Parade's End

“Come up, you fellows. There’s some hooch for you!” He had a royal aspect. An all-powerfulness. They pushed past her and then past him on the stairs. They all ran up the stairs, even the man with the stick. The armless man shook hands with his left hand as he ran. They exclaimed enthusiasms…. On all celebrations it is proper for His Majesty’s officers to exclaim and to run upstairs when whiskey is mentioned. How much the more so to-day!

They were alone now in the hall, he on a level with her. He looked into her eyes. He smiled. He had never smiled at her before. They had always been such serious people. He said:

“We shall have to celebrate! But I’m not mad. I’m not destitute!” He had run out to get money to celebrate with her. He had meant to go and fetch her. To celebrate that day together.

She wanted to say: “I am falling at your feet. My arms are embracing your knees!”

Actually she said:

“I suppose it is proper to celebrate together to-day!”

Her mother had made their union. For they looked at each other for a long time. What had happened to their eyes? It was as if they had been bathed in soothing fluid: they could look the one at the other. It was no longer the one looking and the other averting the eyes, in alternation. Her mother had spoken between them. They might never have spoken of themselves! In one heart-beat a-piece whilst she had been speaking they had been made certain that their union had already lasted many years…. It was warm; their hearts beat quietly. They had already lived side by side for many years. They were quiet in a cavern. The Pompeian red bowed over them; the stairways whispered up and up. They would be alone together now. For ever!

She knew that he desired to say “I hold you in my arms. My lips are on your forehead. Your breasts are being hurt by my chest!”

He said:

“Who have you got in the dining-room? It used to be the dining-room!”

Dreadful fear went through her. She said:

“A man called McKechnie. Don’t go in!”

He went toward danger, mooning along. She would have caught at his sleeve, but Caesar’s wife must be as brave as C?sar. Nevertheless she slipped in first. She had slipped past him before at a hangingstile. A Kentish kissing gate. She said:

“Captain Tietjens is here!” She did not know whether he was a Captain or a Major. Some called him one, some another.

McKechnie looked merely grumbling: not homicidal. He grumbled:

“Look here, my bloody swine of an uncle, your pal, has had me dismissed from the army!”

Tietjens said:

“Chuck it. You know you’ve been demobilised to go to Asia Minor for the Government. Come and celebrate.” McKechnie had a dirty envelope. Tietjens said: “Oh, yes. The sonnet. You can translate it under Valentine’s inspection. She’s the best Latinist in England!” He said: “Captain McKechnie: Miss Wannop!”

McKechnie took her hand:

“It isn’t fair. If you’re such a damn good Latinist as that…” he grumbled.

“You’ll have to have a shave before you come with us!” Tietjens said.

They three went up the stairs together, but they two were alone. They were going on their honeymoon journey…. The bride’s going away!… She ought not to think such things. It was perhaps blasphemy. You go away in a neatly shining coupe with cockaded footmen!

He had re-arranged the room. He had positively re-arranged the room. He had removed the toilet-furnishings in green canvas: the camp-bed — three officers on it — was against the wall. That was his thoughtfulness. He did not want these people to have it suggested that she slept with him there…. Why not? Aranjuez and the hostile thin lady sat on green canvas pillows on the dais. Bottles leaned against each other on the green canvas table. They all held glasses. They were in all five of H.M. Officers. Where had they come from? There were also three mahogany chairs with green rep, sprung seats. Fat seats. Glasses were on the mantelshelf. The thin, hostile lady held a glass of dark red in an unaccustomed manner.

They all stood up and shouted:

“McKechnie! Good old McKechnie!” “Hurray McKechnie!” “McKechnie!” opening their mouths to the full extent and shouting with all their lungs. You could see that!

A swift pang of jealousy went through her.

McKechnie turned his face away. He said:

“The Pals! The old pals!” He had tears in his eyes.

A shouting officer sprang from the camp-bed — her nuptial couch! Did she like to see three officers bouncing about on her nuptial couch? What an Alcestis! She sipped sweet port! It had been put into her hand by the soft, dark, armless major! — The shouting officer slapped Tietjens violently on the back. The officer shouted:

“I’ve picked up a skirt…. A proper little bit of fluff, sir!”

Her jealousy was assuaged. Her lids felt cold. They had been wet for an instant or so: the moisture had cooled! It’s salt of course!… She belonged to this unit! She was attached to him… for rations and discipline. So she was attached to it. Oh, happy day! Happy, happy day!… There was a song with words like that. She had never expected to see it. She had never expected…

Little Aranjuez came up to her. His eyes were soft, like a deer’s, his voice and little hands caressing…. No he had only one eye! Oh dreadful! He said:

“You are the Major’s dear friend… He made a sonnet in two and a half minutes!” He meant to say that Tietjens had saved his life.

She said:

“Isn’t he wonderful!” Why?

He said:

“He can do anything! Anything!… He ought to have been…”

A gentlemanly officer with an eye-glass wandered in…. Of course they had left the front door open. He said with an exquisite’s voice:

“Hullo, Major! Hullo, Monty!… Hullo, the Pals!” and strolled to the mantelpiece to take a glass. They all yelled, “Hullo, Duck-foot…. Hullo, Brassface!” He took his glass delicately and said: “Here’s to hoping!… The mess!”

Aranjuez said:

“Our only V.C….” Swift jealousy went through her.

Aranjuez said:

“I say… that he…” Good boy! Dear boy! Dear little brother!… Where was her own brother? Perhaps they were not going to be on terms any more! All around them the world was roaring. They were doing their best to make a little roaring unit there, the tide creeping into silent places!

The thin woman in black on the dais was looking at them. She drew her skirts together. Aranjuez had his little hands up as if he were going to lay them pleadingly on her breast. Why pleadingly?… Begging her to forget his hideous eye-socket. He said:

“Wasn’t it splendid…, wasn’t it ripping of Nancy to marry me like this?… We shall all be such friends.”

The thin woman caught her eye. She seemed more than ever to draw her skirts away though she never moved…. That was because she, Valentine, was Tietjens’ mistress…. There’s a picture in the National Gallery called Titian’s Mistress…. She passed perhaps with them all for having… The woman smiled at her, a painfully forced smile. For Armistice…. She, Valentine, was outside the pale. Except for holidays and days of National rejoicing….

She felt… nakedish, at her left side. Sure enough Tietjens was gone. He had taken McKechnie to shave. The man with the eye-glass looked critically round the shouting room. He fixed her and bore towards her. He stood over, his legs wide apart. He said:

“Hey! Hullo! Who’d have thought of seeing you here? Met you at the Prinseps’. Friend of friend Hun’s, aren’t you?” He said:

“Hullo, Aranjuez! Better?”

It was like a whale speaking to a shrimp: but still more like an uncle speaking to a favourite nephew! Aranjuez blushed with sheer pleasure. He faded away as if in awe before tremendous eminences. For him she too