curiosity, that somehow, in some way, she was in extremis. 1 poured out the brandy.
We sat in silence for a while. The room was beginning to seem abnormally dark. Perhaps some of the fog had drifted in from outside. One of the candles began to flicker, and its flame foundered sizzling in a sea of melted wax. As I saw it go I felt frightened and then wondered if I had rightly identified the thing which clutched at my heart.
I said to Honor Klein, 'You didn't waste much time in having me brought to justice.'
She kept her eyes on the candles and smiled very slightly. 'Was it unpleasant?'
'I don't know,' I said. 'I suppose so. Everything is so unpleasant nowadays it's hard to tell.' I found I could talk to her with remarkable directness. Our conversations were refreshingly lacking in formality. As I spoke I reached out automatically towards the sword, which lay with the blunt-ended scabbard towards me; but Honor Klein drew it away a little and I left my hand upon the table to fiddle with the bread crumbs.
I wondered if I should ask her why she had made Georgie confess, but found that I could not bring myself to do so. A nervous shrinking which was not exactly dislike made me hesitate to probe the motives of such a being. Therewith some vague yet powerful train of thought led me to say, 'I'm a broken reed after all.'
I was not sure why I said this, but some subterranean affinity with the thoughts of my companion must have prompted it, for she replied at once, 'Yes. It doesn't matter.'
We both sighed. My hand moved restlessly upon the table. I began to stare at the sword and to want very much to get hold of it. Honor was holding it in a possessive predatory way, her two hands on the scabbard, like a large animal holding down a small one. She faced the candles looking pale and rather haggard, her eyes screwed up as against a great light, and I tried in vain to detect what it was, other than a certain elusive air of authority, which made her resemble her brother; for the fact was that Palmer was beautiful while she was very nearly ugly. I contemplated her sallow cheek which shone dully like wax, and the black gleaming hair, oily, straight, and brutally short. She was a subject for Goya. Only the curve of her nostril and the curve of her mouth hinted, with a Jewish strength, a possible Jewish refinement. I said, 'Is the sword yours?' and as I spoke I put my hand on the end of the scabbard.
She stared a little and said, 'Yes. It's a Japanese Samurai sword, a very fine one. I used to have a great interest in Japan. I worked there for a time.' She drew the sword away again.
'You were with Palmer in Japan?'
'Yes.' She spoke as out of a deep dream.
I wanted her to know that I was present. I said, 'May I see the sword?'
I thought for a moment that she was going to ignore me. But she turned towards me as if taking thought. Then she twisted the thing about on the polished surface of the table. I expected her to offer me the hilt, but instead, as I reached for it, she took the hilt in her own hand and with a swift movement drew the sword from the scabbard. At the same time she rose to her feet.
The sword came out with a swishing clattering sound and disturbed candles flashed for a moment in the blade. She laid the scabbard on the table and let the blade descend more slowly until it lay along her thigh. Its bright surface showed against the dark material of her dress as with head bowed she gazed down along its slightly curving length.
When she spoke her voice was dry. She might have been in the lecture room. 'In Japan these swords are practically religious objects. They are forged not only with great care but with great reverence. And the use of them is not merely an art but a spiritual exercise.'
'So I have heard,' I said. I moved her chair out of the way so as to see her better and made myself comfortable, crossing one leg over the other. 'I am not attracted by the idea of decapitating people as a spiritual exercise.'
Somewhere, seeming at first to be inside my head, I heard a small sound. Then I realized it was a very distant peal of church bells; and I brought to mind that it was New Year's Eve. Some nearer bells took up the peal. We both listened for a moment in silence. Soon it would be the turn of the year.
Honor let the sword droop towards the floor. She said, 'Being a Christian, you connect spirit with love. These people connect it with control, with power.'
'What do you connect it with?'
She shrugged her shoulders. 'I am a Jew.'
'But you believe in the dark gods,' I said.
'I believe in people,' said Honor Klein. It was a rather unexpected reply.
I said, 'You sound rather like a fox saying it believes in geese.'
She laughed suddenly, and with that she laid her other hand upon the hilt and drew the sword upward with surprising swiftness to describe a great arc at the level of her head. It made a sound like a whip moving. The point came down within an inch of the arm of my chair and then descended again to the floor. I resisted an impulse to move back. I said, 'You can use it?'
'I studied it for several years in Japan, but I never got beyond the beginning.'
'Show me something,' I said. I wanted to see her moving again.
She said, 'I am not a performer,' and turned away again towards the table. In the distance the church bells continued their mathematical jargoning.
The remnants of Palmer and Antonia's dinner lay derelict under the falling candles. She drew towards her their two crumpled table napkins and looked at them thoughtfully. Then with one hand she tossed one of the napkins high in the air into the darkness of the high-ceilinged room. As it descended the sword was already moving with immense speed. The two halves of the napkin fluttered to the floor. She threw up the other napkin and decapitated it. I picked up one of the pieces. It was cleanly cut.
As I held it, looking up at her, I suddenly recalled the scene in the drawing-room when I had first seen Honor Klein confronting the other two like a young and ruthless captain. I laid the piece of linen on the table and said, 'That was a good trick.'
'It was not a trick,' said Honor. She had been standing before me, still holding the hilt in a two-handed grip, and looking down at one of the severed napkins. I saw that she was breathing deeply. Now she moved her chair back to the table and sat down. For a moment or two she lifted the sword, moving it as if it had become very heavy, and cooled her forehead on the blade, turning her head slowly against it with a caressing motion. Then she laid it down again on the table, still keeping one hand on the hilt. I looked at the corded hilt, long and dark, continuing the gentle sinister backward curve of the blade, the inner casing, which seemed like snake-skin, decorated with silver flowers, appearing through the diamond-shaped slits of the black cordage. Her large pale hand was firmly closed about it. I felt an intense desire to take the sword from her, but something prevented me. I put my hand on the blade, moving it up towards the hilt and feeling the cutting edge. It was hideously sharp. My hand stopped. The blade felt as if it were charged with electricity and I had to let go. No longer now attending to me she moved the sword back and laid it across her knees in the attitude of a patient executioner. I realized that the church bells had become silent and it was the New Year.
Fourteen
Antonia rang me up early in the morning. She insisted on my coming over at once, which was why I did not go to see Georgie sooner. When I arrived I found Antonia feverish, excited, very loving. I spent the whole morning with her and stayed to lunch. Palmer kept out of the way. It was a profitable morning and I felt by the end of it more at ease with Antonia than at any time since her original revelation. She certainly worked hard. She made me tell her the whole story of my relations with Georgie in detail; and although the idea of doing so had filled me, beforehand, with repulsion, when it came to it I poured it all out with relief, and as I talked Antonia held my hand. It was, with a vengeance, the intimate talk which I had promised Georgie I would never have; and as I thus betrayed her I felt an invigorating increase of my freedom.
I attempted to portray honestly to Antonia the exact state of my doubts and hesitations about Georgie, and the effort made to do so cleared my mind. Antonia was extremely sympathetic and perceptive. I could feel, and I felt it with tenderness and almost with amusement, her subtle anxiety lest I should keep anything back, lest I should, at a certain point, suddenly regret my frankness and check the flood of revelation. She wanted to know
