The Innocent Moon Read Online Free PDF Page B

Spica, returning to his side. “Do you feel all right? It’s rather hot up here, isn’t it. Would you like to leave?”
    “Oh, no ! Don’t you love it?”
    “Of course I do! But I am thinking of you.”
    Even the happiest friends have within themselves a loneliness of the soul, because the soul must always sing alone. The artist is not conceited, as some people think of me: the artist is a trustee of the spirit which dwells in the temporary abode of his body.
    The next day he went to see her off at Victoria station. She was to leave by the 11 o’clock boat train; but at the last moment she jumped off, saying she would catch the next train. They walked on the Embankment, and soon the time came for her to return to Victoria; then it was too late, and they went into the Tate Gallery, and sat looking at the pictures, but seeing only the image of one another under the opaque glass roof. Luncheon at a chop house in a side street was followed by an idea of going down the Thames from Westminster pier to Greenwich, for it was such a lovely day. So another telegram was sent off, saying Arriving tonight. They walked through the Naval Museum, seeing the pale blue uniform of Nelson, and her eyes were large and sad when Phillip said, with the recklessness of knowledge that he now had a hole in his ribs again, “Lucky man. Nelson went at the right moment.”
    “But think of Emma Hamilton, who loved him!”
    “Love is an illusion.”
    “It makes the world go round, anyway,” she said, her face showing a delicate pink.
    “And what a world!”
    “A beautiful world, when there are people in it like Nelson—and Stravinsky! Why are you so bitter, Phillip?”
    “My life is half truth, half lie.”
    “So is everybody’s, only few know it!” She touched his hand. “Don’t be bitter, I can’t bear it.”
    “Now I’ve mucked up your day—as well as keeping you from your parents!”
    “Not at all. I decided to stay, because I wanted to. After all, I am nineteen years old!”
    “A child. I’m twenty-five! And I’m not at all bitter, really.”
    “I’ve never known anyone so young—if he will only give himself a chance!”
    They walked in Greenwich Park, and his depression gave place to a kind of exultation that he had triumphed over her, and yet with his uprising spirits was a sense of fear; which became longing entwined with pain when, standing by the 8 o’clock train, she told him that after the week-end she would be returning to the laboratory at Cambridge, and was looking forward to the May Week college balls.
    “You know a lot of undergraduates, I suppose?”
    “Not a lot, but I have one or two friends up at the university.”
    “What sort of work do you do in the lab.?”
    “I look after mice infected with syphilis, among other duties. I’ve got a tame mouse with me, would you like to see him? I call him Nig. Don’t worry!” she said, seeing Phillip’s face. “Nig’s not contaminated!”
    She opened a bag, which was loosely strapped to allow entry of air, and took from a perforated box a silky grey mouse and put it on her shoulder. It sat up and washed its face.
    “Sign of release of anxiety through action,” he said.
    Doors were being shut, the guard was unfurling his green flag. An elderly man in a bowler hat was hurrying to find a seat, and passing them, stared at the mouse, then lifted his umbrella as though to strike it.
    “Don’t worry,” said Phillip, with mock affability, “this is Nig, a Burns scholar at Cambridge. Nig’s great ancestor helped Burns to write that poem. His great ambition is to make this a Land Fit for Wee, Tim’rous beasties.”
    The man walked away, with bulging eyes. “Well, have a good time in May Week, Spica. I shall be having my annual holiday then, and hope to explore the West Country.”
    “I hope we meet again,” she said. “Please tell me before I go. Did you have ‘Twinkle’ shot for desertion?”
    “No. I was nearly shot for desertion myself, or might