Free Self Condemned by Wyndham Lewis Page A

This is not a novel view of mine.
    It is generally accepted as being the case.”
    Hester’s face was that of a person who had just discovered in her hand a good card which she had overlooked, and which she meant to make the most of.
    “Very well,” she answered, with what she intended should be an irritating indolence, “but it is still quite ridiculous to say that Stephen Vickers spends his time disseminating propaganda, in favour of war. Stephen is the last person to fancy himself as a soldier.”
    “I agree with you there. But it would not be Stephen who would do the fighting.”
    “But I don’t see that, Stephen is young, he knows he would be called up. He would hardly be likely therefore to stir up wars, would he? No. I am afraid you have a bee in your bonnet....”
    From being coldly watchful and aloof, he had begun to show signs of a mounting choler. The card she had discovered in her hand was not a new one, it was one which had often been there before. But she had never used it at a moment so liable to enrage him. He now sprang to his feet, glaring down at her. “It is not in the marriage contract that wives should hold the same political views as their husbands,” he told her harshly. “Nor is it necessary for them to display more intelligence than a domestic cat. But they do have, on certain occasions, to keep their big silly mouths closed. It is required to develop sufficient intelligence to know when to do that. And for Heaven’s sake give your eyes a rest, no one wants to see your eyeballs.”
    The bedroom door opened. “Oo, Miss,” croaked Mrs. Harradson, balancing backward and forward in the gap, as with the limited mobility of a mechanical toy; her frosty crest, the independent strand of hair which tented up over her occiput, rising and falling, giving her a startled expression when it was most erect. So she advanced, only to fall back, and then advanced again once more to be checked and to retreat holding a witch’s broom. “Ooo, Miss, was you going to harsk Mrs. Beddin’ton ’oos cat ’ad kittens time I was took sick ...”
    “Mrs. Harradson!” René shot his arm out towards her, his finger pointing at her pale, narrow, now eerily jeering face.
    “Please — shut — that — door!”
    Mrs. Harradson fell back as if she had received a blow, the closing of the door coinciding with her eclipse.
    Hester, her lips drawn tight over her teeth, rose to her feet, but not with an unladylike abruptness.
    “I am afraid you are misbehaving,” she remarked.
    René sat down, crossed his legs and looked at her with undiminished hostility. For him, she had been quite aware what she was doing, in her references to Stephen: it was she who had misbehaved — in her persistently ladylike way.
    “You provoke misbehaviour,” he said after he resumed his seat.
    Hester moved over to the bedroom and pushed the door open; for Mrs. Harradson had apparently set it ajar in order to miss nothing of the ensuing dialogue.
    “Mrs. Harradson,” she said in a voice of particular politeness. “Thank you for reminding me about Mrs. Beddington. It was very kind of you. We shall not be wanting a kitten, thank you. Yes, a good cat is a nice thing to have.... Thank Mrs. Beddington very much for keeping the kitten for us.... I am so sorry it is now too large to drown. It is a great pity. But I am sure she will have no difficulty in disposing of a fine young cat.... A good mouser was she? Yes, that of course will count. Everyone wants a mouser.”
    Hester pulled the door to. René, who was standing, looked up and said, “I am in no mood to listen to any more idiotic conversations about cats. Unless you have anything you want to say to me, I shall now go to my study.”
    Without taking any notice of these remarks, Hester walked with a dignified composure along the wall to the sitting room door, turned the handle (and this is an action which, in such a case, is a trap for those not dignified by nature, for it is impossible