Marrying and getting married was, I think, a pretty ****** affair to Altiora; it was something that happened to the adolescent and unmarried when you threw them together under the circumstances of health, warmth and leisure.It happened with the kindly and approving smiles of the more experienced elders who had organised these proximities.The young people married, settled down, children ensued, and father and mother turned their minds, now decently and properly disillusioned, to other things.That to Altiora was the normal sexual life, and she believed it to be the quality of the great bulk of the life about her.
One of the great barriers to human understanding is the wide temperamental difference one finds in the values of things relating to ***.It is the issue upon which people most need training in charity and imaginative sympathy.Here are no universal standards at all, and indeed for no single man nor woman does there seem to be any fixed standard, so much do the accidents of circumstances and one's physical phases affect one's interpretations.There is nothing in the whole range of sexual fact that may not seem supremely beautiful or humanly jolly or magnificently wicked or disgusting or trivial or utterly insignificant, according to the eye that sees or the mood that colours.Here is something that may fill the skies and every waking hour or be almost completely banished from a life.It may be everything on Monday and less than nothing on Saturday.And we make our laws and rules as though in these matters all men and women were commensurable one with another, with an equal steadfast passion and an equal constant duty....
I don't know what dreams Altiora may have had in her schoolroom days, I always suspected her of suppressed and forgotten phases, but certainly her general effect now was of an entirely passionless worldliness in these matters.Indeed so far as I could get at her, she regarded sexual passion as being hardly more legitimate in a civilised person than--let us say--homicidal mania.She must have forgotten--and Bailey too.I suspect she forgot before she married him.I don't suppose either of them had the slightest intimation of the dimensions sexual love can take in the thoughts of the great majority of people with whom they come in contact.They loved in their way--an intellectual way it was and a fond way--but it had no relation to beauty and physical sensation--except that there seemed a decree of exile against these things.They got their glow in high moments of altruistic ambition--and in moments of vivid worldly success.They sat at opposite ends of their dinner table with so and so "captured," and so and so, flushed with a mutual approval.
They saw people in love forgetful and distraught about them, and just put it down to forgetfulness and distraction.At any rate Altiora manifestly viewed my situation and Margaret's with an abnormal and entirely misleading simplicity.There was the girl, rich, with an acceptable claim to be beautiful, shiningly virtuous, quite capable of political interests, and there was I, talented, ambitious and full of political and social passion, in need of just the money, devotion and regularisation Margaret could provide.We were both unmarried--white sheets of uninscribed paper.Was there ever a ******r situation? What more could we possibly want?
She was even a little offended at the inconclusiveness that did not settle things at Pangbourne.I seemed to her, I suspect, to reflect upon her judgment and good intentions.
7
I didn't see things with Altiora's simplicity.
I admired Margaret very much, I was fully aware of all that she and I might give each other; indeed so far as Altiora went we were quite in agreement.But what seemed solid ground to Altiora and the ultimate footing of her emasculated world, was to me just the superficial covering of a gulf--oh! abysses of vague and dim, and yet stupendously significant things.
I couldn't dismiss the interests and the passion of *** as Altiora did.Work, I agreed, was important; career and success; but deep unanalysable instincts told me this preoccupation was a thing quite as important; dangerous, interfering, destructive indeed, but none the less a dominating interest in life.I have told how flittingly and uninvited it came like a moth from the outer twilight into my life, how it grew in me with my manhood, how it found its way to speech and grew daring, and led me at last to experience.After that adventure at Locarno *** and the interests and desires of *** never left me for long at peace.I went on with my work and my career, and all the time it was like--like someone talking ever and again in a room while one tries to write.
There were times when I could have wished the world a world all of men, so greatly did this unassimilated series of motives and curiosities hamper me; and times when I could have wished the world all of women.I seemed always to be seeking something in women, in girls, and I was never clear what it was I was seeking.But never--even at my coarsest--was I moved by physical desire alone.Was Iseeking help and fellowship? Was I seeking some intimacy with beauty? It was a thing too formless to state, that I seemed always desiring to attain and never attaining.Waves of gross sensuousness arose out of this preoccupation, carried me to a crisis of gratification or disappointment that was clearly not the needed thing; they passed and left my mind free again for a time to get on with the permanent pursuits of my life.And then presently this solicitude would have me again, an irrelevance as it seemed, and yet a constantly recurring demand.
