Those Barren Leaves by Aldous Huxley (100 books to read txt) 📕

to go wandering at night among these ditches. Moreover, the prospect of having company, and odd company, he guessed, was alluring. “Most grateful,” he repeated.

“Well, if you think there’s room,” said the man grudgingly.

“Of course there is,” the feminine voice replied, and laughed again. “Isn’t it six spare rooms that we’ve got? or is it seven? Come with us, Mr.⁠ ⁠… Mr.⁠ ⁠…”

“Cardan.”

“… Mr. Cardan. We’re going straight home. Such fun,” she added, and repeated her excessive laughter.

Mr. Cardan accompanied them, talking as agreeably as he could all the time. The man listened in a gloomy silence. But his sister⁠—Mr. Cardan had discovered that they were brother and sister and that their name was Elver⁠—laughed heartily at the end of each of Mr. Cardan’s sentences, as though everything he said were a glorious joke; laughed extravagantly and then made some remark which showed that she could have had no idea what Mr. Cardan had meant. Mr. Cardan found himself making his conversation more and more elementary, until as they approached their destination it was frankly addressed to a child of ten.

“Here we are at last,” she said, as they emerged from the denser night of a little wood of poplar trees. In front of them rose the large square mass of a house, utterly black but for a single lighted window.

To the door, when they knocked, came an old woman with a candle. By its light Mr. Cardan saw his hosts for the first time. That the man was tall and thin he had seen even without the light; he revealed himself now as a stooping, hollow-chested creature of about forty, with long spidery legs and arms and a narrow yellow face, long-nosed, not too powerfully chinned, and lit by small and furtive grey eyes that looked mostly on the ground and seemed afraid of encountering other eyes. Mr. Cardan fancied there was something faintly clerical about his appearance. The man might be a broken-down clergyman⁠—broken-down and possibly, when one considered the furtive eyes, unfrocked as well. He was dressed in a black suit, well cut and not old, but baggy at the knees and bulgy about the pockets of the coat. The nails of his long bony hands were rather dirty and his dark brown hair was too long above the ears and at the back of his neck.

Miss Elver was nearly a foot shorter than her brother; but she looked as though Nature had originally intended to make her nearly as tall. For her head was too large for her body and her legs too short. One shoulder was higher than the other. In face she somewhat resembled her brother. One saw in it the same long nose, but better shaped, the same weakness of chin; compensated for, however, by an amiable, ever-smiling mouth and large hazel eyes, not at all furtive or mistrustful, but on the contrary exceedingly confiding in their glance, albeit blank and watery in their brightness and not more expressive than the eyes of a young child. Her age, Mr. Cardan surmised, was twenty-eight or thirty. She wore a queer little shapeless dress, like a sack with holes in it for the head and arms to go through, made of some white material with a large design, that looked like an inferior version of the willow pattern, printed on it in bright red. Round her neck she wore two or three sets of gaudy beads. There were bangles on her wrists, and she carried a little reticule made of woven gold chains.

Using gesture to supplement his scanty vocabulary, Mr. Elver gave instructions to the old woman. She left him the candle and went out. Holding the light high, he led the way from the hall into a large room. They sat down on hard uncomfortable chairs round the empty hearth.

“Such an uncomfy house!” said Miss Elver. “You know I don’t like Italy much.”

“Dear, dear,” said Mr. Cardan. “That’s bad. Don’t you even like Venice? All the boats and gondolas?” And meeting those blank infantile eyes, he felt that he might almost go on about there being no gee-gees. The cat is on the mat; the pig in the gig is a big pig; the lass on the ass a crass lass. And so on.

“Venice?” said Miss Elver. “I’ve not been there.”

“Florence, then. Don’t you like Florence?”

“Nor there, either.”

“Rome? Naples?”

Miss Elver shook her head.

“We’ve only been here,” she said. “All the time.”

Her brother, who had been sitting, bent forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped in front of him, looking down at the floor, broke silence. “The fact is,” he said in his harsh high voice, “my sister has to keep quiet; she’s doing a rest cure.”

“Here?” asked Mr. Cardan. “Doesn’t she find it a bit hot? Rather relaxing?”

“Yes, it’s awfully hot, isn’t it?” said Miss Elver. “I’m always telling Philip that.”

“I should have thought you’d have been better at the sea, or in the mountains,” said Mr. Cardan.

Mr. Elver shook his head. “The doctors,” he said mysteriously, and did not go on.

“And the risk of malaria?”

“That’s all rot,” said Mr. Elver, with so much violence, such indignation, that Mr. Cardan could only imagine that he was a landed proprietor in these parts and meant to develop his estate as a health resort.

“Oh, of course it’s mostly been got rid of,” he said mollifyingly. “The Maremma isn’t what it was.”

Mr. Elver said nothing, but scowled at the floor.

VII

The dining-room was also large and bare. Four candles burned on the long narrow table; their golden brightness faded in the remoter corners to faint twilight; the shadows were huge and black. Entering, Mr. Cardan could fancy himself Don Juan walking down to supper in the Commander’s vault.

Supper was at once dismal and exceedingly lively. While his sister chattered and laughed unceasingly with her guest, Mr. Elver preserved throughout the meal an unbroken silence. Gloomily he ate his way through the mixed and fragmentary meal which the old woman kept bringing in, relay after unexpected relay, on little dishes from the kitchen. Gloomily too, with the air of a weak man who drinks