“Quite true.”

“And is there still a Mrs Kangaroo?”

“Alas, no! Like the unicorn, the family knows no female.”

“But why couldn’t she stand you?” cried Harriet.

“Think of it now. Could _any_ woman stand me?” he asked, with a slight shrug.

“I should have thought they’d have _adored_ you,” she cried.

“Of course they do. They can’t stand me, though. And I thoroughly sympathise with them.”

Harriet looked at him thoughtfully.

“Yes,” she said slowly. “You’re too much like Abraham’s bosom. One would feel nowhere.”

Kangaroo threw down his napkin and pushed back his chair and roared with laughter--roared and roared with laughter. The Chinese man-servant stood back perturbed. Harriet went very red--the dinner waited. Then suddenly he became quiet, looking comically at Harriet, and still sitting back from table. Then he opened his arms and held them outstretched, his head on one side.

“The way to nowhere,” he said, ironically.

She did not say any more, and he turned to the man-servant.

“My glass is empty, John,” he said.

“Ah, well,” he sighed, “if you please one woman you can’t please all women.”

“And you must please all women,” said Harriet, thoughtfully. “Yes, perhaps you must. Perhaps it is your mission.”

“Mission! Good God! Now I’m a fat missionary. Dear Mrs Somers, eat my dinner, but don’t swallow _me_ in a mouthful. Eating your host for hors d’œuvres. You’re a dangerous ogre, a Medusa with her hair under her hat. Let’s talk of Peach Melba. Where have you had the very best Peach Melba you ever tasted?”

After this he became quiet, and a little constrained, and when they had withdrawn for coffee, the talk went subduedly, with a little difficulty.

“I suppose your husband will have told you, Mrs Somers, of our heaven-inspired scheme of saving Australia from the thieves, dingoes, rabbits, rats and starlings, humanly speaking.”

“No, he hasn’t told me. He’s only told me there was some political business going on.”

“He may as well put it that way as any other. And you advised him not to have anything to do with it?”

“No,” said Harriet, “I let him do as he likes.”

“Wonderful woman! Even the wind bloweth where it listeth.”

“So does he.”

“With your permission.”

“The wind has permission too,” said Harriet. “Everything goes by permission of something else, in this world.” But she went rather red.

“Bravo, a Daniel come to judgment!” Then his voice changed, became gentle and winning again. It was as if he had remembered to love her, in his way of love. “It’s not quite a political thing,” he said. “We want to take away the strain, the nervous tension out of life, and let folks be happy again unconsciously, instead of unhappy consciously. You wouldn’t say that was wrong, would you?”

“No,” she replied, rather unwilling.

“And if I have to be a fat old Kangaroo with--not an Abraham’s bosom, but a pouch to carry young Australia in--why--do you really resent it?”

Harriet laughed, glancing involuntarily at his lowest waistcoat button. It seemed such a true figure.

“Why should I resent it? It’s not my business.”

“Let it be your business just a little bit. I want your sympathy.”

“You mean you want Lovat?”

“Poor Lovat. Richard Lovat Somers! I do indeed want him. But just as much I want your sympathy.”

Harriet smiled enigmatically. She was being her most annoying. A look of almost vicious anger came over the man’s face as he leaned back in his chair, seeming to make his brows narrower, and a convulsion seemed to go through his belly. Then he recovered his calm, and seemed to forget. For a long time he lay silent, with a strange, hypnotic stillness, as if he were thinking far away, quite far away. Both Harriet and Somers felt spellbound. Then from the distance came his small voice:

“Man that is born of woman is sick of himself. Man that is born of woman is tired of his day after day. And woman is like a mother with a tiresome child: what is she to do with him? What is she to do with him?--man, that is born of woman.

“But the men that are born like ants, out of the cold interval, and are womanless, they are not sick of themselves. They are full of cold energy, and they seethe with cold fire in the ant-hill, making new corridors, new chambers--they alone know what for. And they have cold, formic-acid females, as restless as themselves, and as active about the ant-hill, and as identical with the dried clay of the building. And the active, important, so-called females, and the active, cold-blooded, energetic males, they shift twig after twig, and lay crumb of earth upon crumb of earth, and the females deposit cold white eggs of young. This is the world, and the people of the world. And with their cold, active bodies the ant-men and the ant-women swarm over the face of the earth.

“And where then are the sons of men? Where are the sons of men, and man that is born of woman? Man that is born of woman is a slave in the cold, barren corridors of the ant-hill. Or if he goes out, the open spaces are but spaces between ant-hill and ant-hill. And as he goes he hears voices claiming him, saying: ‘Hello, here comes a brother ant.’ And they hail him as a brother ant. And from this there is no escape. None. Not even the lap of woman.

“But I am a son of man. I was once a man born of woman. And by the warm heart of the mother that bore me, even if fifty wives denied me, I would still go on fighting with a warm heart to break down the ant-hill. I can fight them with their own weapons: the hard mandibles and the acid sting of the cold ant. But that is not how I fight them. I fight them with the warm heart. Deep calls to deep, and fire calls out fire. And for warmth, for the fire of sympathy, to burn out the ant heap with the heat of fiery, living hearts: that is what I stand for.

“And if I can make no one single woman happy, I will make none unhappy either. But if I can let out the real fire of happiness from the heart and bowels of man that is born of woman and woman that is born of man.” Then suddenly he broke off: “And whether I can or not, I _love_ them,” he shouted, in a voice suddenly become loud and passionate. “I love them. I _love_ you, you woman born of man, I do, and I defy you to prevent me. Fiery you are, and fiery am I, and fire should be friends with fire. And when you make me angry, with your jealousy and mistrust like the ants, I remember, I remind myself: ‘But see the beauty of the fire in her! And think how the ants have tortured her and filled her with fear and with horror!’ And then the rage goes down again, and I know I love you, and I know that fire loves fire, and that therefore you love me. And I chalk up another mark against the ants, who have tortured you with their cold energy and their conscious formic-acid that stings like fire. And I love you because you’ve suffered from them as I have. And I love you because you and your husband cherish the fire between you, sacred, apart from the ants. _A bas les fourmis._

“I have been like a man buried up into his neck in an ant-heap: so buried in the daily world, and stung and stung and stung again, because I wouldn’t change and grow cold, till now their poison is innocuous, and the formic acid of social man has no effect on me. And I’ve kept my warmth. And I will keep it, till I give it up to the unknown, out of my poor fat body. And it is my banner, and my wife and my children and my God--just the flicker that is in my heart like a fire, and that I live by. I _can’t_ speculate about God. I can’t do it. It seems to me a cold, antish trick. But the fire that is in my heart is God, and I will not forswear it, no, not if you offer me all the world. And fire is full of seeds--full of seeds--and let them scatter. I won’t cherish it on a domestic hearth. I say I won’t. So don’t bring that up against me. I won’t cherish it on the domestic hearth. I will use it against the ants, while they swarm over everything. And I’ll call fire to my fire, and set the ant-heap at last in a blaze. Like kerosene poured in. It shall be so. It shall be so. Don’t oppose me. Believe the flame in your heart, once and for all, and don’t oppose me. Believe the flame of your own heart, and be with me. Remember I am with you against the ants. Remember that. And if I am Abraham’s bosom--isn’t it better than no bosom, in a world that simmers with busy ants? And would you leave every young, warm, naked thing on the ground for the ants to find. Would you?”

He looked at her searchingly. She was pale, and moved, but hostile. He swung round in his chair, swinging his heavy hips over and lying sideways.

“Shall I tell you a thing a man told me. He had it from the lady’s own lips. It was when the Prince of Wales was in India just now. There had been a show--and then a dinner given by the governor of the town--some capital or other. The Prince sat next to the governor’s lady, and he was glum, silent, tortured by them all a bit beyond bearance. And the governor’s lady felt she ought to make conversation, ought to say something to the poor devil, just for the show’s sake and the occasion. So she _couldn’t_ think what to tell him that would interest him. Then she had a brilliant idea. ‘Do you know what happened to me last week?’ she said. ‘You’ve seen my adorable little Pekinese, Chu? She had puppies--four darling queer little things--tiny little creepy-crawlies. Of course we loved them. But in the night I thought I heard them crying--I wasn’t sure. But at last I went down. And what do you think! There was a swarm of white ants, and they were just eating up the last bits of them. Wasn’t it awful.’ The Prince went white as death. And just then an ant happened to come on the tablecloth. He took his glass and banged it over it, and never spoke another word all evening. Now that story was told by the woman herself. And this was what she did to a poor nerve-racked lad she was supposed to honour. Now I ask you, where was the living heart in her? She was an ant, a white ant too.”

He rolled over in his chair, bitterly, with massive bitterness, turning his back on Harriet. She sat with a pale, blenched face, and tears in her eyes.

“How cruel!” she said. “But she must have been a fool.”

“Vile! Vile! No fool! Quite brilliant ant-tactics. There was warmth in the lad’s heart, and she was out to do _her_ bit of the quenching. Oh, she gave him her nip and sting. Ants, social ants. Social creatures! Cold--I’m as cold as they are when it comes to them. And as cunning, and _quite_ as vicious. But that’s not what I care for. I want to collect together all the fire in all the burning hearts in Australia: that’s what I want. Collect the heart-fire, and the fire will be our fire. That’s what I do want; apart from all antics and ant-tricks. ‘_We have lighted such a fire this day, Master Latimer._’ Yes, and we’ll light another. You _needn’t_ be with me if you don’t want to--if you’re frightened of losing your monopoly over your precious husband. Take him home then--take him home.”

And he rolled his back on her more than ever, finishing in a sudden gust of anger and weariness. He lay there rolled in his chair, a big, queer, heavy figure, with his face almost buried in the soft leather, and his big hips sticking out. Her face was quivering, wanting to cry. Then suddenly she broke into a laugh, saying rather shakily, venomously:

“Well, anyhow, you needn’t turn the wrong end of you at me quite so undisguisedly.”

“How do you know it _is_ the wrong end of me?” he said, sitting up suddenly and letting his head hang, scowling.

“_Facon de parler_,” she said, laughing rather stiffly.

Somers was silent, and kept silent till the end. He was thankful that Kangaroo was fighting the battle this time.

Their host sent them home in his motor-car. Neither of them had anything to say. Then, as Harriet shut the door of Torestin, and they were quite alone, she said:

“Yes, he’s right. I absolutely believe in him. I don’t care _what_ he does with you.”

“I do, though,” said Somers.

The next day they went to Mullumbimby. And the day after that, each of them wrote a letter to Kangaroo.

“Dear Kaiser Kangaroo,” began Harriet, “I must thank you very much for the dinner and the violets, which are still quite fresh and blue in Coo-ee. I think you were very horrid to me, but also very nice, so I hope you don’t think the worst of me. I want to tell you that I _do_ sympathise, and that I am awfully glad if I can be of any use to you in any way. I have a holy terror of ants since I heard you, but I know what you mean by the fire. Lovat will hand over my portion when he comes to see you. But I shall make myself into a Fire Brigade, because I am sure you will be kindling fires all over everywhere, under the table and in the clothes-cupboard, and I, poor domestic wretch, shall have to be rushing to put them out. Being only a poor domestic female, I really don’t feel safe with fires anywhere except in fire-places and in grates with hearths. But I do want you to know you have my sympathy--and my Lovat.” She then signed herself Harriet Somers, and felt even more fluttered than when she had signed the marriage register.

She received for answer:

“Dear Mrs Somers: I am much honoured and very grateful for the assurance of your sympathy. I have put a one-and-sixpenny government stamp under your signature, to make your letter a legal document, and have further forged the signatures of two witnesses to your deed of gift of Lovat, so I am afraid there is no court of law in New South Wales in which you could now substantiate a further claim over him. I am sorry to take this mean advantage over you, but we lawyers know no scruples.

“I should be more than delighted if I could have the honour of entertaining once more in Sydney--say next Thursday--a beautiful person and remarkable woman (one and the same individual) who tells me to my nose that I am a Jew and that my name, instead of Benjamin, should be Abraham. Do please come again and call me Abraham’s Bosom, but don’t fail to bring your husband, for the simple look of the thing.”

“The Kangaroo is a fighting beast, I believe,” said Somers, looking at Harriet and laughing. He was not sorry when for once some other person gave her a dig.

“I think he’s rather foolish,” she said briefly.

These days Somers, too, was filled with fury. As for loving mankind, or having a fire of love in his heart, it was all rot. He felt almost fierily cold. He liked the sea, the pale sea of green glass that fell in such cold foam. Ice-fiery, fish-burning. He went out on to the low flat rocks at low tide, skirting the deep pock-holes that were full of brilliantly clear water and delicately-coloured shells and tiny, crimson anemones. Strangely sea-scooped sharp sea-bitter rock-floor, all wet and sea-savage. And standing at the edge looking at the waves rather terrifying rolling at him, where he stood low and exposed, far out from the sand-banks, and as he watched the gannets gleaming white, then falling with a splash like white sky-arrows into the waves, he wished as he had never wished before that he could be cold, as sea-things are cold, and murderously fierce. To have oneself exultantly ice-cold, not one spark of this wretched warm flesh left, and to have all the terrific, icy energy of a fish. To surge with that cold exultance and passion of a sea thing! Now he understood the yearning in the seal-woman’s croon, as she went back to the sea, leaving her husband and her children of warm flesh. No more cloying warmth. No more of this horrible stuffy heat of human beings. To be an isolated swift fish in the big seas, that are bigger than the earth; fierce with cold, cold life, in the watery twilight before sympathy was created to clog us.

These were his feelings now. Mankind? Ha, he turned his face to the centre of the seas, away from any land. The noise of waters, and dumbness like a fish. The cold, lovely silence, before crying and calling were invented. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, as if it had relapsed away from speech altogether.

He did not care a straw what Kangaroo said or felt, or what anybody said or felt, even himself. He had no feelings, and speech had gone out of him. He wanted to be cold, cold, and alone like a single fish, with no feeling in his heart at all except a certain icy exultance and wild, fish-like rapacity. “Homo sum!” All right. Who sets a limit to what a man is? Man is also a fierce and fish-cold devil, in his hour, filled with cold fury of desire to get away from the cloy of human life altogether, not into death, but into that icily self-sufficient vigour of a fish.

CHAP: VII. THE BATTLE OF TONGUES

As a rule the jetty on its poles straddling a little way into the sea was as deserted as if it were some relic left by an old invader. Then it had spurts of activity, when steamer after steamer came blorting and hanging miserably round, like cows to the cowshed on a winter afternoon. Then a little engine would chuff along the pier, shoving a string of tip-up trucks, and little men would saunter across the sky-line, and there would be a fine dimness of black dust round the low, red ship and the end of the jetty. Luckily it was far enough away, so that Harriet need not fear for her beautiful white washing. She washed her linen herself for the sheer joy of it, and loved nothing so much as thinking of it getting whiter and whiter, like the Spenserian maid, in the sun and sea, and visiting it on the grass every five minutes, and finding it every time really whiter, till Somers said it would reach a point of whiteness where the colours would break up, and she’d go out and find pieces of rainbow on the grass and bushes, instead of towels and shirts.

“Shouldn’t I be startled!” she said, accepting it as quite a possible contingency, and adding thoughtfully: “No, not really.”

One of these afternoons when Somers was walking down on the sands, looking at the different shells, their sea-colours of pink and brown and rainbow and brilliant violet and shrimp-red, and when the boats were loading coal on the moderately quiet sea, he noticed the little engine standing steaming on the jetty, just overhead where he was going to pass under. Then his attention was drawn away to the men picking up the rounded, sea-smooth pebbles of coal in one little place where the beach was just a black slope of perfectly clean coal-pebbles: just like any other pebbles. There were usually some men, or women or children, picking here, putting the bigger pebbles of sea-coal into sacks. From the edge of the small waves Somers heard one man talking to another, and the English tones--unconsciously he expected a foreign language--and particularly the peculiar educated-artisan quality, almost a kind of uppishness that there is in the speech of Australian working men, struck him as incongruous with their picking up the coal-cobs from the shore. He watched them, in the chill of the shadow. Yes, they thought as much of themselves as anybody. But one was palpably a Welshman, and loved picking up something for nothing; and the other mixed his democratic uppishness with a queer lousy quality, like a bushranger. “They are ten times more foreign to me,” said Somers, “than Italian scoundrels, or even Indians. They are so _foreign_ to me. And yet their manner of life, their ordinary way of living is almost exactly what I was used to as a boy. Why are they so foreign to me?”

They silently objected to his looking, so he went on. He had come to the huge, high timbers of the tall jetty. There stood the little engine still overhead: and in the gloom among the timbers underneath water was dripping down from her, which gave Somers a distaste for passing just then. He looked up. There was the engine-driver in his dirty shirt and dirty bare arms, talking to another man. The other man saluted--and to Somers’ surprise it was William James. He stood quite still, and a surprised smile of recognition greeted the other man, who saluted.

“Why, what are you doing here?” called Somers.

William James came to the edge of the jetty, but could not hear, because of the noise of the sea. His face had that small, subtle smile that was characteristic of him, and which Somers was never quite sure of, whether it was really jeering or in a cunning way friendly.

“Won’t you come up a minute?” roared William James.

So Somers scrambled round up the banks, on to the railway track.

“I couldn’t come down for the moment,” said William James. “I’ll have to see the manager, then I’m going off on this boat. We’re ready to go. You heard her blowing.”

“Where are you going? Back to Sydney.”

“Yes. I come down occasionally on this coal-business, and if I like I go back on the collier. The sea is quiet, and I needn’t wait for a train. Well, an’ how’re you gettin’ on, like? Pleased with it down here all by yourselves?”

“Very.”

“A bit lonely for you. I suppose you wouldn’t like to know the manager here--Mr Thomas? He’s a decent chap--from South Wales originally.”

“No. I like it best when I don’t know anybody.”