# After Noon (Ertz)/Chapter 5

THE Lester family had one peculiarity. They liked getting up early. Early rising had never been a hardship for Charles, who had always found that life went too quickly for him. He complained that it streamed by like the landscape from a train window. He vastly preferred a long day to a short one. The girls had inherited or otherwise acquired this view, so that the three of them were usually to be found at the breakfast table at or shortly after eight o'clock. If Venetia had had a late night she preferred making it up the following night.
Caroline liked early rising because she was determined to enjoy whatever was strenuous, or hard, or ascetic, or the reverse of luxurious. It was a small and secret annoyance to her that Charles and Venetia, both of whom loved comfort and the good things of life, got up early because they liked it. It seemed to her that they were trespassing on her preserves. She would have liked to be the only one in the house who wouldn't dream of lying in bed after half-past seven.
​On Sunday mornings they breakfasted at half-past eight. On the Sunday morning following Charles's meeting with Mrs. Chalmers, he took the opportunity of telling the girls about her while they were at the table. They were mildly interested. It was their habit never to think anything very surprising.
"Do take her out, father," said Venctia. "You're becoming a misogynist. It'll be good for you."
Charles said somewhat violently that he was becoming nothing of the sort. He said it was because he loved the society of women so much, and admired them so deeply that he thought it better to see little of them.
"I am full of the most exquisite illusions about them," he said, "all of which I wish to preserve."
"Well, after bringing up two daughters," observed Venetia, "I don't see how you can have any."
"Daughters aren't women," Charles replied.
"Is she intelligent?" asked Caroline.
Charles, knowing very well what Caroline meant by intelligence, said no, she wasn't.
"She's like you," he said maliciously. "She has merely a pliable and adaptable female mind. I much prefer that."
Caroline smiled faintly, and made no reply. ​She had said nothing as yet about her news. She was keeping it until it should burst with its own ripeness in its own time.
She was much fairer than Venetia, and her features were less soft and rounded. She was less graceful, too, and lacked Venetia's physical charm. She was quite conscious of this and thought of it with a sort of pride. She wanted not so much to attract as to startle people by her honesty, her modernism, and the clarity and penetration of her mind. She had the same pure and entirely misleading look of innocence about her forehead and eyes that her sister had, but Caroline strove to achieve an expression of austerity and aloofness.
On her dressing-table was a box of face powder of the cheaper sort which had, Venetia noticed, been nearly empty for months. She suspected her of eking it out by small and furtive helpings from her own store, which was of a vastly superior quality. But Caroline used no other aids to beauty. She possessed no rouge, no lip salve, no eyebrow pencil; she used no Chypre, beloved of Venetia, and made by Coty; no fragrant bath salts or bath powder, but only honest and unperfumed soap. She scrubbed herself as though she hated her body, and bought extra rough towels with which to dry herself. Her bed was of enamelled iron, with cheap, uncomfortable springs. She cared little for clothes and gave little thought to them, ​but she considered her own taste instinctive and infallible. She was tremendously interested in her own development and her own personality, and was glad that she was healthy, young, and sufficiently attractive, because she thought that all these things would render her more useful to the cause she had adopted.
She was sympathetic towards Venetia's work, but she wanted her to spell it with a capital W, which annoyed her sister. She thought Venetia ought to dedicate it to humanity in some way, and do symbolic, heroic figures with a deep significance, and call them "Motherhood," "The Worker," "Brotherhood," etc., while Venetia was content to model little figures for gardens and fountains, and not call them anything at all.
Charles delighted in this difference between his daughters. When they were still babies he used to fear that they might grow up, being twins, monotonously alike, but before they were three this fear was dispelled for ever. He responded to both of them. He thought he understood both of them. He loved them equally, but he couldn't help paying a deep and secret homage to the greater beauty and charm of his daughter Venetia.
During breakfast there was, thanks to Mrs. Chalmers, a good deal of talk of America. Charles made the assertion that on the subject of America they were as ignorant as Marie in ​the kitchen, and that on the whole their education had been an expensive waste of time.
To refute this unjust accusation they both began telling him what they knew. He said he would listen to Caroline first.
Caroline said that she looked upon America as one of the backward countries, from the Socialistic point of view. Labour, she said, was notoriously badly organised and had little or no political power. In other respects she pictured it, somewhat vaguely, as very rich and very ready, in a generous but misguided way, to pour out money for sentimental causes without troubling to combat the diseases at the roots of these causes. She considered America, she said, the breeding ground of Capitalism. She succeeded in naming eleven states, six presidents, two rivers, and five cities. She wanted very much, she said, to visit Chicago—which she pronounced with a hard C, in spite of Charles's protest—New York, and Salt Lake City. But particularly Chicago. When pressed for reasons, she gave it out that somewhere in Chicago lived one of the shining lights of her and the Robinsons' world. A man who would some day "lead the Workers to Victory." She couldn't, or wouldn't, divulge his name. She made the mistake of thinking that Honolulu was part of California. It annoyed her to be caught out in this fashion, and she blushed.
​"Anyway," she said, "you go to it from California. It's years since I studied a map. I don't seem to have time."
Venetia's account was more spirited. She had a more vivid imagination than Caroline.
She could see New York, she said, quite plainly, in her mind's eye. Through the whole length of it there ran that wonderful street, Fifth Avenue, with millionaires' palaces at one end and the Bowery at the other, and, of course, marvellous shops in between.
"I wish to goodness someone would turn me loose in New York," she said, "with a thousand pounds."
"You're quite lose enough," said Charles. "Go on."
"You can tell exactly how much money people have," she continued, "according to how near or at which end of Fifth Avenue they live. They live chiefly in the side-streets, of course, unless they're millionaires, and actually live on it. If you live on the East side and at the right end, you're rich and chic. If you live on the West side and at the right end, you're only rich. If you don't do either, you might as well be dead."
"Absurd," said Charles. "Stick to facts, if you know any."
She went on to say that there was Long Island not far distant where they played polo, and there ​were lovely summer resorts, like Newport and Coney Island and Bar Harbour. Charles abolished Coney Island as a summer resort. And there were charming winter resorts like Florida, for instance, which was something like Monte Carlo."
"It happens to be an enormous State," Charles observed.
"Of course," said Caroline. "I meant to include it in my list of States. That's twelve I know."
Venetia said it was quite easy to know it after she'd mentioned it. She named three more States than Caroline and two more cities. She had heard a good deal about a State called Tex-ass, which she said could produce anything from palms and alligators to Siberian snows and strawberries.
"It's the place," she said, recalling a young American she had admired at seventeen, "for two-fisted he-men. It's Gawd's country. A lot of places claim to be, I know, but Tex-ass really is."
"Come, come," said Charles, "enough of that. What do you know, if anything, of the Government of the United States? I'll hear from both at once."
Much confusion existed in their minds as to the two Washingtons. They imagined that the country was governed from the upper left-hand corner, where, with surprising accuracy, they placed the ​State of that name. They thought it very unfair that the city should flourish independently at the extreme opposite corner of the map. Caroline said that she was really very glad to have been put right about this.
There was, they told him, a body called the House of Representatives, which was something like the House of Commons; and then there was the Senate, which they supposed was more like the House of Lords. Venetia said they didn't wait for the President to be hoofed out, "as our premiers are hoofed out," whenever there was a political crisis; they elected them every four years, anyway. She thought it a much tidier system.
"How many Presidents do you know?" Charles asked her.
"I once shook hands with Mr. Taft," said Venetia, "but I can hardly say I know him."
"The ignorance of my daughters," said Charles, pretending not to be amused, "is as a grievous weight upon me."
Venetia seemed more than usually happy that morning. Charles asked her if she had enjoyed her evening, and she said that it had been absolutely divine. He suspected that she was fonder of Clive Cary than of any of her other young men, but he placed little importance on the fact. There would be dozens of young men yet. Suddenly he remembered Caroline's note.
​"Caroline, who's this you've asked to dinner to-morrow night? Anyone I know?"
He saw Venetia look quickly and with some surprise at her sister.
"It's Phil Robinson—the Robinsons' son. If you'd like me to put him off because of Mrs. Chalmers, I'll ask him another night."
"No, no," Charles hastened to say. "Let him come by all means."
"Good!" said Venetia. "Then I can ask Clive. I did ask him as a matter of fact."
"Then we'll have an even number," Charles said. "But I never knew before that the Robinsons had a son."
"I haven't known him well until fairly lately," Caroline told him. "He's been abroad. He's extraordinarily clever."
"In what way?" demanded Venetia.
"He does a great deal of public speaking, and he runs a number of boys' clubs, and he's been to Russia as a Labour delegate. He's only twenty-six."
"Is he good-looking?" inquired Venetia.
Caroline answered, looking austere: "I don't know. I never thought about it."
"Heavens, you must be in love!" exclaimed her sister.
Charles felt a sudden pang. This was the first time that Caroline had shown enough inter​est in a man to ask him to dinner. Had he been leaving her too much to her own devices? He hated asking questions. And then, his dread sharpened, he remembered that she had said she had news for him.
"Was that your news?" he asked. "You said last night . . ."
"Oh, no. I've been waiting for you to ask about that. I've been invited to join the regular staff of the Daily Vanguard."
"My dear girl!" cried Charles with mixed feelings. "When did this happen?"
"I heard about it yesterday."
"That beastly little rag!" exclaimed Venetia. "You can't expect me to rejoice over that."
"I don't. I only thought you might be interested."
"Well, I am interested. Only I suppose it means father will have to go bail for you one of these days. Why couldn't you get put on a decent paper?"
"The only paper you think is decent is the Morning Post," retorted Caroline. "And I don't think they'd care for my articles."
"Come, no politics," protested Charles. "It isn't every girl of twenty who gets a job on the staff of a daily paper."
"It isn't every girl of twenty, or over, who's red enough for the Vanguard," Venetia retorted.
​"Well, I admit I think it needs toning down," said Charles. "It's pitched in too high and hysterical a key for me. But when there are only two or three tenors and about forty loudly booming basses, one must expect a certain straining of the vocal chords on the part of the few . . ."
Caroline said nothing, but little darts played about the corners of her mouth. Her secret amusement annoyed Venetia, who finished her breakfast quickly and excused herself, saying as she went out of the room:
"All the same, you'll get disgustingly one-sided. You haven't even been using my face powder lately. I knew it was a bad sign."
When she had gone Caroline said: "I don't think Venetia is looking particularly well. The vitiated air of ball-rooms and night clubs can't be very good for her."
"I dare say it's as good as the vitiated air of crowded political meetings," said Charles, who always liked justice to be done. "And she gets the exercise thrown in."
"Perhaps," agreed Caroline, defeated on that point. "But it seems a hopeless waste of time for a girl with Venetia's intelligence."
Charles observed, by way of changing the subject:
"As we'll be six on Monday night, I think ​we'd better get Mrs. Cramp in, to help Marie in the kitchen."
"Must we make a fuss, father? It seems to me quite unnecessary to have Mrs. Cramp. I'll get King to come and wait on the table as usual. I do hate the idea of making a to-do over a few guests. It savours too much of the bourgeoisie."
"For God's sake, Caroline," cried Charles, "not that word, I implore you! You know how I loathe it."
Caroline flushed. The word had slipped out, and she was a little ashamed. It was much in use at the Robinsons', but here it was folly to use it. Also she had used it in a way she had not intended.
"Well, you know what I mean. The black-coated proletariat. Perhaps you prefer that. But we'll have Mrs. Cramp if you like."
"I don't care about Mrs. Cramp. What I do insist on is that you refrain from using those overworked words, 'bourgeoisie,' 'proletariat,' and 'wage-slaves.' They offend my ears."
"If these things exist—and they do—why shouldn't we name them?"
"I hate all these parrot cries," he said.
"I first heard them from you."
"Yes, yes, I know. I was younger then. I apologise."
"You've changed a lot lately, father."
​"Nonsense! I haven't changed at all. In what way? You mean because I've modified my views somewhat in the last ten years."
"More than modified them. Changed them. And quite lately."
"No, only modified them. And you must remember that in my younger days I was rather bitter. I was a fool to be bitter. Bitterness is nothing but the acknowledgment of defeat."
"But there are millions who are defeated and must acknowledge it, and have every right to be bitter."
"Then at least let us consider that sad fact without being bitter ourselves."
Caroline pushed back her chair. Her blue eyes flashed.
"Well, I'm bitter," she said, "and I'm glad of it. If I weren't, do you suppose I'd write the articles I do, or work for the Daily Vanguard?"
"You're wrong then," said Charles. "That's why I'm afraid you people will defeat your own ends. Your motive power ought to be love, not bitterness. Love, and pity."
"Love!" she cried. She stood up, facing him across the table, and he saw the contempt in her face. "Love!"
"Well," said Charles.
"Love!" she cried again. "Nearly two thousand years ago it was said that the world could ​be redeemed through love. Well, look at the world. It's more selfish, more cruel, more pitiless, more lustful than ever before."
"Not nearly so cruel, my dear," Charles interrupted her, but she paid no attention to him.
"That's all the good love has done. I tell you, father, what's wanted now is hatred, whitehot and bitter, and intolerance. Intolerance of what's unfair and unjust. Yes, bitterness and intolerance are what's wanted now. Love! It's nothing but selfishness, and sentiment, and greed. It makes me sick."
Charles looked at her, amazed.
"Don't talk to me about love," she cried, her eyes blazing.
"You're talking rot, my darling," said Charles.
"I'm talking against rot," she retorted, and went towards the door.
"Too little love," said Charles, reaching for the Sunday paper, "is what's wrong with the world, and always has been."
"Sunday school talk!" she said.
"I could almost wish I had sent you to Sunday school," he replied.
"You fed us quite enough soothing syrups as it was," she said. "Well, I must leave you now. I've got some letters to write." The door closed behind her.
Charles laughed.
​"Venetia," he said to himself, "accuses me of being too radical. Caroline of being too conservative. The truth must be that I am exactly right. That's very comforting indeed."
He lit a cigarette and thought over what Caroline had said. Presently he got up and went thoughtfully into his library, where he sat down in his armchair, the paper unopened on his knee. This, of course, was a phase. Caroline was probably quoting opinions she had lately heard—from the Robinsons, no doubt. But there was the usual grain of truth in it all.
What was there in all this talk about love? The word had a hypnotic quality. It might be love that made the world go round—but what an evil place, take it all in all, it still was, full of men like wild beasts, on the prowl.
Take the love of man for woman. He had loved Brenda, loved her wholly, with everything there was in him for those few years, and yet she wasn't even a decent savage, with a decent savage's instincts. She had deserted her young, without a second thought. What had been the good of that love? Was he any the better for it? Was she? She had said she loved him. An obvious lie. He had merely answered her purposes. They had sworn to love, honour and obey each other, till death did them part. More lies. If he saw her now he wouldn't cross the ​street to speak to her. He loved his children, and yet in all probability he had not dealt well with them. Perhaps someone who loved them less could have equipped them better for life.
Love, he told himself, was too uncertain, too much at the mercy of circumstance, too variable, too delicate, too unfathomable. "Passion is real enough," thought Charles, "hatred, as Caroline says, is real enough, intolerance and bitterness are real." For a moment it seemed to him that Caroline was right.
"At any rate," he said to himself, "I will never risk love again. It's all too painful, too misleading, and the death of love is the most agonising thing in the world. I love my daughters. I must always love them, whatever they do or become. Nothing can alter that. But I will never love anyone else. Thank God I've done with all that."
Once more he surveyed his present life, and found that it was good. He wanted nothing changed. He looked out of the window at the bare bones of the fig tree in the garden and felt an affection even for it.
It was pleasurable, too, to anticipate the next day's work. Its problems engaged his thoughts only during working hours. At other times he was able to put them wholly out of his mind. He was fortunate, he knew, in having found an occu​pation that was congenial to him. It gave him a very definite satisfaction, especially as it had to do with the certainty, and the changelessness, and the honest inviolability of numbers.
If there had been a goddess of numbers, he would have worshipped at her altar. She would have been the sort of woman from whom he could feel he had nothing to fear.