Mark read over her shoulder: “ ‘Wir haben in der Transcendentalen Aesthetik hinreichend bewiesen.’ Do it in English.”
“ ‘In the Transcendental Aesthetic we have sufficiently proved that all that is perceived in space or time, and with it all objects of any experience possible to us are mere Vorstellungen—Vorstellungen—ideas—presentations, which, so far as they are presented, whether as extended things or series of changes, have no existence grounded in themselves outside our thoughts—’ ”
“Why have you taken to that dreadful stodge?”
“I’m driven to it. It’s like drink; once you begin you’ve got to go on.”
“What on earth made you begin?”
“I wanted to know things—to know what’s real and what isn’t, and what’s at the back of everything, and whether there is anything there or not. And whether you can know it or not. And how you can know anything at all, anyhow. I’d give anything … Are you listening?”
“Yes, Minky, you’d give anything—”
“I’d give everything—everything I possess—to know what the Thing-in-itself is.”
“I’d rather know Arabic. Or how to make a gun that would find its own range and feed itself with bullets sixty to the minute.”
“That would be only knowing a few; more things. I want the thing. Reality, Substance, the Thing-in-itself. Spinoza calls it God. Kant doesn’t; but he seems to think it’s all the God you’ll ever get, and that, even then, you can’t know it. Transcendental Idealism is just another sell.”
“Supposing,” Mark said, “there isn’t any God at all.”
“Then I’d rather know that than go on thinking there was one when there wasn’t.”
“But you’d feel sold?”
“Sort of sold. But it’s the risk—the risk that makes it so exciting … Why? Do you think there isn’t any God?”
“I’m afraid I think there mayn’t be.”
“Oh, Mark—and you went to the Sacrament. You ate it and drank it.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“You don’t believe in it any more than I do.”
“I never said anything about believing in it.”
“You ate and drank it.”
“Poor Jesus said he wanted you to do that and remember him. I did it and remembered Jesus.”
“I don’t care. It was awful of you.”
“Much more awful to spoil Mamma’s pleasure in God and Jesus. I did it to make her happy. Somebody had to go with her. You wouldn’t, so I did … It doesn’t matter, Minky. Nothing matters except Mamma.”
“Truth matters. You’d die rather than lie or do anything dishonourable. Yet that was dishonourable.”
“I’d die rather than hurt Mamma … If you make her unhappy, Minky, I shall hate you.”
V
“You can’t go in that thing.”
They were going to the Sutcliffes’ dance. Mamma hadn’t told Mark she didn’t like them. She wanted Mark to go to the dance. He had said Morfe was an awful hole and it wasn’t good for you to live in it.
The frock was black muslin, ironed out. Mamma’s black net Indian scarf, dotted with little green and scarlet flowers, was drawn tight over her hips to hide the place that Catty had scorched with the iron. The heavy, brilliant, silk-embroidered ends, green and scarlet, hung down behind. She felt exquisitely light and slender.
Mamma was shaking her head at Mark as he stared at you.
“If you knew,” he said, “what you look like … That’s the way the funny ladies dress in the bazaars—If you’d only take that awful thing off.”
“She can’t take it off,” Mamma said. “He’s only teasing you.”
Funny ladies in the bazaars—Funny ladies in the bazaars. Bazaars were Indian shops … Shopgirls … Mark didn’t mean shopgirls, though. You could tell that by his face and by Mamma’s … Was that what you really looked like? Or was he teasing? Perhaps you would tell by Mrs. Sutcliffe’s face. Or by Mr. Sutcliffe’s.
Their faces were nicer than ever. You couldn’t tell. They would never let you know if anything was wrong.
Mrs. Sutcliffe said, “What a beautiful scarf you’ve got on, my dear.”
“It’s Mamma’s. She gave it me.” She wanted Mrs. Sutcliffe to know that Mamma had beautiful things and that she would give them. The scarf was beautiful. Nothing could take from her the feeling of lightness and slenderness she had in it.
Her programme stood: Nobody. Nobody. Norman Waugh. Dr. Charles. Mr. Sutcliffe. Mr. Sutcliffe. Nobody. Nobody again, all the way down to Mr. Sutcliffe, Mr. Sutcliffe, Mr. Sutcliffe. Then Mark. Mr. Sutcliffe had wanted the last dance, the polka; but she couldn’t give it him. She didn’t want to dance with anybody after Mark.
The big, long dining-room was cleared; the floor waxed. People had come from Reyburn and Durlingham. A hollow square of faces. Faces round the walls. Painted faces hanging above them: Mr. Sutcliffe’s ancestors looking at you.
The awful thing was she didn’t know how to dance. Mark said you didn’t have to know. It would be all right. Perhaps it would come, suddenly, when you heard the music. Supposing it came like skating, only after you had slithered a lot and tumbled down?
The feeling of lightness and slenderness had gone. Her feet stuck to the waxed floor as if they were glued there. She was frightened.
It had begun. Norman Waugh was dragging her round the room. Once. Twice. She hated the feeling of his short, thick body moving a little way in front of her. She hated his sullen bull’s face, his mouth close to hers, half open, puffing. From the walls Mr. Sutcliffe’s ancestors looked at you as you shambled round, tied tight in your Indian scarf, like a funny lady in the bazaars. Raised eyebrows. Quiet, disdainful faces. She was glad when Norman Waugh left her on the window-seat.
Dr. Charles next. He was kind. You trod on his feet and he pretended he had trodden on yours.
“My dancing days are over.”
“And mine haven’t begun.”
They sat out and she watched Mark. He didn’t dance very well: he danced tightly and stiffly as if he didn’t like it; but he danced: with Miss Frewin and Miss Louisa Wright, because nobody else would; with the Acroyds because Mrs. Sutcliffe made
