The Alexandria Quartet - Lawrence Durrell [128]
stand this phenomenon, unless to love is to become besotted…. Yes.
But then I don’t know; I am reminded of Balthazar’s dry mar-ginal comment on the matter. ‘One is apt’ he writes ‘to take a high moral tone about these things — but in fact, who will criticize him-self for reaching up to pluck an apple lying ripe upon a sun-warmed wall? Most women of Justine’s temperament and back-ground would not have the courage to imitate her even if they were free to do so. Is it more or less expensive to the spirit to endure dreams and petit mal so that the physician will always find a hot forehead and a guilty air? I don’t know. It is hard to isolate a moral quality in the free act. And then again, all love-making to one less instructed than oneself has the added delicious thrill which comes from the consciousness of perverting, of pulling them down into the mud from which passions rise — together with poems and theories of God. It is wiser perhaps not to make a judgement.’
But outside all this, in the sphere of daily life, there were pro-blems about which Justine herself needed reassurance. ‘I am as-tonished and a little horrified that Nessim whom I hardly know, has asked to marry me. Am I to laugh, dearest Clea, or be ashamed, or both?’ Clea in her innocence was delighted at the news for Nessim was her dearest friend and the thought of him bringing his dignity and gentleness to bear on the very real unhappiness of Justine’s life seemed suddenly illuminating — a solution to every-thing. When one invites rescue by the mess one creates around one-self, what better than that a knight should be riding by? Justine put her hands over her eyes and said with difficulty ‘For a moment my heart leapt up and I was about to shout “yes”; ah, Clea my dear, you will guess why. I need his riches to trace the child —
really, somewhere in the length and breadth of Egypt it must be, suffering terribly, alone, perhaps ill-treated.’ She began to cry and then stopped abruptly, angrily. ‘In order to safeguard us both from what would be a disaster I said to Nessim “I could never love a man like you: I could never give you an instant’s happiness. Thank you and good-bye.” ’
‘But are you sure?’
‘To use a man for his fortune, by God I’ll never.’
‘Justine, what do you want?’
‘First the child. Then to escape from the eyes of the world into some quiet corner where I can possess myself. There are whole parts of my character I do not understand. I need time. Today again Nessim has written to me. What can he want? He knows all about me.’
The thought crossed Clea’s mind: ‘The most dangerous thing in the world is a love founded on pity.’ But she dismissed it and allowed herself to see once more the image of this gentle, wise, undissimulating man breasting the torrent of Justine’s misfortunes and damming them up. Am I unjust in crediting her with another desire which such a solution would satisfy? (Namely, to be rid of Justine, free from the demands she made upon her heart and mind. She had stopped painting altogether.) The kindness of Nessim —
the tall dark figure which drifted unresponsively around the corri-dors of society — needed some such task; how could a knight of the order born acquit himself if there were no castles and no des-ponding maidens weaving in them? Their preoccupations matched in everything — save the demand for love.
‘But the money is nothing’ she said; and here indeed she was speaking of what she knew to be precisely true of Nessim. He him-self did not really care about the immense fortune which was his. But here one should add that he had already made a gesture which had touched and overwhelmed Justine. They met more than once, formally, like business partners, in the lounge of the Cecil Hotel to discuss the matter of this marriage with the detachment of Alexandrian brokers planning a cotton merger. This is the way of the city. We are mental people, and wordly, and have always made a clear distinction between the passional life and the life of the family. These distinctions are part of the whole complex of Medi-terranean life, ancient and touchingly prosaic.