Simon Called Peter by Robert Keable

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They both of them bathed in the performance. The possible and impossible
scenes came and went in a bewildering variety, till one had the feeling
that one was asleep and dreaming the incomprehensible jumble of a dream,
and, as in a nice dream, one knew it was absurd, but did not care. The
magnificent, brilliant staging dazzled till one lay back in one's chair
and refused to name the colours to oneself or admire their blending any
more. The chorus-girls trooped on and off till they seemed countless, and
one abandoned any wish to pick the prettiest and follow her through. And
the gay palace of luxury, with its hundreds of splendidly dressed women,
its men in uniform, its height and width and gold and painting, and its
great arching roof, where, high above, the stirring of human hearts still
went on, took to itself an atmosphere and became sentient with humanity.

Julie and Peter were both emotional and imaginative, and they were
spellbound till the notes of the National Anthem roused them. Then, with
the commonplaces of departure, they left the place. "It's so near," said
Julie in the crowd outside; "let's walk again."

"The other pavement, then," said Peter, and they crossed. It was cold,
and Julie clung to him, and they walked swiftly.

At the entrance Peter suggested an hour under the palms, but Julie
pleaded against it. "Why, dear?" she said. "It's so cosy upstairs, and we
have all we want. Besides, the lounge would be an anti-climax; let's go
up."

They went up, and Julie dropped into her chair while Peter knelt to poke
the fire. Then he lit a cigarette, and she refused one for once, and he
stood there looking into the flame.

Julie drew a deep sigh. "Wasn't it gorgeous, Peter?" she said. "I can't
help it, but I always feel I want it to go on for ever and ever. Did you
ever see _Kismet?_ That was worse even than this. I wanted to get up and
walk into the play. These modern things are too clever; you know they're
unreal, and yet they seem to be real. You know you're dreaming, but you
hate to wake up. I could let all that music and dancing and colour go on
round me till I floated away and away, for ever."

Peter said nothing. He continued to stare into the fire.

"What do you feel?" demanded Julie.

Peter drew hard on his cigarette, and then he blew out the smoke. "I
don't know," he said. "Yes, I do," he added quickly; "I feel I want to
get up and preach a sermon."

"Good Lord, Peter! what a dreadful sensation that must be! Don't begin
now, will you? I'm beginning to wish we'd gone into the lounge after all;
you surely couldn't have preached there."

Peter did not smile. He went on as if she had not spoken, "Or write a
great novel, or, better still, a great play," he said.

"What would be the subject, then, you Solomon, or the title, anyway?"

"I don't know," said Peter dreamily. "_All Men are Grass_, _The Way of
all Flesh_--no, neither of those is good, and besides, one at least is
taken. I know," he added suddenly, "I would call it _Exchange_, that's
all. My word, Julie, I believe I could do it." He straightened himself,
and walked across the room and back again, once or twice. "I believe I
could: I feel it tingling in me; but it's all formless, if you
understand; I've no plot. It's just what I feel as I sit there in a
theatre, as we did just now."

Julie leaned forward and took the cigarette she had just refused. She lit
it herself with a half-burnt match, and Peter stood and watched her, but
hardly saw what she was doing. She was as conscious of his preoccupation
as if it were something physical about him.

"Explain, my dear," she said, leaning back and staring into the fire.

"I don't know that I can," he replied, and she felt as if he did not
speak to her. "It's the bigness of it all, the beauty, the triumphant
success. It's drawn that great house full, lured them in, the thousands
of them, and it does so night after night. Tired people go there to be
refreshed, and sad people to be made gay, and people sick of life to
laugh and forget it. It's the world's big anodyne. It offers a great
exchange. And all for a few shillings, Julie, and for a few hours. The
sensation lingers, but one has to go again and again. It tricks one into
thinking, almost, that it's the real thing, that one can dance like
mayflies in the sun. Only, Julie, there comes an hour when down sinks the
sun, and what of the mayflies then?"

Julie shifted her head ever so little. "Go on," she said, looking up
intently at him.

He did not notice her, but her words roused him. He began to pace up and
down again, and her eyes followed him. "Why," he said excitedly, "don't
you see that it's a fraudulent exchange? It's a fraudulent exchange that
it offers, and it itself is an exchange as fraudulent as that which our
modern world is making. No, not our modern world only. We talk so big of
our modernity, when it's all less than the dust--this year's leaves, no
better than last year's, and fallen to-morrow. Rome offered the same
exchange, and even a better one, I think--the blood and lust and conflict
of the amphitheatre. But they're both exchanges, offered instead of the
great thing, the only great thing."

"Which is, Peter?"

"God, of course--Almighty God; Jesus, if you will, but I'm not in a mood
for the tenderness of that. It's God Himself Who offers tired and sad
people, and people sick of life, no anodyne, no mere rest, but stir and
fight and the thrill of things nobly done--nobly tried, Julie, even if
nobly failed. Can't you see it? And you and I to-night have been looking
at what the world offers--in exchange."

He ceased and dropped into a chair the other side of the fire. A silence
fell on them. Then Julie gave a little shiver. "Peter, dear," she said
tenderly, "I'm a little tired and cold."

He was up at once and bending over her. "My darling, what a beast I am!
I clean forgot you for a minute. What will you have? What about a hot
toddy? Shall I make one?" he demanded, smiling. "Donovan taught me how,
and I'm really rather good at it."

She smiled back at him, and put her hand up to smooth his hair. "That
would be another exchange, Peter," she said, "and I don't want it. Only
one thing can warm me to-night and give me rest."

He read what she meant in her eyes, and knelt beside the chair to put his
arms around her. She leaned her face on his shoulder, and returned the
kisses that he showered upon her. "Poor mayflies," she said to herself,
"how they love to dance in the sun!"

CHAPTER IX

Ever after that next day, the Saturday, will remain in Peter's memory as
a time by itself, of special significance, but a significance, except for
one incident, very hard to place. It began, indeed, very quietly, and
very happily. They breakfasted again in their own room, and Julie was
in one of her subdued moods, if one ever could say she was subdued.
Afterwards Peter lit a cigarette and strolled over to the window. "It's a
beastly day," he said, "cloudy, cold, windy, and going to rain, I think.
What shall we do? Snow up in the hotel all the time?"

"No," said Julie emphatically, "something quite different. You shall show
me some of the real London sights, Westminster Abbey to begin with. Then
we'll drive along the Embankment and you shall tell me what everything
is, and we'll go and see anything else you suggest. I don't suppose
you realise, Peter, that I'm all but absolutely ignorant of London."

He turned and smiled on her. "And you really _want_ to see these things?"
he said.

"Yes, of course I do. You don't think I suggested it for your benefit?
But if it will make you any happier, I'll flatter you a bit. I want to
see those things now, with you, partly because I'm never likely to find
anyone who can show me them better. Now then. Aren't you pleased?"

At that, then, they started. Westminster came first, and they wandered
all over it and saw as much as the conditions of war had left for the
public to see. It amused Peter to show Julie the things that seemed to
him to have a particular interest--the Chapter House, St. Faith's Chapel,
the tomb of the Confessor, and so on. She made odd comments. In St.
Faith's she said: "I don't say many prayers, Peter, but here I couldn't
say one."

"Why not?" he demanded.

"Because it's too private," she said quaintly. "I should think I was
pretending to be a saint if I went past everybody else and the vergers
and things into a little place like this all by myself. Everyone would
know that I was doing something which most people don't do. See? Why
don't people pray all over the church, as they do in France in a
cathedral, Peter?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Come on," he said; "your notions are all
topsy-turvy, Julie. Come and look at the monuments."

They wandered down the transept, and observed the majesty of England in
stone, robed in togas, declaiming to the Almighty, and obviously
convinced that He would be intensely interested; or perhaps dying in the
arms of a semi-dressed female, with funeral urns or ships or cannon
In the background; or, at least in one case, crouching hopelessly, before
the dart of a triumphant death. Julie was certainly impressed, "They are
all like ancient Romans, Peter," she said, "and much more striking than
those Cardinals and Bishops and Kings, kneeling at prayer, in Rouen
Cathedral. But, still, they were _not_ ancient Romans, were they? They
were all Christains, I suppose. Is there a Christian monument anywhere
about?"

"I don't know," said Peter, "but we'll walk round and see."

They made a lengthy pilgrimage, and finally Peter arrested her. "Here's
one," he said.

A Georgian Bishop in bas-relief looked down on them, fat and comfortable.
In front of him was a monstrous cup, and a plate piled with biggish
squares of stone. Julie did not realise what it was. "What's he doing
with all that lump-sugar?" she demanded.

Peter was really a bit horrified. "You're an appalling pagan," he said.
"Come away!" And they came.

They roamed along the Embankment. Julie was as curious as a child, and
wanted to know all about everything, from Boadicea, Cleopatra's Needle,
and the Temple Church, to Dewar's Whisky Works and the Hotel Cecil.
Thereabouts, Julie asked the name of the squat tower and old red-brick
buildings opposite, and when she heard it was Lambeth Palace instantly
demanded to visit it. Peter was doubtful if they could, but they crossed
to see, and they were shown a good deal by the courtesy of the
authorities. The Archbishop was away, to Peter's great relief, for as
likely as not Julie would have insisted on an introduction, but they
saw the chapel and the dining-hall amongst other things. The long line
of portraits fascinated her, but not as it fascinated Peter. The
significance of the change in the costumes of the portraits struck
him for the first time--first the cope and mitre and cross, then the
skull-cap and the tippet, then the balloon-sleeves and the wig, then the
coat and breeches and white cravat, then the academic robes, and then a
purple cassock. Its interest to Julie was other, however. "Peter," she
whispered, "perhaps you'll be there one day."

He looked at her sharply, but she was not mocking him, and, marvelling at
her simplicity and honest innocence, he relaxed into a smile. "Not very
likely, my dear," he said. "In other days a pleasant underground cell in
the Lollards' Tower would have been more likely."

Then, of course, Julie must see the famous tower, and see a little of it
they did. She wanted to know what Lollardy was; their guide attempted an
explanation. Julie was soon bored. "I can't see why people make such a
bother about such things," she said. "A man's religion is his own
business, surely, and he must settle it for himself. Don't you think so,
Peter?"

"Is it his own business only?" he asked gravely.

"Whose else should it be?" she demanded.

"God's," said Peter simply.

Julie stared at him and sighed. "You're very odd, Peter," she said, "but
you do say things that strike one as being true. Go on."

"Oh, there's no more to say," said Peter, "except, perhaps, this: if
anyone or any Church honestly believed that God had committed His share
in the business to them--well, then he might justifiably feel that he or
it had a good deal to do with the settling of another man's religion.
Hence this tower, Julie, and as a matter of fact, my dear, hence me, past
and present. But come on."

She took his arm with a little shiver which he was beginning to notice
from time to time in her. "It's a horrible idea, Peter," she said. "Yes,
let's go."

So their taxi took them to Buckingham Palace and thereabouts, and by
chance they saw the King and Queen. Their Majesties drove by smartly in
morning dress with a couple of policemen ahead, and a few women waved
handkerchiefs, and Peter came to the salute, and Julie cheered. The Queen
turned towards where she was standing, and bowed, and Peter noticed,
amazed, that the eyes of the Colonial girl were wet, and that she did not
attempt to hide it.

He had to question her. "I shouldn't have thought you'd have felt about
royalty like that, Julie," he said.

"Well, I do," she said, "and I don't care what you say. Only I wish
they'd go about with the Life Guards. The King's a King to me. I suppose
he is only a man, but I don't want to think of him so. He stands for the
Empire and for the Flag, and he stands for England too. I'd obey that man
almost in anything, right or wrong, but I don't know that I'd obey anyone
else."

"Then you're a survival of the Dark Ages," he said.

"Don't be a beast!" said Julie.

"All right, you're not, and indeed I don't know if I am right. Very
likely you're the very embodiment of the spirit of the Present Day.
Having lost every authority, you crave for one."

Julie considered this. "There may be something in that," she said. "But I
don't like you when you're clever. It was the King, and that's enough for
me. And I don't want to see anything more. I'm hungry; take me to lunch."

Peter laughed. "That's it," he said--"like the follower of Prince Charlie
who shook hands once with his Prince and then vowed he would never shake
hands with anyone again. So you've seen the King, and you won't see
anything else, only your impression won't last twelve hours,
fortunately."

"I don't suppose the other man kept his vow," said Julie. "For one thing,
no man ever does. Come on!"

And so they drifted down the hours until the evening theatre and
_Carminetta_. They said and did nothing in particular, but they just
enjoyed themselves. In point of fact, they were emotionally tired, and,
besides, they wanted to forget how the time sped by. The quiet day was,
in its own way too, a preparation for the evening feast, and they were
both in the mood to enjoy the piece intensely when it came. The
magnificence of the new theatre in which it was staged all helped. Its
wide, easy stairways, its many conveniences, its stupendous auditorium,
its packed house, ushered it well in. Even the audience seemed different
from that of last night.

Julie settled herself with a sigh of satisfaction to listen and watch.
And they both grew silent as the opera proceeded. At first Julie could
not contain her delight. "Oh, she's perfect, Peter," she exclaimed--"a
little bit of life! Look how she shakes her hair back and how impudent
she is--just like one of those French girls you know too much about! And
she's boiling passion too. And a regular devil. I love her, Peter!"

"She's very like you, Julie," said Peter.

Julie flashed a look at him. "Rubbish!" she said, but was silent.

They watched while Carminetta set herself to win her bet and steal the
heart of the hero from the Governor's daughter. They watched her force
the palace ballroom, and forgot the obvious foolishness of a great deal
of it in the sense of the drama that was being worked out. The whole
house grew still. The English girl, with her beauty, her civilisation,
her rank and place, made her appeal to her fiance; and the Spanish
bastard dancer, with her daring, her passion, her naked humanity, so
coarse and so intensely human, made her appeal also. And they watched
while the young conventionally-bred officer hesitated; they watched till
Carminetta won.

Julie, leaning forward, held her breath and gazed at the beautiful
fashionable room on the stage, gazed through the open French windows to
the moonlit garden and the night beyond, and gazed, though at last she
could hardly see, at the Spanish girl. That great renunciation held them
both entranced. So bitter-sweet, so humanly divine, the passionate,
heart-broken, heroic song of farewell, swelled and thrilled about them.
And with the last notes the child of the gutter reached up and up till
she made the supreme self-sacrifice, and stepped out of the gay room into
the dark night for the sake of the man she loved too much to love.

Then Julie bowed her head into her hands, and in the silence and darkness
of their box burst into tears. And so, for the first and last time, Peter
heard her really weep.

He said foolish man-things to comfort her. She looked up at last,
smiling, her brown eyes challengingly brave through her tears, "Peter,
forgive me," she said. "I shouldn't be such a damned fool! You never
thought I could be like that, did you? But it was so superbly done,
I couldn't help it. It's all over now--all over, Peter," she added
soberly. "I want to sit in the lounge to-night for a little, if you don't
mind. Could you possibly get a taxi? I don't want to walk."

It was difficult to find one. Finally Peter and another officer
made a bolt simultaneously and each got hold of a door of a car that
was just coming up. Both claimed it, and the chauffeur looked round
good-humouredly at the disputants. "Settle it which-hever way you like,
gents," he said. "Hi don't care, but settle it soon."

"Let's toss," said Peter.

"Right-o," said the other man, and produced a coin.

"Tails," whispered Julie behind Peter, and "Tails!" he called.

The coin spun while the little crowd looked on in amusement, and tails it
was. "Damn!" said the other, and turned away.

"A bad loser, Peter," said Julie; "and he's just been seeing
_Carminetta_, too! But am I not lucky! I almost always win."

In the palm lounge Julie was very cheerful. "Coffee, Peter," she said,
"and liqueurs."

"No drinks after nine-thirty," said the waiter. "Sorry, sir."

Julie laughed. "I nearly swore, Peter," she said, "but I remembered in
time. If one can't get what one wants, one has to go without singing. But
I'll have a cigarette, not to say two, before we've finished. And I'm in
no hurry; I want to sit on here and pretend it's not Saturday night. And
I want to go very slowly to bed, and I don't want to sleep."

"Is that the effect of the theatre?" asked Peter. "And why so different
from last night?"

Julie evaded. "Don't you feel really different?" she demanded.

"Yes," he said.

"How?"

"Well, I don't want to preach any sermon to-night. It's been preached."

Julie drew hard on her cigarette, and blew out a cloud of smoke. "It has,
Peter," she said merrily, "and thank the Lord I am therefore spared
another."

"You're very gay about it now, Julie, but you weren't at first. That play
made me feel rather miserable too. No, I think it made me feel small.
Carminetta was great, wasn't she? I don't know that there is anything
greater than that sort of sacrifice. And it's far beyond me," said Peter.

Julie leaned back and hummed a bar or two that Peter recognised from the
last great song of the dancer. "Well, my dear, I was sad, wasn't I?" she
said. "But it's over. There's no use in sadness, is there?"

Peter did not reply, and started as Julie suddenly laughed. "Oh, good
Lord, Peter!" she exclaimed, "to what _are_ you bringing me? Do you know
that I'm about to quote Scripture? And I damn-well shall if we sit on
here! Let's walk up Regent Street; I can't sit still. Come on." She
jumped up.

"Just now," he said, "you wanted to sit still for ages, and now you want
to walk. What is the matter with you, Julie? And what was the text?"

"That would be telling!" she laughed. "But can't I do anything I like,
Peter?" she demanded. "Can't I go and get drunk if I like, Peter, or sit
still, or dance down Regent Street, or send you off to bed and pick up a
nice boy? It would be easy enough here. Can't I, Peter?"

Her mood bewildered him, and, without in the least understanding why,
he resented her levity. But he tried to hide it. "Of course you can,"
he said lightly; "but you don't really want to do those things, do
you--especially the last, Julie?"

She stood there looking at him, and then, in a moment, the excitement
died out of her voice and eyes. She dropped into a chair again. "No,
Peter," she said, "I don't. That's the marvel of it. I expect I shall,
one of these days, do most of those things, and the last as well, but I
don't think I'll ever _want_ to do them again. And that's what you've
done to me, my dear."

Peter was very moved. He slipped his hand out and took hers under cover
of her dress. "My darling," he whispered, "I owe you everything. You
have given me all, and I won't hold back all from you. Do you remember,
Julie, that once I said I thought I loved you more than God? Well, I know
now--oh yes, I believe I do know now. But I choose you, Julie."

Her eyes shone up at him very brightly, and he could not read them
altogether. But her lips whispered, and he thought he understood.

"Oh, Peter, my dearest," she said, "thank God I have at least heard you
say that. I wouldn't have missed you saying those words for anything,
Peter."

So might the serving-girl in Pilate's courtyard have been glad, had she
been in love.

CHAPTER X

Part at least of Julie's programme was fulfilled to the letter, for they
lay long in bed talking--desultory, reminiscent talk, which sent Peter's
mind back over the months and the last few days, even after Julie was
asleep in the bed next his. Like a pageant, he passed, in review scene
after scene, turning it over, and wondering at significances that he had
not before, imagined. He recalled their first meeting, that instantaneous
attraction, and he asked himself what had caused it. Her spontaneity,
freshness, and utter lack of conventionality, he supposed, but that did
not seem to explain all. He wondered at the change that had even then
come about in himself that he should have been so entranced by her, He
went over his early hopes and fears; he thought again of conversations
with Langton; and he realised afresh how true it was that the old
authorities had dwindled away; that no allegiance had been left; that his
had been a citadel without a master. And then Julie moved through his
days again--Julie at Caudebec, daring, iconoclastic, free; Julie at
Abbeville, mysterious, passionate, dominant; Julie at Dieppe--ah, Julie
at Dieppe! He marvelled that he had held out so long after Dieppe, and
then Louise rose before him. He understood Louise less than Julie,
perhaps, and with all the threads in his hand he failed to see the
pattern. He turned over restlessly. It was easy to see how they had come
to be in London; it would have been more remarkable if they had not so
come together; but now, what now? He could not sum up Julie amid the
shifting scenes of the last few days. She had been so loving, and yet,
in a way, their love had reached no climax. It had, indeed, reached what
he would once have thought a complete and ultimate climax, but plainly
Julie did not think so. And nor did he--now. The things of the spirit
were, after all, so much greater than the things of the flesh. The Julie
of Friday night had been his, but of this night...? He rolled over again.
What had she meant at the play? He told himself her tears were simple
emotion, her laughter simple reaction, but he knew it was not true....

And for himself? Well, Julie was Julie. He loved her intensely. She could
stir him to anything almost. He loved to be with her, to see her, to hear
her, but he did not feel satisfied. He knew that. He told himself that he
was an introspective fool; that nothing ever would seem to satisfy
him; that the centre of his life _was_ and would be Julie; that she was
real, tinglingly, intensely real; but he knew that that was not the last
word. And then and there he resolved that the last word should be spoken
on the morrow, that had, indeed, already come by the clock: she should
promise to marry him.

He slept, perhaps, for an hour or two, but he awoke with the dawn. The
grey light was stealing in at the windows, and Julie slept beside him in
the bed between. He tried to sleep again, but could not, and, on a
sudden, had an idea. He got quietly out of bed.

"What is it, Peter?" said Julie sleepily.

He went round and leaned over her. "I can't sleep any more, dearest," he
said. "I think I'll dress and go for a bit of a walk. Do you mind? I'll
be in to breakfast."

"No," she said. "Go if you want to. You are a restless old thing!"

He dressed silently, and kept the bathroom door closed as he bathed and
shaved. She was asleep again as he stole out, one arm flung loosely on
the counterpane, her hair untidy on the pillow. He kissed a lock of it,
and let himself quietly out of their suite.

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