Part 6 (2/2)
”Not entirely,” said the doctor.
”Largely. What child under a modern upbringing ever goes through the stuffy horrors described in James Joyce's PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A YOUNG MAN.”
”I've not read it.”
”A picture of the Catholic atmosphere; a young soul shut up in darkness and ignorance to acc.u.mulate filth. In the name of purity and decency and under threats of h.e.l.l fire.”
”Horrible!”
”Quite. A study of intolerable tensions, the tensions that make young people write unclean words in secret places.”
”Yes, we certainly ventilate and sanitate in those matters nowadays.
Where nothing is concealed, nothing can explode.”
”On the whole I came up to adolescence pretty straight and clean,” said Sir Richmond. ”What stands out in my memory now is this idea, of a sort of woman G.o.ddess who was very lovely and kind and powerful and wonderful. That ruled my secret imaginations as a boy, but it was very much in my mind as I grew up.”
”The mother complex,” said Dr. Martineau as a pa.s.sing botanist might recognize and name a flower.
Sir Richmond stared at him for a moment.
”It had not the slightest connexion with my mother or any mother or any particular woman at all. Far better to call it the G.o.ddess complex.”
”The connexion is not perhaps immediately visible,” said the doctor.
”There was no connexion,” said Sir Richmond. ”The women of my adolescent dreams were stripped and strong and lovely. They were great creatures.
They came, it was clearly traceable, from pictures sculpture--and from a definite response in myself to their beauty. My mother had nothing whatever to do with that. The women and girls about me were fussy bunches of clothes that I am sure I never even linked with that dream world of love and wors.h.i.+p.”
”Were you co-educated?”
”No. But I had a couple of sisters, one older, one younger than myself, and there were plenty of girls in my circle. I thought some of them pretty--but that was a different affair. I know that I didn't connect them with the idea of the loved and wors.h.i.+pped G.o.ddesses at all, because I remember when I first saw the G.o.ddess in a real human being and how amazed I was at the discovery.... I was a boy of twelve or thirteen. My people took me one summer to Dymchurch in Romney Marsh; in those days before the automobile had made the Marsh accessible to the Hythe and Folkestone crowds, it was a little old forgotten silent wind-bitten village crouching under the lee of the great sea wall. At low water there were miles of sand as smooth and s.h.i.+ning as the skin of a savage brown woman. s.h.i.+ning and with a texture--the very same. And one day as I was mucking about by myself on the beach, boy fas.h.i.+on,--there were some ribs of a wrecked boat buried in the sand near a groin and I was busy with them--a girl ran out from a tent high up on the beach and across the sands to the water. She was dressed in a tight bathing dress and not in the clumsy skirts and frills that it was the custom to inflict on women in those days. Her hair was tied up in a blue handkerchief. She ran swiftly and gracefully, intent upon the white line of foam ahead. I can still remember how the sunlight touched her round neck and cheek as she went past me. She was the loveliest, most shapely thing I have ever seen--to this day. She lifted up her arms and thrust through the dazzling white and green breakers and plunged into the water and swam; she swam straight out for a long way as it seemed to me, and presently came in and pa.s.sed me again on her way back to her tent, light and swift and sure. The very prints of her feet on the sand were beautiful.
Suddenly I realized that there could be living people in the world as lovely as any G.o.ddess.... She wasn't in the least out of breath.
”That was my first human love. And I love that girl still. I doubt sometimes whether I have ever loved anyone else. I kept the thing very secret. I wonder now why I have kept the thing so secret. Until now I have never told a soul about it. I resorted to all sorts of tortuous devices and excuses to get a chance of seeing her again without betraying what it was I was after.”
Dr. Martineau retained a simple fondness for a story.
”And did you meet her again?”
”Never. Of course I may have seen her as a dressed-up person and not recognized her. A day or so later I was stabbed to the heart by the discovery that the tent she came out of had been taken away.”
”She had gone?”
”For ever.”
Sir Richmond smiled brightly at the doctor's disappointment.
Section 3
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