Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

Crome Yellow
Crome Yellow
Crome Yellow
Ebook237 pages4 hours

Crome Yellow

Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars

3.5/5

()

Read preview

About this ebook

Crome Yellow is the first novel by British author Aldous Huxley. In the book, Huxley satirises the fads and fashions of the time. It is the story of a house party at Crome, a parodic version of Garsington Manor, home of Lady Ottoline Morrell, a house where authors such as Huxley and T. S. Eliot used to gather and write. The book contains a brief pre-figuring of Huxley's later novel, Brave New World. Mr. Scogan, one of the characters, describes an "impersonal generation" of the future that will "take the place of Nature's hideous system. In vast state incubators, rows upon rows of gravid bottles will supply the world with the population it requires. The family system will disappear; society, sapped at its very base, will have to find new foundations; and Eros, beautifully and irresponsibly free, will flit like a gay butterfly from flower to flower through a sunlit world." Crome Yellow is in the tradition of the English country house novel, as practised by Thomas Love Peacock, in which a diverse group of characters descend upon an estate to leech off the host. They spend most of their time eating, drinking, and holding forth on their personal intellectual conceits. There is little plot development.
LanguageEnglish
Release dateApr 17, 2017
ISBN9783961892501
Author

Aldous Huxley

Aldous Huxley (1894–1963) is the author of the classic novels Brave New World, Island, Eyeless in Gaza, and The Genius and the Goddess, as well as such critically acclaimed nonfiction works as The Perennial Philosophy and The Doors of Perception. Born in Surrey, England, and educated at Oxford, he died in Los Angeles, California.

Read more from Aldous Huxley

Related to Crome Yellow

Related ebooks

Satire For You

View More

Related articles

Reviews for Crome Yellow

Rating: 3.48 out of 5 stars
3.5/5

25 ratings23 reviews

What did you think?

Tap to rate

Review must be at least 10 words

  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Words - I wonder if you can realize how much I love them. You are too much preoccupied with mere things and ideas and people to understand the full beauty of words. Your mind is not a literary mind.

    Goodreads is but a sea of possibilities, rife with points of contact albeit drifting and bobbing. Too often I don't hear the calls across the foamy expanses. It is with relief and gratitude that I thank Jim Paris for suggesting this novel.
    Crome Yellow is Huxley's first novel.
    It has wit and snark.
    It overflows with pain and self-deprecation.
    It takes place in a place called Crome.
    It involves a bank holiday and there are references to oysters.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    [This started out a little slow; then I went to the audiobook, and the characters came to life. After a couple of chapters, I then went back and forth, audio when commuting, book when sitting still.]There are several passages here that show the kernel of "Brave New World" (1932) to have been fully formed in 1921, at the latest. I recommend it to those who are curious about this, and also to anyone much familiar with the culture of postwar England. Others may find the satire opaque or pointless.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Huxley's first novel. As a reader of a number of his other works, this one I felt was quite light compared to some later works. Somewhat predictable love story at times, but still unfolds surprises along the way. Huxley does not disappoint by filling an estate with a bunch of intellectuals trying to one up each other in the context of the english countryside. I will always remember sleeping getaways with mattress on the rooftop reading stars while conversing across turrets- life dangering in the meantime.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I've never read anything by Huxley besides Brave New World, and I try to go into reading the books on the 1001 list knowing as little as possible, so I had no clue what to expect. (On a side note, one of the very annoying things about the 1001 book is that in the descriptions, they frequently spoil the book they're talking about. So now, I don't read their comments until after I've finished the book in question.) This was Huxley's first published book, and it's a satire which takes place at an English country home. The narrator is Denis, who is a poet. He's clumsily enamored of the host's daughter, Anne. Other characters include two other young women, one of whom has her own love problems and the other of whom is somewhat deaf, but as Denis discovers, that doesn't necessarily mean she misses what goes on around her; Henry, the host, who has opinions on everything and loves to share them at length; and Gombauld, an artist. The plot isn't particularly deep, but the plot isn't the point. It's really all about how these people interact with each other. If you were a contemporary of Huxley's and moved in the same circles, I'm sure reading this would make you smile and recognize people you knew. And for the modern reader, one of Henry's ideas sounds very familiar:"An impersonal generation will take the place of Nature's hideous system. In vast state incubators, rows upon rows of gravid bottles will supply the world with the population it requires. The family system will disappear; society, sapped at its very base, will have to find new foundations; and Eros, beautifully and irresponsibly free, will flit like a gay butterfly from flower to flower through a sunlit world.""It sounds lovely," said Anne."The distant future always does."I found it quite entertaining, and a short read. I also added at least 15 words to my vocabulary (I don't think Huxley ever met a word he didn't like).
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    I feel a little guilty that I so enjoyed Crome Yellow, as if I'd been sitting for hours in a high school cafeteria making fun of nearly everyone else, especially my own friends.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    This example of a country week end novel is the first published work (1921) by Aldous Huxley. In some ways this may have been a novel for the episode structure of "A Dance to the Music of Time". The characters show up, do a number of character revealing acts, chat about their lives, and very little happens in front of the readers. But Huxley is a good character drawing writer and I had a good time.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Huxley's first novel. It lacks the organization and amazing storytelling of Brave New World but you can see that he is toying with the ideas that he will later use in Brave New World. This is a decent read, but I'd only recommend it for people who really enjoy Huxley.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    It wasn't bad - it just wasn't for me.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Crome Yellow by Aldous Huxley published in 1921 was Huxley's first novel. It is a witty, satirical book about the British literati. It is set in a country home of Henry Wimbush in the town of Crome. The time period is just after World War I. Denis Stone, who sees himself a poet, is hopelessly in love with Henry’s niece. Mr Scogan is the rational person who discourses constantly and prefers the things of man and rejects nature. Priscilla Wimbush is immersed in the occult. Gombauld is the painter who is rejecting cubist art and painting reality instead. He is also painting a portrait of Anne. The author addresses sex in this book. He references that sex was only prudently treated in the 19th century but was enjoyed and fun in the earlier centuries. There is also Mary who would be an early woman libber seeking to express her sexuality without the restraints of society. The author uses many words that required looking up, at least for me and there is the sense that he is mocking language. A quote from the book on reading; “Human contacts have boon so highly valued in the past only because reading was not a common accomplishment and because books were scarce and difficult to reproduce…..”The proper study of mankind is in books.”
    I liked the book but it wasn’t as enjoyable as his Brave New World but this is a quick read for those working their way through the 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I read this so many years ago that I cannot recall the details, but I have kept the paperback for 40 years because the parts that are "Henry Wimbush's engaging accounts of his eccentric ancestors," have haunted me for all those years. It is probably the greatest thing I have ever read.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Very slow moving, maybe because the narrative is very detailed, the story is nonetheless worth reading if you are a student of Huxley's time or of Huxley. This story is most notable for an encounter between a man and a woman who, because the night was so hot, moved their mattresses to a roof and spent the night outside together. When the novel was first published, this was considered absolutely scandalous. This novel, and more specifically this passage, is considered by many literary historians as signaling the end of the Victorian Era.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    There is a passage in which a minister tries to beat his sermon against the "rubber souls" of the congregation. I thought that this might have been an inspiration for the Beatles? But have since heard other theories on the origins of their Rubber Soul.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    Wealthy people hang out at someone's country house. They talk art, politics, philosophy, and wish they weren't single. They pine after each other or try to figure out who might be a possibility. The host holds the annual day-long fair and they all assist.There is definitely humor here, but it is 100-year-old upper class English humor, and doesn't really do it for me. The best and most interesting part is when Mr Scogan spends a page expounding on what he thinks will be life in the future. His world sounds like an outline for Brave New World--which this book predates by 12 years.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Crome Yellow is the first early Huxley I have read and I am surprised it isn't more widely talked about. A very funny dissection of the moneyed classes of the 1920's, far better in characterisation and wit than Waugh's Vile Bodies, in my opinion.The 'hero', Denis, a hopeful young poet, is a guest at Crome, the ancestral home of Henry Wimbush, whose history of the previous inhabitants, he recites whenever he can, and is his only interest. Denis tangles with a recovering Cubist painter, a successful writer called Barbecue-Smith, Mary, a virgin obsessed by the dangers of repression and dreaming constantly of wells and towers, and a demented vicar hoping beyond hope for the end of times. The most grotesque character is Mr Scoggins, a rationalist who looks forward to a future which has a strong resemblance to Brave New World.I really enjoyed this book.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Young poet Dennis Stone attends a country house party at Crome. There are lots of philosophical conversations about artistic matters, the host tells interesting stories about his ancestors and Dennis suffers the pangs of unrequited love. I don't get the title; Crome is the name of the house and village, but why Yellow? The house is built of rosy brick, not of golden Cotswold stone so it's not that.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Clever, arguably too clever, since sometimes it's hard to keep track of who's doing what and why. Some great scenes, though.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    This is a solidly written novel with moments of humor and insight but overall a tad boring.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    4 1/2, but there's no half here. Oh, well. Eventually, this will get a full review at accidentallymars.wordpress.com.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    A light, rather tedious comedy of manners (and disjointed novel of ideas) set in the English countryside post WW1. I much prefer Huxley after he experimented with mind-expanding drugs...
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Someone says that this book is a bit like an Agathie Christie novel without the murder. I like that--a group of intellectuals, young and old, are staying at a country house right after WWI. They discuss art, love, literature, and history. Much of it is very entertaining--the intellectual back and forth reminded me of MY DINNER WITH ANDRE. The characters, unfortunately, are basically mouthpieces for ideas. When Denis--near the end--contemplates suicide, my response was . . . "Oh, well." His love for Anne is similarly a yawner. Even though I wouldn't want to read "idea" novels all the time, I'm delighted to have read this one, and I'll read more Huxley in the future.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    So this is some kind of... presumably satire about a bunch of people sitting about in their country house telling each other their opinions and/or complaining about their unrequited love for each other. It was fun to read, although the main character especially is particularly irritating. The best-written parts, in my opinion, were the parts describing the history of the household and its former occupants - the story about the couple with dwarfism whose son was really tall was particularly well done.I definitely liked this the least of the three Huxley books I've read, but it was still pretty good.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Huxley's first book at a ripe and young adolescence age and OH is he aware of it! Huxley has no problem with the extreme vulnerability of his lead character, to the point of letting his jealousy get in the way of the novel sometimes. It is also one of the most genuinely melancholy books I have ever read. If I had to compare it to an album it would possibly be Beck's 'Mutations'. However, he shows fleeting glimpses' of future Huxley as his older characters have a flair for history, one even writing a large and silly history of the town 'Crome' (a British countryside town) that includes a dwarfish lord who kills himself and his wife, a family of beautiful women who pretend not to eat but lock themselves in a basement at night downing chickens and hams, amongst other stuff. the history is not the most important part of the novel, the ultimate feeling of character development and the strong sense of description and criticism is what is so rich in this novel and what made me so excited to pick up every page. Although it was his first it cannot be called raw as it is better than many writers greatest works. Huxley is a writer's writer other than the few books he is known for, and any male between the age of 20-24 who feels angst and discontented with the melancholy of his stature in relationships and the surroundings he finds himself in will adore 'Crome Yellow.' It's very much something that Morrissey would read in his youth. PS check out the vintage cover of the copy I scored at this rad book shop in Venice, California!
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    3.5★ I may up this to 4 stars -- I want to see how it lasts in my memory. This is a satire or comedy of manners so there is not much action. Various people are gathered at a country house for a visit which gives Huxley a chance to show us different types of 'bright young things' (this was published in the early 1920s). I found much to amuse me but it rarely made me laugh out loud.One character I found particularly funny was the local vicar, Mr. Bodiham: "He preached with fury, with passion, an iron man beating with a flail upon the souls of his congregation. But the souls of the faithful at Crome were made of india-rubber, solid rubber; the flail rebounded." A predecessor of Amos in Stella Gibbons' [Cold Comfort Farm]!There were indications of Huxley's masterpiece to come, [Brave New World]. For example, in this early passage by one of the guests (Mr. Scogan):"Eros, for those who wish it, is now an entirely free god; his deplorable associations with Lucina may be broken at will. In the course of the next few centuries, who knows? the world may see a more complete severance. I look forward to it optimistically. ... our descendants will experiment and succeed. An impersonal generation will take the place of Nature's hideous system. In vast state incubators, rows upon rows of gravid bottles will supply the world with the population it requires. The family system will disappear; society, sapped at its very base, will have to find new foundations; and Eros, beautifully and irresponsibly free, will flit like a gay butterfly from flower to flower through a sunlit world."Finally, a quote I love from this (also by Mr. Scogan):"After all, what is reading but a vice, like drink or venery or any other form of excessive self-indulgence? One reads to tickle and amuse one's mind; one reads, above all, to prevent oneself thinking."

Book preview

Crome Yellow - Aldous Huxley

CROME YELLOW

BY

ALDOUS HUXLEY

Copyright © 2017 by Aldous Huxley.

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations em- bodied in critical articles or reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organiza- tions, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For information contact :

Sheba Blake Publishing

support@shebablake.com

http://www.shebablake.com

Twitter: http://twitter.com/shebablake

Instagram: http://instagram.com/shebablake

Facebook: http://facebook.com/shebablake

Book and Cover design by Sheba Blake Publishing

First Edition: January 2017

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

CHAPTER XXI.

CHAPTER XXII.

CHAPTER XXIII.

CHAPTER XXIV.

CHAPTER XXV.

CHAPTER XXVI.

CHAPTER XXVII.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

CHAPTER XXIX.

CHAPTER XXX.

CHAPTER I.

Along this particular stretch of line no express had ever passed. All the trains--the few that there were--stopped at all the stations. Denis knew the names of those stations by heart. Bole, Tritton, Spavin Delawarr, Knipswich for Timpany, West Bowlby, and, finally, Camlet-on-the-Water. Camlet was where he always got out, leaving the train to creep indolently onward, goodness only knew whither, into the green heart of England.

They were snorting out of West Bowlby now. It was the next station, thank Heaven. Denis took his chattels off the rack and piled them neatly in the corner opposite his own. A futile proceeding. But one must have something to do. When he had finished, he sank back into his seat and closed his eyes. It was extremely hot.

Oh, this journey! It was two hours cut clean out of his life; two hours in which he might have done so much, so much--written the perfect poem, for example, or read the one illuminating book. Instead of which--his gorge rose at the smell of the dusty cushions against which he was leaning.

Two hours. One hundred and twenty minutes. Anything might be done in that time. Anything. Nothing. Oh, he had had hundreds of hours, and what had he done with them? Wasted them, spilt the precious minutes as though his reservoir were inexhaustible. Denis groaned in the spirit, condemned himself utterly with all his works. What right had he to sit in the sunshine, to occupy corner seats in third-class carriages, to be alive? None, none, none.

Misery and a nameless nostalgic distress possessed him. He was twenty-three, and oh! so agonizingly conscious of the fact.

The train came bumpingly to a halt. Here was Camlet at last. Denis jumped up, crammed his hat over his eyes, deranged his pile of baggage, leaned out of the window and shouted for a porter, seized a bag in either hand, and had to put them down again in order to open the door. When at last he had safely bundled himself and his baggage on to the platform, he ran up the train towards the van.

A bicycle, a bicycle! he said breathlessly to the guard. He felt himself a man of action. The guard paid no attention, but continued methodically to hand out, one by one, the packages labelled to Camlet. A bicycle! Denis repeated. A green machine, cross-framed, name of Stone. S-T-O-N-E.

All in good time, sir, said the guard soothingly. He was a large, stately man with a naval beard. One pictured him at home, drinking tea, surrounded by a numerous family. It was in that tone that he must have spoken to his children when they were tiresome. All in good time, sir. Denis's man of action collapsed, punctured.

He left his luggage to be called for later, and pushed off on his bicycle. He always took his bicycle when he went into the country. It was part of the theory of exercise. One day one would get up at six o'clock and pedal away to Kenilworth, or Stratford-on-Avon--anywhere. And within a radius of twenty miles there were always Norman churches and Tudor mansions to be seen in the course of an afternoon's excursion. Somehow they never did get seen, but all the same it was nice to feel that the bicycle was there, and that one fine morning one really might get up at six.

Once at the top of the long hill which led up from Camlet station, he felt his spirits mounting. The world, he found, was good. The far-away blue hills, the harvests whitening on the slopes of the ridge along which his road led him, the treeless sky-lines that changed as he moved--yes, they were all good. He was overcome by the beauty of those deeply embayed combes, scooped in the flanks of the ridge beneath him. Curves, curves: he repeated the word slowly, trying as he did so to find some term in which to give expression to his appreciation. Curves-- no, that was inadequate. He made a gesture with his hand, as though to scoop the achieved expression out of the air, and almost fell off his bicycle. What was the word to describe the curves of those little valleys? They were as fine as the lines of a human body, they were informed with the subtlety of art...

Galbe. That was a good word; but it was French. Le galbe evase de ses hanches: had one ever read a French novel in which that phrase didn't occur? Some day he would compile a dictionary for the use of novelists. Galbe, gonfle, goulu: parfum, peau, pervers, potele, pudeur: vertu, volupte.

But he really must find that word. Curves curves...Those little valleys had the lines of a cup moulded round a woman's breast; they seemed the dinted imprints of some huge divine body that had rested on these hills. Cumbrous locutions, these; but through them he seemed to be getting nearer to what he wanted. Dinted, dimpled, wimpled--his mind wandered down echoing corridors of assonance and alliteration ever further and further from the point. He was enamoured with the beauty of words.

Becoming once more aware of the outer world, he found himself on the crest of a descent. The road plunged down, steep and straight, into a considerable valley. There, on the opposite slope, a little higher up the valley, stood Crome, his destination. He put on his brakes; this view of Crome was pleasant to linger over. The facade with its three projecting towers rose precipitously from among the dark trees of the garden. The house basked in full sunlight; the old brick rosily glowed. How ripe and rich it was, how superbly mellow! And at the same time, how austere! The hill was becoming steeper and steeper; he was gaining speed in spite of his brakes. He loosed his grip of the levers, and in a moment was rushing headlong down. Five minutes later he was passing through the gate of the great courtyard. The front door stood hospitably open. He left his bicycle leaning against the wall and walked in. He would take them by surprise.

CHAPTER II.

He took nobody by surprise; there was nobody to take. All was quiet; Denis wandered from room to empty room, looking with pleasure at the familiar pictures and furniture, at all the little untidy signs of life that lay scattered here and there. He was rather glad that they were all out; it was amusing to wander through the house as though one were exploring a dead, deserted Pompeii. What sort of life would the excavator reconstruct from these remains; how would he people these empty chambers? There was the long gallery, with its rows of respectable and (though, of course, one couldn't publicly admit it) rather boring Italian primitives, its Chinese sculptures, its unobtrusive, dateless furniture. There was the panelled drawing- room, where the huge chintz-covered arm-chairs stood, oases of comfort among the austere flesh-mortifying antiques. There was the morning-room, with its pale lemon walls, its painted Venetian chairs and rococo tables, its mirrors, its modern pictures. There was the library, cool, spacious, and dark, book-lined from floor to ceiling, rich in portentous folios. There was the dining-room, solidly, portwinily English, with its great mahogany table, its eighteenth-century chairs and sideboard, its eighteenth-century pictures--family portraits, meticulous animal paintings. What could one reconstruct from such data? There was much of Henry Wimbush in the long gallery and the library, something of Anne, perhaps, in the morning-room. That was all. Among the accumulations of ten generations the living had left but few traces.

Lying on the table in the morning-room he saw his own book of poems. What tact! He picked it up and opened it. It was what the reviewers call a slim volume. He read at hazard:

...But silence and the topless dark Vault in the lights of Luna Park; And Blackpool from the nightly gloom Hollows a bright tumultuous tomb.

He put it down again, shook his head, and sighed. What genius I had then! he reflected, echoing the aged Swift. It was nearly six months since the book had been published; he was glad to think he would never write anything of the same sort again. Who could have been reading it, he wondered? Anne, perhaps; he liked to think so. Perhaps, too, she had at last recognised herself in the Hamadryad of the poplar sapling; the slim Hamadryad whose movements were like the swaying of a young tree in the wind. The Woman who was a Tree was what he had called the poem. He had given her the book when it came out, hoping that the poem would tell her what he hadn't dared to say. She had never referred to it.

He shut his eyes and saw a vision of her in a red velvet cloak, swaying into the little restaurant where they sometimes dined together in London--three quarters of an hour late, and he at his table, haggard with anxiety, irritation, hunger. Oh, she was damnable!

It occurred to him that perhaps his hostess might be in her boudoir. It was a possibility; he would go and see. Mrs. Wimbush's boudoir was in the central tower on the garden front. A little staircase cork-screwed up to it from the hall. Denis mounted, tapped at the door. Come in. Ah, she was there; he had rather hoped she wouldn't be. He opened the door.

Priscilla Wimbush was lying on the sofa. A blotting-pad rested on her knees and she was thoughtfully sucking the end of a silver pencil.

Hullo, she said, looking up. I'd forgotten you were coming.

Well, here I am, I'm afraid, said Denis deprecatingly. I'm awfully sorry.

Mrs. Wimbush laughed. Her voice, her laughter, were deep and masculine. Everything about her was manly. She had a large, square, middle-aged face, with a massive projecting nose and little greenish eyes, the whole surmounted by a lofty and elaborate coiffure of a curiously improbable shade of orange. Looking at her, Denis always thought of Wilkie Bard as the cantatrice.

That's why I'm going to Sing in op'ra, sing in op'ra, Sing in op-pop-pop-pop-pop-popera.

Today she was wearing a purple silk dress with a high collar and a row of pearls. The costume, so richly dowagerish, so suggestive of the Royal Family, made her look more than ever like something on the Halls.

What have you been doing all this time? she asked.

Well, said Denis, and he hesitated, almost voluptuously. He had a tremendously amusing account of London and its doings all ripe and ready in his mind. It would be a pleasure to give it utterance. To begin with, he said...

But he was too late. Mrs. Wimbush's question had been what the grammarians call rhetorical; it asked for no answer. It was a little conversational flourish, a gambit in the polite game.

You find me busy at my horoscopes, she said, without even being aware that she had interrupted him.

A little pained, Denis decided to reserve his story for more receptive ears. He contented himself, by way of revenge, with saying Oh? rather icily.

Did I tell you how I won four hundred on the Grand National this year?

Yes, he replied, still frigid and mono-syllabic. She must have told him at least six times.

Wonderful, isn't it? Everything is in the Stars. In the Old Days, before I had the Stars to help me, I used to lose thousands. Now--she paused an instant--well, look at that four hundred on the Grand National. That's the Stars.

Denis would have liked to hear more about the Old Days. But he was too discreet and, still more, too shy to ask. There had been something of a bust up; that was all he knew. Old Priscilla--not so old then, of course, and sprightlier--had lost a great deal of money, dropped it in handfuls and hatfuls on every race-course in the country. She had gambled too. The number of thousands varied in the different legends, but all put it high. Henry Wimbush was forced to sell some of his Primitives--a Taddeo da Poggibonsi, an Amico di Taddeo, and four or five nameless Sienese--to the Americans. There was a crisis. For the first time in his life Henry asserted himself, and with good effect, it seemed.

Priscilla's gay and gadding existence had come to an abrupt end. Nowadays she spent almost all her time at Crome, cultivating a rather ill-defined malady. For consolation she dallied with New Thought and the Occult. Her passion for racing still possessed her, and Henry, who was a kind-hearted fellow at bottom, allowed her forty pounds a month betting money. Most of Priscilla's days were spent in casting the horoscopes of horses, and she invested her money scientifically, as the stars dictated. She betted on football too, and had a large notebook in which she registered the horoscopes of all the players in all the teams of the League. The process of balancing the horoscopes of two elevens one against the other was a very delicate and difficult one. A match between the Spurs and the Villa entailed a conflict in the heavens so vast and so complicated that it was not to be wondered at if she sometimes made a mistake about the outcome.

Such a pity you don't believe in these things, Denis, such a pity, said Mrs. Wimbush in her deep, distinct voice.

I can't say I feel it so.

Ah, that's because you don't know what it's like to have faith. You've no idea how amusing and exciting life becomes when you do believe. All that happens means something; nothing you do is ever insignificant. It makes life so jolly, you know. Here am I at Crome. Dull as ditchwater, you'd think; but no, I don't find it so. I don't regret the Old Days a bit. I have the Stars... She picked up the sheet of paper that was lying on the blotting- pad. Inman's horoscope, she explained. (I thought I'd like to have a little fling on the billiards championship this autumn.) I have the Infinite to keep in tune with, she waved her hand. And then there's the next world and all the spirits, and one's Aura, and Mrs. Eddy and saying you're not ill, and the Christian Mysteries and Mrs. Besant. It's all splendid. One's never dull for a moment. I can't think how I used to get on before--in the Old Days. Pleasure--running about, that's all it was; just running about. Lunch, tea, dinner, theatre, supper every day. It was fun, of course, while it lasted. But there wasn't much left of it afterwards. There's rather a good thing about that in Barbecue-Smith's new book. Where is it?

She sat up and reached for a book that was lying on the little table by the head of the sofa.

Do you know him, by the way? she asked.

Who?

Mr. Barbecue-Smith.

Denis knew of him vaguely. Barbecue-Smith was a name in the Sunday papers. He wrote about the Conduct of Life. He might even be the author of What a Young Girl Ought to Know.

No, not personally, he said.

I've invited him for next week-end. She turned over the pages of the book. Here's the passage I was thinking of. I marked it. I always mark the things I like.

Holding the book almost at arm's length, for she was somewhat long-sighted, and making suitable gestures with her free hand, she began to read, slowly, dramatically.

'What are thousand pound fur coats, what are quarter million incomes?' She looked up from the page with a histrionic movement of the head; her orange coiffure nodded portentously. Denis looked at it, fascinated. Was it the Real Thing and henna, he wondered, or was it one of those Complete Transformations one sees in the advertisements?

'What are Thrones and Sceptres?'

Enjoying the preview?
Page 1 of 1