Читать книгу The Brothers - A Story - H.G. Wells - Страница 7

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Bolaris and Catherine stood at the small window beside the portico of the villa and watched the cars pause for a moment to check with the sentinels and then vanish one after the other through the gates. Bolaris laid his hand on Catherine's farther shoulder and drew her face towards his own, a familiarity he would never have allowed himself in the jealous presence of Handon.

"That gets rid of him," he said.

She let her cheek touch his ever so lightly. But Bolaris, she perceived, was not in the mood for making love that night. He was thinking of Handon.

"Handon," he said, "is the perfect lieutenant, the ideal disciple, the loyalest of the Five."

She thought for a moment. "You make people like that."

"I never made Handon. He was born, not made.... Darling, when at last we are in the city and the whole country is ours, and I have settled certain little affairs of which you know, then, I suppose, you think, as everybody thinks, that I shall be dictator, a real dictator, and do just exactly as I like."

She was quick to take his meaning. "There will be Handon, of course," she said.

"There will be Handon," he said softly. "There will be all the Five. There will be the Bands, the Inner Circle, the Boys. There will be all that I have said because I wanted to hear how it sounded, and all that I said because I knew it would win them. And all that I have been to them and all that I am to them. A man fettered from head to foot in what is expected of him. His own slave. I shall have to do what is expected of me at every turn. As much a sacrifice as one of those magic kings you read about in Frazer's Golden Bough.... Catherine, dear, the other night I had a dream. It was a triumph. I was on the balcony of the palace above the great square over there, and they were cheering me and cheering me. Silver trumpets. Banners. Waving flags. Crowds as far as the eye could reach. And a sort of horror of myself came upon me. I found I was not moving myself. I was being moved. My nerves had become wires. I was made to lift up my hand and salute the crowd. I was caught. I was frozen. I had become an automaton. ... And then quite suddenly I was alone with you. I was weeping, my dear; I was kneeling at your feet between your knees and weeping in your arms. As I did —you remember that time? I was doing it because that is what I felt like doing and not what I had to do. And then— outside—the cheering had changed to howling."

She kissed him very softly.

"And now," he said, abruptly withdrawing his arm, "for my brother."

"Your brother?" she cried.

"Obviously my brother."

"But how, your brother?"

"I don't know. He does. I want him to tell me."

"Your brother!"

"Worse than that. Dearest!—my Twin. No one must know, of course. We must hush it up. No dictatorship could stand it for a moment. Think of Handon! Oh, my dear! think of Handon!"

Bolaris was seized by laughter. The sentinels outside heard him and exchanged glances of amazement. She loved his swift changes to laughter and her heart within her laughed. For he had scarcely laughed at all since his first repulse before the city. He had been dark and moody.

"Handon's whole soul is fighting against it now! The devotee, the fanatic, the soul of loyalty! The psychological struggle going on in that car up the hill must be stupendous. Twins! It is something he will not believe—cannot believe. Not even half-brothers. Not even mere brothers. Never will that frightful realization get into his head—unless it is driven in with a nail and hammer. The obvious was already fighting for life in him—and losing, when he talked just now. How could he, how could any one of his quality, be devoted to a Twin! You, my dear, were slightly shaken. Oh, yes! you were. There was a faint recoil. Don't I know? You'll get over it. But for him! Two of me! And one of them on the other side! It would give his poor wits a sort of permanent squint. From the very moment he set eyes on Ratzel he realized that such a being was intolerable. Impossible. Ratzel, he feels, is sheer blasphemy. Taking my likeness in vain. A revolting caricature.... If Handon can contrive to kill him, he will. Mark my words. Shoot him and bury him and forget about him. Or rather not forget about him, but go on to a story that in no respect was it possible to mistake him for me. Ratzel will become shorter—very, very, very ugly —sinister."

He clapped his hands for an officer.

"Bring the prisoner to me in the room upstairs. I want to question him in private."