Part 2 — VIII

TO right and left of Lewis the motors purred evenly, changing their song occasionally with the wind. He was in front, in a sort of veranda commanding the English Channel; between his knees he held a paper bag in which to give up his soul if the passage were rough. But the weather was fine and the aeroplane floated on the elastic air, now and then leaping lightly over invisible dips and charging seemingly impenetrable clouds. Lewis read, without understanding them, Freud's three essays on sexuality, which cause the barrier of innocence to recede to such an alarming extent. Occasionally he raised his eyes and saw before him through the incurved windows, the sea pink-tinted by the setting sun, rippling away into space like a tapioca pudding. Held up by little half-inches of sail, the fishing fleet was entering Boulogne, six thousand feet below. Preening themselves with their little wisps of smoke, tugboats were preparing to drop their anchors for the night beyond the jetty. Lewis laughed as he saw beneath him the ports, roads, stations, all this human material of another age. Behind him some Americans were discussing the rates of exchange with the roar of gold machinery in their mouths, and at the very end of the fuselage lay boxes of frocks, a ton of morning papers and cherries at five francs each for Piccadilly.

The sand dunes of France disappeared and with them those brackish swamps where the salt leaves tracks like those of snails. Soon Lewis found himself over the well-nourished English downs. (No, England is not scraggy, she is only a little low chested.) A model for an ideal country. France from a bird's eye view is like a patchwork quilt; it is all used up in samples: mosaic fields cut up into strips whittled away at each end by the succession laws. Roads so straight that they might have been cut with a knife, breaking away at the villages round which they make rectilinear patterns, like the petals of meagre flowers. The English country road is less rational and less sensible, but much more shady and companionable.

Dusk was falling. A blue mist was rising, covering everything but the billowy tree tops and the pointed roofs of the coast houses. Then came the London suburbs out of which the crowds seemed to rise like bubbles to the surface of a pond full of organic matter, and the first trams with their headlights and BOVRIL in letters of flame. It was only light now in the sky. Why do we say that night falls? Surely it rises. At last the motors died down, the propellors appeared suddenly, the travellers' ears began to sing, and each blade of grass became gigantic as it swayed in the rush of air: Croydon aerodrome.

How far from Le Bourget, left only two hours before, far from the Abattoirs and the Flanders road bordered, as if by geraniums, by slaughtered pigs and petrol pumps, towards the stony desert of the aerodrome where the huge aeroplanes sweating green oil sleep in their reinforced concrete stables. Where was the stream of pretty painted work girls, so lissom and exotic, leaving their work in Paris like Seville cigarette makers? Here one fell right into the arms of the Anglican Church. Sunday: Evensong: the 5th chapter of the Gospel according to Saint Matthew. The country offered to the traveller not the dismal countenance of a railway station, but a green countryside, with new-washed cheeks. Let us make a chimney descent into the heart of the English home. In the clubs the diners were allowed, for that evening only, to dine in day clothes. On the Sabbath, that weekly day of catalepsy, the basements of the houses were all shut up and the servants who lived there were at church; the Salvationists sang in a South Eastern Railway tunnel in which the smoke obstinately lingered; the Israelites, who are opposed to the silk hat habit, were returning home from the symphony concerts; the playing fields were empty, under a curse; not a wisp of smoke came from the chimney pots, for everyone was having cold supper. The only places open were the fire stations and the public houses reeking of leather and malt.

Lewis was driven to London to a hotel in the Strand. His room looked out over the Thames, which at this point traces a soft silvery curve towards the Houses of Parliament. He opened his bag and took out the files in it. He stared for a moment at the one on which was written "San Lucido" in blue pencil. He shrugged his shoulders wretchedly.