Charley in his candour was distressed.
This was not the Simon he had known so long.
Formerly, however wild his theories were, however provocatively expressed, there was a sort of nobility in them.
He was disinterested.
His indignation was directed against oppression and cruelty.
Injustice roused him to fury.
But Simon did not notice the effect he had on Charley or if he did was indifferent to it.
He was absorbed in himself.
“But brain isn’t enough and eloquence, even if it’s necessary, is after all a despicable gift.
Kerensky had them both and what did they avail him?
The important thing is character.
It’s my character I’ve got to mould.
I’m sure one can do anything with oneself if one tries.
It’s only a matter of will.
I’ve got to train myself so that I’m indifferent to insult, neglect and ridicule.
I’ve got to acquire a spiritual aloofness so complete that if they put me in prison I shall feel myself as free as a bird in the air.
I’ve got to make myself so strong that when I make mistakes I am unshaken, but profit by them to act rightly.
I’ve got to make myself so hard that not only can I resist the temptation to be pitiful, but I don’t even feel pity.
I’ve got to wring out of my heart the possibility of love.”
“Why?”
“I can’t afford to let my judgement be clouded by any feeling that I might have for a human being.
You are the only person I’ve ever cared for in the world, Charley.
I shan’t rest till I know in my bones that if it were necessary to put you against a wall and shoot you with my own hands I could do it without a moment’s hesitation and without a moment’s regret.”
Simon’s eyes had a dark opaqueness which reminded you of an old mirror, in a deserted house, from which the quick-silver was worn away, so that when you looked in it you saw, not yourself, but a sombre depth in which seemed to lurk the reflections of long past events and passions long since dead and yet in some terrifying way tremulous still with a borrowed and mysterious life.
“Did you wonder why I didn’t come to the station to meet you?”
“It would have been nice if you had.
I supposed you couldn’t get away.”
“I knew you’d be disappointed.
It’s our busy time at the office, we have to be on tap then to telephone to London the news that’s come through in the course of the day, but it’s Christmas Eve, the paper doesn’t come out to-morrow and I could have got away easily.
I didn’t come because I wanted to so much.
Ever since I got your letter saying you were coming over I’ve been sick with the desire to see you.
When the train was due and I knew you’d be wandering up the platform looking for me and rather lost in that struggling crowd, I took a book and began to read.
I sat there, forcing myself to attend to it, and refusing to let myself listen for the telephone that I expected every moment to ring.
And when it did and I knew it was you, my joy was so intense that I was enraged with myself.
I almost didn’t answer.
For more than two years now I’ve been striving to rid myself of the feeling I have for you.
Shall I tell you why I wanted you to come over?
One idealizes people when they’re away, it’s true that absence makes the heart grow fonder, and when one sees them again one’s often surprised that one saw anything in them at all.
I thought that if there were anything left in me of the old feeling I had for you the few days you’re spending here now would be enough to kill it.”
“I’m afraid you’ll think me very stupid,” said Charley, with his engaging smile, “but I can’t for the life of me see why you want to.”
“I do think you’re very stupid.”
“Well, taking that for granted, what is the reason?”
Simon frowned a little and his restless eyes darted here and there like a hare trying to escape a pursuer.
“You’re the only person who ever cared for me.”
“That’s not true.
My father and mother have always been very fond of you.”
“Don’t talk such nonsense.
Your father was as indifferent to me as he is to art, but it gave him a warm, comfortable feeling of benevolence to be kind to the orphan penniless boy whom he could patronize and impress.
Your mother thought me unscrupulous and self-seeking.
She hated the influence she thought I had over you and she was affronted because she saw that I thought your father an old humbug, the worst sort of humbug, the one who humbugs himself; the only satisfaction I ever gave her was that she couldn’t look at me without thinking how nice it was that you were so very different from me.”