Part 41 (1/2)
He smiled. ”I am fifty. It is a terrible age.”
”I dare say it would be nice to be fifty if one had been long enough young--to get there gradually. But to jump there, that is what is not amusing.”
”And you have jumped to fifty? I thought there was a story in those Sphinx eyes.”
”Why do you say that? You are the second person who has said I have the eyes of the Sphinx. I would like to know why?” I asked.
”Because they are inscrutable. They suggest much and reveal nothing.
It would interest me deeply to hear your impression of things.”
”What things?”
”The world, the flesh, or the devil--anything that would make you lift the curtain a little. For instance, what do you think of this society here now?”
”They all seem to be clever people with interests in life.”
”Most people have interests in life. The candle would soon burn out otherwise. What are yours, if I may ask?”
”I am observing. I have not decided yet what interests me. I would like to travel, I think, and see the world.”
”That is an easy matter at your age. But have you no other desires?”
”No, unless it would be to sleep very soundly and enjoy my food.”
”What a little cynic! A gross little materialist! And you look the embodiment of etherealism.”
”At fifty I have always understood creature comforts begin to matter more. Each age has its pleasures.”
He laughed.
”Tell me something else about the emotions of the fifty-year-olds.”
”They get up in the morning and they wonder if it will rain, and, if they are in England, it often answers them by pouring. Then they breakfast, and wonder if they will read or play the piano or walk, or if it matters a sc.r.a.p if they do none of these things, and presently they look at the papers, and they see the war is going on still, and people are being killed, and they wonder to what end. And they read that the opposition is accusing the government of all sorts of crimes and negligences, and they remember that is the fate of governments, whichever side is in. And then they lunch, perhaps, and see friends.
And they find they want some one else's husband but their own, and that the husband, perhaps, only cares for sport, or some one else's wife. And then they sleep after lunch, and drive, and have tea, and read books about philosophy, and dine, and yawn, and finally go to bed.”
”What a terrible picture! And when they were young what did they do?”
”It is so long ago I heard of that, but I will try to remember. They woke feeling the day was a glorious thing in front of them, that even if they were in England, and it was raining, the sun would soon come out. And they sang while they dressed, and, if it was summer, they rushed round the garden, and loved all the flowers, and the scent in the air, and the beauty of the lights and colors, and the dear little b.u.t.terflies. And they saw the shades on the trees, and they heard the different notes in the birds' songs. And they were hungry, and glad to eat bread and milk. And every goose was a swan, and every moment full of joy, because they said to themselves, 'Something glorious' is coming to me, also, in this most glorious world!'”
I laughed softly. It seemed so true, and so long ago.
Mr. Budge looked at me. His face was grave and puzzled.
”Child,” he said, ”it grieves me to hear you talk so. I a.s.sure you, I, who am really fifty, still enjoy all those things that you say only the very young can appreciate.”
”We have changed places, then!” I answered, lightly. ”And I see Lady Tilchester making a move towards bed. That is a delightful place, where fifty and fifteen can both enjoy oblivion--so good-night!” And I smiled at him over my shoulder as I walked towards the door!
Next day, after church, the Duke and I went for a walk. He kept his promise and did not bore me. We discussed all sorts of things, some interesting, and all in the abstract. We left personalities alone. At last he said: