Armed with Madness

harmony. Until they had forgotten unity, harvest ahead of vintage; forgotten that there could be any condition but emulation, advantage, and personal success. She despised herself because she had not the clean surgery to cut out memory and hope. As the story of the house could not be told without the wood, the house-party could not be described without the cup. As well talk politics to Picus as speak of the cup with Philip in the room.

“What happened down South?” said Lydia. “London makes me ache for it. I hear the waves turning over⁠—don’t interrupt, Phil⁠—and the branches turning round in the wood.” Scylla thought: Concentrate on Carston. Make him funny⁠—with the fun left out. Nothing that she said held together, who had Picus and under Gault to tell to the proper person to hear it, sœur douce amie. Lydia must know that because of Philip she could not tell. Lydia had refused to dine alone with her. Scylla did not know the stupid scene he had made when Lydia had tried to go, until he had made love to her, and snatched a promise she did not dare break.

Lydia knew and was not consoled. There might be news of Clarence. She was a jealous woman. Scylla had had Clarence to herself: had looked up at Philip, smiling. Already she knew what she had married, what they would become. Soon she would not be with Scylla’s people, or even in their world. And Scylla stayed in and walked out of it so airily. Soft, bitter, little laps of farseeing. The quickest thing to do was hate, before it was taken out of her in sorrow. Hadn’t Scylla come to triumph? Her husband’s delicious voice and vulgar accent enchanted and fretted her. His words and the beauty of his wrist as he lit Scylla’s cigarette. How could she keep him? And keep him Phil? Be sure of him and improve him? Possible or impossible, it was not her job. Who should have been advising Scylla, correcting and fortifying her.

Exasperated, the lion’s paw fell, claws astretch.

What follows can be as well represented operatically⁠—it began:

Philip	Recitative. “Lydia and I are often thinking of you, Scylla⁠—and I’m sure you won’t take us up wrong.”
Lydia	“We were both thinking if it is quite the thing for you to be there alone with all those men!”
Scylla	Song. “Felix is my chaperone, chaperone,” etc.
Philip and Lydia	Duet. “In the end it does not do, does not do, People know you for that kind of woman.”
Scylla	“What sort of a woman?”
Philip and Lydia	Recit. “We feel it since we married. It does not do, it does not do, to go against society.”
Philip	“I’ve seen a good deal of the world, you know⁠—perhaps not quite the same society as yours, but⁠—”
Philip, Lydia and Scylla	Trio. “People say⁠—”
	“What do they say?”
	“You know the things they say.”
	“What have they said?”
	“We’d rather not tell you and go into details.”
	“Go into details!”
	“You’re doing it for my good.”
Philip and Lydia	Duet. “Of course we are, of course we are. We wouldn’t hurt your feelings, But⁠—”
Philip	“I’m so fond of you, Scylla.”
Lydia	“We’re so fond of you, Scylla. But⁠— We’ve found it out, we’ve found it out. The world has reason on its side.”
Scylla	Solo. “What is the world? Lydia’s world was my world, And I don’t know Philip’s world. What reason has the world got, anyhow?”
Philip and Lydia	Anthem. “It does not do. It does not do.”
Philip and Scylla	Duet. “What good do these men do to you?” “What good do I do them?”
Philip and Lydia	Quick recitative. “But can’t you consider that everyone thinks that you sleep with each other in turn?”
Philip, Lydia and Scylla	Trio. “Including my brother?”
	“Now, Scylla, be decent!”
	“I am learning behaviour from you.”
	“You’re so young, So attractive⁠—”
	“I am several years older than you.”
Lydia	“You were always a baby.”
Philip	“And always the lady.”

Philip really said that, and when Scylla giggled, the string that tied them burned through and snapped. She remembered Picus at home: under Gault. A cup in a well: in a house. Out of India: in a book out of no man’s land.

A shore like that, my dear,
Lies where no man will steer,
No maiden-land.

Most men steer there, and away before they have properly landed. “Land me where my friend and her fancy-man are waiting to bite.” She noticed how they hunted a single line as a double technique⁠—Lydia wanting to find out, Philip to defame. It infuriated her that she should be hurt.

Lydia was saying:

“I am awfully fond of those boys, Scylla, but they’re mal vus.”

“What is that?” (Don’t defend.)

“Well, you know⁠—”

“No, I don’t. Try again.”

Lydia did:

“Why did you break up so soon? You said Felix had gone to Paris and you don’t seem to know about the others. Where’s Clarence?”

If she knew even that, she would have something to keep the old heartbreak company.

Philip was saying:

“Scylla, why don’t you marry Clarence: People say he’s a beauty, and it’s time you picked up a husband⁠—”

“She wouldn’t,” said Lydia⁠—“despises Clarence. But she can’t go on like this.”

“Go on like what?” Philip answered her.

“You know what people say about a set with no real men in it.”

“What is a real man?”

“They don’t amount to anything, and you know it. I’ve seen the world in my little way, and that sort don’t count. I think I’ve got Lydia out of that kind of thing. We mean to make a good business of things as we find them. Can’t finnick about with white hands, old standards, and fancy words these days. Don’t mean to, do we? And we shan’t get into quite the messes we might find if you asked us down South. Perhaps that’s why you don’t. And, honestly, I don’t know if I’d let Lydia go⁠—”

“If you mean that you’d find Ross having an affair with Nanna, you can go and look.”

Philip went on:

“You