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Introduction to the Simulation of Dynamics Using
Simulink 1st Edition Michael A. Gray Digital Instant
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Author(s): Michael A. Gray
ISBN(s): 9781439818978, 1439818975
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INTRODUCTION TO
the Simulation
of Dynamics
Using Simulink®
Chapman & Hall/CRC
Computational Science Series
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Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory
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PUBLISHED TITLES
the Simulation
of Dynamics
Using Simulink®
Michael A. Gray
��MATLAB®, Simulink®, and Stateflow® are trademarks of The MathWorks, Inc. and are used with
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This book is dedicated to my wife, Mary Teresa, and my father,
John M. Gray, without whose influence, constant encouragement,
and unfailing support it would not have been possible.
Table of Contents
Preface, xv
vii
viii ◾ Table of Contents
Index, 301
Preface
xv
xvi ◾ Preface
of the system. There are many kinds of simulation in the world, including
simulations of systems from arts, humanities, social sciences, and physical
sciences, but we generally restrict our work to simulations of physical sys-
tems that arise in science, technology, and applied mathematics. We also
focus mainly on physical systems whose behavior unfolds continuously in
time rather than at discrete points in time, although we do examine some
discretely unfolding systems for educational purposes. The models we use
are mathematical models, consisting of sets of mathematical equations
that predict parameters of importance for the systems.
There are many kinds of physical systems whose behavior is known to
be stochastic. By this we mean that the system equations contain param-
eters whose values do not vary in time in a deterministic manner. The next
value of such parameters at any time cannot be determined solely by the
current time and the system’s past history, but must be chosen by knowing
the statistics of the processes and choosing values according to the appro-
priate statistical distribution. Stochastic systems require a different set of
techniques from those that we study in this text, so we restrict our study
to systems whose models are deterministic in nature.
1.1 Systems
To begin our study of the simulation of continuous systems, we must start
with a definition of what we consider to be a system. A system is a collection
of associated parts whose combined behavior can be viewed as the behavior
of a unified entity. We need to examine the features of this definition care-
fully because each carries important implications about the assumptions
in this definition.
1.1.1 Examples of Systems
Systems are so pervasive in our world that we are overwhelmed with
examples. Our farms are intricate agricultural systems for producing large
amounts of food in a reliable and sustainable manner. Our food is often
prepared in chemical facilities that are complex chemical systems. We live in
an environment of animals and organisms that constitutes a biological sys-
tem of immense complexity. Humans organize themselves into large social
systems containing complex subsystems such as the mechanism through
which we organize our trading, our economic system. Mechanical systems
such as buildings and automobiles surround us in everyday life. The parts
of a building—its rooms, stairways, heating and cooling mechanisms—are
quite different from each other but are designed to work together to provide
the overall function of sheltering us from weather. The heating and cool-
ing mechanisms are usually subsystems due to their own systemic natures.
Electrical systems include the power grid that delivers electrical power to
our buildings. Modern cities, which are systems consisting of an extremely
complex collection of physical, social, political, and economic subsystems,
are very likely the most complex things humanity has ever devised. All
of these systems are candidates for simulation so that we can understand
their workings better and control these systems for our benefit.
4 ◾ Introduction to the Simulation of Dynamics Using Simulink
1.1.2 Classifying Systems
We want to study systems in an orderly and systematic way. To do this,
we need to divide them into categories according to some fundamental
feature. Since all systems possess behavior and change as time goes by,
we can group them according to the way in which this change occurs.
Systems can be classified into discrete-time systems and continuous systems
according to whether their change occurs discretely or continuously.
Discrete-time systems are systems that change only at certain times,
which are the discrete times to which the name refers. Often the discrete
times at which change is allowed occur in a regular, periodic fashion. This
is usually the case with electrical systems, which are often controlled by a
system clock. Electrical systems of this kind are called synchronous systems,
since they are synchronized by the ticking of a clock. Computer processors
are good examples of synchronous systems, and their performance is usu-
ally characterized by their clock speed expressed as a frequency in giga-
hertz. A classic biological discrete-time system is an animal species whose
population change occurs only once a year according to a natural repro-
ductive cycle. The discrete times of such a system are regular yearly times.
Sometimes the discrete times of system change are irregularly spaced and
connected with an event. These systems are sometimes called discrete-event
systems. A classic example of a discrete-event system is a shopping-mall
parking lot, whose slots are filled or emptied at irregular times, determined
by the irregular arrival and departure behavior of shoppers.
The second kinds of systems studied in this text are continuous systems.
A continuous system is a system whose behavior varies smoothly and con-
tinuously as the fundamental system variables change. Time is usually the
fundamental independent variable for these systems, and our mathemati-
cal equations describe the change in these systems as time increases.
1.2.2 Continuous Models
Continuous models usually consist of a set of algebraic or differential
equations describing the evolution of the system behavior in time. The
dynamical equations needed to describe continuous physical systems
often involve the rates of change of time-varying parameters and func-
tions. The incorporation of such terms in the equations makes them into
differential equations, so that the techniques of integral and differential
calculus must be used to analyze the equations.
1.3 Constructing Simulations
from Dynamical Models
Once we have models of systems in the form of dynamical equations, we
can build simulations based on the models. The simulations we will study in
this text are digital simulations—digital computer programs whose opera-
tion provides us with the simulation outputs. A simulation construction
consists of either the development of a general-purpose-language program
that simulates the system or the assembly of a simulation by using a simu-
lation system that provides the simulator with a set of generic programs
out of which the simulation may be constructed.
The first technique is often difficult and slow, although it provides the
simulation developer with a very deep insight into how the simulation pro-
gram itself works. The second technique is easy and fast, and it provides the
developer with a simulation very rapidly at the tradeoff of less knowledge
of the internals of the simulation code. As stated in the Preface, our goal
in this text is to encourage students to use simulation from the very begin-
ning of their study as an exploratory tool and a means of gaining intuition
about system behavior. So, in this text, we will study the construction of
simulations by using a simulation system—the Simulink® software that is
part of the MATLAB® software environment, a widely used scientific and
engineering computation system.
6 ◾ Introduction to the Simulation of Dynamics Using Simulink
Input
Memory Processor
Output
Desired Actual
position Error position
Controller Arm motor
Position
sensor
solution by reducing the actual model to a less complicated one that can
be solved by symbolic methods. But, even if the approximation approach
fails, digital simulation can still provide a solution. Consequently, simu-
lation is often used as a means of last resort when analyzing a model. Of
course, most of the simple scientific problems and engineering projects
have been analyzed thoroughly and are well documented in the research
and engineering literature, so new projects often require simulation as
their analysis method.
A second way in which simulation is used is to demonstrate the features
of a model’s dynamics in a very explicit way to help analysts gain insight
and intuition into the system’s behavior. Simulations often use powerful
graphics with extensive parameterization so that the effect of the param-
eters can be explored very rapidly. These what-if analyses can be very help-
ful in formulating other models that may be more useful in understanding
a system’s behavior.
In this book, we examine models that show both of these usages.
1.5 Summary
We have discussed the importance of models in dealing with systems and
their dynamics. Simulation is a main tool of the twenty-first century for
analyzing models, and these models provide scientists and technologists
with the opportunity to examine the dynamical behavior of models and
to change physical systems.
A system is a collection of associated parts whose combined behavior
can be viewed as a whole, and systems can be grouped into discrete-time
and continuous systems. Discrete-time systems change at specific times,
while continuous systems change smoothly and continuously.
Block diagrams are representations of systems in the form of a network
of design elements represented by blocks. Simulations can be constructed
from block diagrams using simulation software, and in this text we use the
Simulink software of the MATLAB software environment.
x(t) = 3 (2.1)
11
12 ◾ Introduction to the Simulation of Dynamics Using Simulink
y(t) = −1 (2.2)
z(t) = 10 (2.3)
−1 → y(t) (2.5)
10 → z(t) (2.6)
We need two blocks to represent each of Equations (2.4)–(2.6), with a con-
stant as an input block and the coordinate value as an output block.
The Basics of Simulation in Simulink ◾ 13
clicking at any point in the background. A text box is opened with a blink-
ing cursor, and we can type documentation into the box. We can use this
feature to title models with the model number and a short descriptive title.
If we click on the File menu in the Menu bar of the Model Editor win-
dow, we see a list of menu items, including one named Model Properties.
Selecting this item opens a Model Properties window containing several
tabs. Selecting the History or Description tabs enables us to document the
model within the model’s properties. The Description tab contains a text
block for a complete description of the model and its purpose. The History
tab contains a Model History block that contains history lines used to track
changes in the model. It is very convenient to have an automatic means of
reminding us for a history line every time we make a change, and the
The Basics of Simulation in Simulink ◾ 15
History tab has an option at the bottom enabling us to get a prompt each
time we save the model. If we select the “When saving model” option at the
“Prompt to update model history” item at the bottom, we’ll be prompted
to enter a history line in the Log Change window for the model. Be sure
that the “Show this dialog next time when save” and the “Include modified
comments in modified history” options are checked. If we make a trivial
change that does not need to be documented, clearing the “Include modi-
fied comments in modified history” option allows the model to be saved
without a history line added to the history.
Note that the title bar at the very top of the Model Editor window now
says “untitled.” The word untitled is used to indicate that we have not yet
named the model. Whenever the symbol * is appended to the model name,
it shows that there have been changes to the model since it was opened. At
the bottom of the Model Editor window there is an information line show-
ing a status on the left, the amount of magnification (zoom) in the middle,
and execution configuration information on the right.
Since it’s always a wise strategy to save models frequently, we save the
model now. If we select the File | Save As menu item when we are in the
Model Editor window, we can use a Windows File Browser to locate the
target folder and save our model under a name we choose. The file name
will be the name of the model, and it will have the extension .mdl in the
File Browser to indicate that it’s a Simulink model file. An additional piece
of advice is to append a version identifier to the file name so that we can
16 ◾ Introduction to the Simulation of Dynamics Using Simulink
retain different versions as we develop the model. For example, we’re going
to use Model_chapternumber_modelnumber_version as the file name, so
that the first file to be saved is Model_2_1_1, and so on. We might want to
use a blank separator or decimal point in our name, such as Model 2.1.1,
but Simulink doesn’t allow blanks or decimal points in model file names,
so we chose to use the “underscore” symbol as a separator.
For many years, the oscilloscope was the primary laboratory tool for
displaying the time behavior of signals. The classical oscilloscope was a
cathode-ray tube that presented the viewer with a black background and
traced the input signal in time as a white line on a grid of y(t) versus t. So
it is not surprising that the basic block for output in Simulink is a simula-
tion of the classical oscilloscope named the Scope block. This output block
is very commonly used in simulations created in Simulink, so we use it in
this first model.
indicates the particular block’s purpose or function within the model. One
way we can do this is by left-clicking the Block Name and editing the field.
However, a better way of customizing the name is to use the Block
Properties window. If we right-click on the Scope block in a Model Editor
window, we see the menu of actions on the block. The two actions—For-
mat and Block Properties—are both used for changing the block name.
20 ◾ Introduction to the Simulation of Dynamics Using Simulink
Selecting the Format action opens the submenu shown in Figure 2.7, con-
taining a number of formatting choices. If we want to hide the default-
type name, we only have to select the Hide Name entry in the list.
Next we re-right-click on the Scope block, but this time select the
Block Properties action item to see the submenu window below. This sub-
menu has three tabbed panes on it, titled General, Block Annotation, and
Callbacks. If we select the Block Annotation tab, we can enter a text string
into the “Enter text and tokens for annotation:” text area that will be the
name for the block appearing beneath the block in the Model Editor win-
dow, as shown in Figure 2.8. If we make these changes to our model, we
have our third version of the simplest model, as shown in Figure 2.9.
Now we have to provide the rest of the blocks for the model. We reex-
amine Equations (2.4)–(2.6) to see which Scope inputs are needed, and we
find that we need three constant inputs.
Returning to our model construction, we can select this block from the
Sources library and drag it to the left-hand side of the model to give us an
input block that provides a constant output. We need three of these for the
three constant values of the x(t), y(t), and z(t) inputs. Again, we rename
all the blocks using appropriate names and produce the model shown in
Figure 2.11.
CHAPTER 40
The spring they had left behind in Orotava overtook them quite soon,
and one day there it was blowing softly along the old streets of the
Quarter—the Rue de Seine, the Rue des Saints Pères, the Rue
Bonaparte and their own Rue Jacob. And who can resist the first
spring days in Paris? Brighter than ever looked the patches of sky
when glimpsed between rows of tall, flat-bosomed houses. From the
Pont des Arts could be seen a river that was one wide, ingratiating
smile of sunshine; while beyond in the Rue des Petits Champs,
spring ran up and down the Passage Choiseul, striking gleams of
gold from its dirty glass roof—the roof that looks like the vertebral
column of some prehistoric monster.
All over the Bois there was bursting of buds—a positive orgy of
growth and greenness. The miniature waterfall lifted its voice in an
effort to roar as loud as Niagara. Birds sang. Dogs yapped or barked
or bayed according to their size and the tastes of their owners.
Children appeared in the Champs Elysées with bright coloured
balloons which tried to escape and which, given the ghost of a
chance, always did so. In the Tuileries Gardens boys with brown legs
and innocent socks were hiring toy boats from the man who
provided Bateaux de Location. The fountains tossed clouds of spray
into the air, and just for fun made an occasional rainbow; then the
Arc de Triomphe would be seen through an arc that was, thanks to
the sun, even more triumphal. As for the very old lady in her kiosk—
the one who sells bocks, groseille, limonade, and such simple food-
stuffs as brioches and croissants—as for her, she appeared in a new
frilled bonnet and a fine worsted shawl on one memorable Sunday.
Smiling she was too, from ear to ear, in spite of the fact that her
mouth was toothless, for this fact she only remembered in winter
when the east wind started her empty gums aching.
Under the quiet, grey wings of the Madeleine the flower-stalls
were bright with the glory of God—anemones, jonquils, daffodils,
tulips; mimosa that left gold dust on the fingers, and the faintly
perfumed ascetic white lilac that had come in the train from the
Riviera. There were also hyacinths, pink, red and blue, and many
small trees of sturdy azalea.
Oh, but the spring was shouting through Paris! It was in the
hearts and the eyes of the people. The very dray-horses jangled
their bells more loudly because of the spring in their drivers. The
debauched old taxis tooted their horns and spun round the corners
as though on a race track. Even such glacial things as the diamonds
in the Rue de la Paix, were kindled to fire as the sun pierced their
facets right through to their entrails; while the sapphires glowed as
those African nights had glowed in the garden at Orotava.
Was it likely that Stephen could finish her book—she who had
Paris in springtime with Mary? Was it likely that Mary could urge her
to do so—she who had Paris in springtime with Stephen? There was
so much to see, so much to show Mary, so many new things to
discover together. And now Stephen felt grateful to Jonathan
Brockett who had gone to such pains to teach her her Paris.
Idle she was, let it not be denied, idle and happy and utterly
carefree. A lover, who, like many another before her, was under the
spell of the loved one’s existence. She would wake in the mornings
to find Mary beside her, and all through the day she would keep
beside Mary, and at night they would lie in each other’s arms—God
alone knows who shall dare judge of such matters; in any case
Stephen was too much bewitched to be troubled just then by hair-
splitting problems.
Life had become a new revelation. The most mundane things
were invested with glory; shopping with Mary who needed quite a
number of dresses. And then there was food that was eaten
together—the careful perusal of wine-card and menu. They would
lunch or have dinner at Lapérouse; surely still the most epicurean
restaurant in the whole of an epicurean city. So humble it looks with
its modest entrance on the Quai des Grands Augustins; so humble
that a stranger might well pass it by unnoticed, but not so Stephen,
who had been there with Brockett.
Mary loved Prunier’s in the Rue Duphot, because of its galaxy of
sea-monsters. A whole counter there was of incredible creatures—
Oursins, black armoured and covered with prickles; Bigorneaux;
serpent-like Anguilles Fumées; and many other exciting things that
Stephen mistrusted for English stomachs. They would sit at their
own particular table, one of the tables upstairs by the window, for
the manager came very quickly to know them and would smile and
bow grandly: ‘Bon jour, mesdames.’ When they left, the attendant
who kept the flower-basket would give Mary a neat little bouquet of
roses: ‘Au revoir, mesdames. Merci bien—à bientôt!’ For every one
had pretty manners at Prunier’s.
A few people might stare at the tall, scarred woman in her well-
tailored clothes and black slouch hat. They would stare first at her
and then at her companion: ‘Mais regardez moi ça! Elle est belle, la
petite; comme c’est rigolo!’ There would be a few smiles, but on the
whole they would attract little notice—ils en ont vu bien d’autres—it
was post-war Paris.
Sometimes, having dined, they would saunter towards home
through streets that were crowded with others who sauntered—men
and women, a couple of women together—always twos—the fine
nights seemed prolific of couples. In the air there would be the
inconsequent feeling that belongs to the night life of most great
cities, above all to the careless night life of Paris, where problems
are apt to vanish with sunset. The lure of the brightly lighted
boulevards, the lure of the dim and mysterious bystreets would grip
them so that they would not turn homeward for quite a long while,
but would just go on walking. The moon, less clear than at Orotava,
less innocent doubtless, yet scarcely less lovely, would come sailing
over the Place de la Concorde, staring down at the dozens of other
white moons that had managed to get themselves caught by the
standards. In the cafés would be crowds of indolent people, for the
French who work hard know well how to idle; and these cafés would
smell of hot coffee and sawdust, of rough, strong tobacco, of men
and women. Beneath the arcades there would be the shop windows,
illuminated and bright with temptation. But Mary would usually stare
into Sulka’s, picking out scarves or neckties for Stephen.
‘That one! We’ll come and buy it to-morrow. Oh, Stephen, do
wait—look at that dressing-gown!’
And Stephen might laugh and pretend to be bored, though she
secretly nurtured a weakness for Sulka’s.
Down the Rue de Rivoli they would walk arm in arm, until turning
at last, they would pass the old church of St. Germain—the church
from whose Gothic tower had been rung the first call to a most
bloody slaying. But now that tower would be grim with silence,
dreaming the composite dreams of Paris—dreams that were heavy
with blood and beauty, with innocence and lust, with joy and despair,
with life and death, with heaven and hell; all the curious composite
dreams of Paris.
Then crossing the river they would reach the Quarter and their
house, where Stephen would slip her latchkey into the door and
would know the warm feeling that can come of a union between
door and latchkey. With a sigh of contentment they would find
themselves at home once again in the quiet old Rue Jacob.
They went to see the kind Mademoiselle Duphot, and this visit
seemed momentous to Mary. She gazed with something almost like
awe at the woman who had had the teaching of Stephen.
‘Oh, but yes,’ smiled Mademoiselle Duphot, ‘I teached her. She
was terribly naughty over her dictée; she would write remarks about
the poor Henri—très impertinente she would be about Henri!
Stévenne was a queer little child and naughty—but so dear, so dear
—I could never scold her. With me she done everything her own
way.’
‘Please tell me about that time,’ coaxed Mary.
So Mademoiselle Duphot sat down beside Mary and patted her
hand: ‘Like me, you love her. Well now let me recall— She would
sometimes get angry, very angry, and then she would go to the
stables and talk to her horse. But when she fence it was marvellous
—she fence like a man, and she only a baby but extrémement
strong. And then. . . .’ The memories went on and on, such a store
she possessed, the kind Mademoiselle Duphot.
As she talked her heart went out to the girl, for she felt a great
tenderness towards young things: ‘I am glad that you come to live
with our Stévenne now that Mademoiselle Puddle is at Morton.
Stévenne would be desolate in the big house. It is charming for both
of you this new arrangement. While she work you look after the
ménage; is it not so? You take care of Stévenne, she take care of
you. Oui, oui, I am glad you have come to Paris.’
Julie stroked Mary’s smooth young cheek, then her arm, for she
wished to observe through her fingers. She smiled: ‘Very young, also
very kind. I like so much the feel of your kindness—it gives me a
warm and so happy sensation, because with all kindness there must
be much good.’
Was she quite blind after all, the poor Julie?
And hearing her Stephen flushed with pleasure, and her eyes
that could see turned and rested on Mary with a gentle and very
profound expression in their depths—at that moment they were
calmly thoughtful, as though brooding upon the mystery of life—one
might almost have said the eyes of a mother.
A happy and pleasant visit it had been; they talked about it all
through the evening.
CHAPTER 41
They could not tear themselves away from their home, and that
summer they remained in Paris. There were always so many things
to do, Mary’s bedroom entirely to refurnish for instance—she had
Puddle’s old room overlooking the garden. When the city seemed to
be growing too airless, they motored off happily into the country,
spending a couple of nights at an auberge, for France abounds in
green, pleasant places. Once or twice they lunched with Jonathan
Brockett at his flat in the Avenue Victor Hugo, a beautiful flat since
his taste was perfect, and he dined with them before leaving for
Deauville—his manner continued to be studiously guarded. The
Duphots had gone for their holiday and Buisson was away in Spain
for a month—but what did they want that summer with people? On
those evenings when they did not go out, Stephen would now read
aloud to Mary, leading the girl’s adaptable mind into new and
hitherto unexplored channels; teaching her the joy that can lie in
books, even as Sir Philip had once taught his daughter. Mary had
read so little in her life that the choice of books seemed practically
endless, but Stephen must make a start by reading that immortal
classic of their own Paris, Peter Ibbetson, and Mary said:
‘Stephen—if we were ever parted, do you think that you and I
could dream true?’
And Stephen answered: ‘I often wonder whether we’re not
dreaming true all the time—whether the only truth isn’t in dreaming.’
Then they talked for a while of such nebulous things as dreams,
which will seem very concrete to lovers.
Sometimes Stephen would read aloud in French, for she wanted
the girl to grow better acquainted with the lure of that fascinating
language. And thus gradually, with infinite care, did she seek to fill
the more obvious gaps in Mary’s none too complete education. And
Mary, listening to Stephen’s voice, rather deep and always a little
husky, would think that words were more tuneful than music and
more inspiring, when spoken by Stephen.
At this time many gentle and friendly things began to bear
witness to Mary’s presence. There were flowers in the quiet old
garden for instance, and some large red carp in the fountain’s basin,
and two married couples of white fantail pigeons who lived in a
house on a tall wooden leg and kept up a convivial cooing. These
pigeons lacked all respect for Stephen; by August they were flying in
at her window and landing with soft, heavy thuds on her desk where
they strutted until she fed them with maize. And because they were
Mary’s and Mary loved them, Stephen would laugh, as unruffled as
they were, and would patiently coax them back into the garden with
bribes for their plump little circular crops. In the turret room that
had been Puddle’s sanctum, there were now three cagefuls of Mary’s
rescues—tiny bright coloured birds with dejected plumage, and eyes
that had filmed from a lack of sunshine. Mary was always bringing
them home from the terrible bird shops along the river, for her love
of such helpless and suffering things was so great that she in her
turn must suffer. An ill-treated creature would haunt her for days, so
that Stephen would often exclaim half in earnest:
‘Go and buy up all the animal shops in Paris . . . anything,
darling, only don’t look unhappy!’
The tiny bright coloured birds would revive to some extent,
thanks to Mary’s skilled treatment; but since she always bought the
most ailing, not a few of them left this disheartening world for what
we must hope was a warm, wild heaven—there were several small
graves already in the garden.
Then one morning, when Mary went out alone because Stephen
had letters to write to Morton, she chanced on yet one more
desolate creature who followed her home to the Rue Jacob, and
right into Stephen’s immaculate study. It was large, ungainly and
appallingly thin; it was coated with mud which had dried on its nose,
its back, its legs and all over its stomach. Its paws were heavy, its
ears were long, and its tail, like the tail of a rat, looked hairless, but
curved up to a point in a miniature sickle. Its face was as smooth as
though made out of plush, and its luminous eyes were the colour of
amber.
Mary said: ‘Oh, Stephen—he wanted to come. He’s got a sore
paw; look at him, he’s limping!’
Then this tramp of a dog hobbled over to the table and stood
there gazing dumbly at Stephen, who must stroke his anxious,
dishevelled head: ‘I suppose this means that we’re going to keep
him.’
‘Darling, I’m dreadfully afraid it does—he says he’s sorry to be
such a mongrel.’
‘He needn’t apologize,’ Stephen smiled, ‘he’s all right, he’s an
Irish water-spaniel, though what he’s doing out here the Lord
knows; I’ve never seen one before in Paris.’
They fed him, and later that afternoon they gave him a bath in
Stephen’s bathroom. The result of that bath, which was
disconcerting as far as the room went, they left to Adèle. The room
was a bog, but Mary’s rescue had emerged a mass of chocolate
ringlets, all save his charming plush-covered face, and his curious
tail, which was curved like a sickle. Then they bound the sore pad
and took him downstairs; after which Mary wanted to know all about
him, so Stephen unearthed an illustrated dog book from a cupboard
under the study bookcase.
‘Oh, look!’ exclaimed Mary, reading over her shoulder, ‘He’s not
Irish at all, he’s really a Welshman: “We find in the Welsh laws of
Howell Dda the first reference to this intelligent spaniel. The Iberians
brought the breed to Ireland. . . .” Of course, that’s why he followed
me home; he knew I was Welsh the moment he saw me!’
Stephen laughed: ‘Yes, his hair grows up from a peak like yours—
it must be a national failing. Well, what shall we call him? His name’s
important; it ought to be quite short.’
‘David,’ said Mary.
The dog looked gravely from one to the other for a moment,
then he lay down at Mary’s feet, dropping his chin on his bandaged
paw, and closing his eyes with a grunt of contentment. And so it had
suddenly come to pass that they who had lately been two, were now
three. There were Stephen and Mary—there was also David.
CHAPTER 42
T hat October there arose the first dark cloud. It drifted over to
Paris from England, for Anna wrote asking Stephen to Morton
but with never a mention of Mary Llewellyn. Not that she ever did
mention their friendship in her letters, indeed she completely
ignored it; yet this invitation which excluded the girl seemed to
Stephen an intentional slight upon Mary. A hot flush of anger spread
up to her brow as she read and re-read her mother’s brief letter:
‘I want to discuss some important points regarding the
management of the estate. As the place will eventually come to you,
I think we should try to keep more in touch. . . .’ Then a list of the
points Anna wished to discuss; they seemed very trifling indeed to
Stephen.
She put the letter away in a drawer and sat staring darkly out of
the window. In the garden Mary was talking to David, persuading
him not to retrieve the pigeons.
‘If my mother had invited her ten times over I’d never have taken
her to Morton,’ Stephen muttered.
Oh, but she knew, and only too well, what it would mean should
they be there together; the lies, the despicable subterfuges, as
though they were little less than criminals. It would be: ‘Mary, don’t
hang about my bedroom—be careful . . . of course while we’re here
at Morton . . . it’s my mother, she can’t understand these things; to
her they would seem an outrage, an insult. . . .’ And then the guard
set upon eyes and lips; the feeling of guilt at so much as a hand-
touch; the pretence of a careless, quite usual friendship—‘Mary,
don’t look at me as though you cared! you did this evening—
remember my mother.’
Intolerable quagmire of lies and deceit! The degrading of all that
to them was sacred—a very gross degrading of love, and through
love a gross degrading of Mary. Mary . . . so loyal and as yet so
gallant, but so pitifully untried in the war of existence. Warned only
by words, the words of a lover, and what were mere words when it
came to actions? And the ageing woman with the far-away eyes,
eyes that could yet be so cruel, so accusing—they might turn and
rest with repugnance on Mary, even as once they had rested on
Stephen: ‘I would rather see you dead at my feet. . . .’ A fearful
saying, and yet she had meant it, that ageing woman with the far-
away eyes—she had uttered it knowing herself to be a mother. But
that at least should be hidden from Mary.
She began to consider the ageing woman who had scourged her
but whom she had so deeply wounded, and as she did so the depth
of that wound made her shrink in spite of her bitter anger, so that
gradually the anger gave way to a slow and almost reluctant pity.
Poor, ignorant, blind, unreasoning woman; herself a victim, having
given her body for Nature’s most inexplicable whim. Yes, there had
been two victims already—must there now be a third—and that one
Mary? She trembled. At that moment she could not face it, she was
weak, she was utterly undone by loving. Greedy she had grown for
happiness, for the joys and the peace that their union had brought
her. She would try to minimize the whole thing; she would say: ‘It
will only be for ten days; I must just run over about this business,’
then Mary would probably think it quite natural that she had not
been invited to Morton and would ask no questions—she never
asked questions. But would Mary think such a slight was quite
natural? Fear possessed her; she sat there terribly afraid of this
cloud that had suddenly risen to menace—afraid yet determined not
to submit, not to let it gain power through her own acquiescence.
There was only one weapon to keep it at bay. Getting up she
opened the window: ‘Mary!’
All unconscious the girl hurried in with David: ‘Did you call?’
‘Yes—come close. Closer . . . closer, sweetheart. . . .’
Shaken and very greatly humbled, Mary had let Stephen go from her
to Morton. She had not been deceived by Stephen’s glib words, and
had now no illusions regarding Anna Gordon. Lady Anna, suspecting
the truth about them, had not wished to meet her. It was all quite
clear, cruelly clear if it came to that matter—but these thoughts she
had mercifully hidden from Stephen.
She had seen Stephen off at the station with a smile: ‘I’ll write
every day. Do put on your coat, darling; you don’t want to arrive at
Morton with a chill. And mind you wire when you get to Dover.’
Yet now as she sat in the empty study, she must bury her face
and cry a little because she was here and Stephen in England . . .
and then of course, this was their first real parting.
David sat watching with luminous eyes in which were reflected
her secret troubles; then he got up and planted a paw on the book,
for he thought it high time to have done with this reading. He lacked
the language that Raftery had known—the language of many small
sounds and small movements—a clumsy and inarticulate fellow he
was, but unrestrainedly loving. He nearly broke his own heart
between love and the deep gratitude which he felt for Mary. At the
moment he wanted to lay back his ears and howl with despair to see
her unhappy. He wanted to make an enormous noise, the kind of
noise wild folk make in the jungle—lions and tigers and other wild
folk that David had heard about from his mother—his mother had
been in Africa once a long time ago, with an old French colonel. But
instead he abruptly licked Mary’s cheek—it tasted peculiar, he
thought, like sea water.
‘Do you want a walk, David?’ she asked him gently.
And as well as he could, David nodded his head by wagging his
tail which was shaped like a sickle. Then he capered, thumping the
ground with his paws; after which he barked twice in an effort to
amuse her, for such things had seemed funny to her in the past,
although now she appeared not to notice his capers. However, she
had put on her hat and coat; so, still barking, he followed her
through the courtyard.
They wandered along the Quai Voltaire, Mary pausing to look at
the misty river.
‘Shall I dive in and bring you a rat?’ inquired David by lunging
wildly backwards and forwards.
She shook her head. ‘Do stop, David; be good!’ Then she sighed
again and stared at the river; so David stared too, but he stared at
Mary.
Quite suddenly Paris had lost its charm for her. After all, what
was it? Just a big, foreign city—a city that belonged to a stranger
people who cared nothing for Stephen and nothing for Mary. They
were exiles. She turned the word over in her mind—exiles; it
sounded unwanted, lonely. But why had Stephen become an exile?
Why had she exiled herself from Morton? Strange that she, Mary,
had never asked her—had never wanted to until this moment.
She walked on not caring very much where she went. It grew
dusk, and the dusk brought with it great longing—the longing to see,
to hear, to touch—almost a physical pain it was, this longing to feel
the nearness of Stephen. But Stephen had left her to go to Morton
. . . Morton, that was surely Stephen’s real home, and in that real
home there was no place for Mary.
She was not resentful. She did not condemn either the world, or
herself, or Stephen. Hers was no mind to wrestle with problems, to
demand either justice or explanation; she only knew that her heart
felt bruised so that all manner of little things hurt her. It hurt her to
think of Stephen surrounded by objects that she had never seen—
tables, chairs, pictures, all old friends of Stephen’s, all dear and
familiar, yet strangers to Mary. It hurt her to think of the unknown
bedroom in which Stephen had slept since the days of her
childhood; of the unknown schoolroom where Stephen had worked;
of the stables, the lakes and the gardens of Morton. It hurt her to
think of the two unknown women who must now be awaiting
Stephen’s arrival—Puddle, whom Stephen loved and respected; Lady
Anna, of whom she spoke very seldom, and who, Mary felt, could
never have loved her. And it came upon Mary with a little shock that
a long span of Stephen’s life was hidden; years and years of that life
had come and gone before they two had finally found each other.
How could she hope to link up with a past that belonged to a home
which she might not enter? Then, being a woman, she suddenly
ached for the quiet, pleasant things that a home will stand for—
security, peace, respect and honour, the kindness of parents, the
good-will of neighbours; happiness that can be shared with friends,
love that is proud to proclaim its existence. All that Stephen most
craved for the creature she loved, that creature must now quite
suddenly ache for.
And as though some mysterious cord stretched between them,
Stephen’s heart was troubled at that very moment; intolerably
troubled because of Morton, the real home which might not be
shared with Mary. Ashamed because of shame laid on another,
compassionate and suffering because of her compassion, she was
thinking of the girl left alone in Paris—the girl who should have come
with her to England, who should have been welcomed and honoured
at Morton. Then she suddenly remembered some words from the
past, very terrible words: ‘Could you marry me, Stephen?’
Mary turned and walked back to the Rue Jacob. Disheartened
and anxious, David lagged beside her. He had done all he could to
distract her mind from whatever it was that lay heavy upon it. He
had made a pretence of chasing a pigeon, he had barked himself
hoarse at a terrified beggar, he had brought her a stick and implored
her to throw it, he had caught at her skirt and tugged it politely; in
the end he had nearly got run over by a taxi in his desperate efforts
to gain her attention. This last attempt had certainly roused her: she
had put on his lead—poor, misunderstood David.
Mary went into Stephen’s study and sat down at the spacious
writing-table, for now all of a sudden she had only one ache, and
that was the ache of her love for Stephen. And because of her love
she wished to comfort, since in every fond woman there is much of
the mother. That letter was full of many things which a less
privileged pen had best left unwritten—loyalty, faith, consolation,
devotion; all this and much more she wrote to Stephen. As she sat
there, her heart seemed to swell within her as though in response to
some mighty challenge.
Thus it was that Mary met and defeated the world’s first tentative
onslaught upon them.
CHAPTER 43
They soon settled down to their more prosaic days very much as
quite ordinary people will do. Each of them now had her separate
tasks—Stephen her writing, and Mary the household, the paying of
bills, the filing of receipts, the answering of unimportant letters. But
for her there were long hours of idleness, since Pauline and Pierre
were almost too perfect—they would smile and manage the house
their own way, which it must be admitted was better than Mary’s. As
for the letters, there were not very many; and as for the bills, there
was plenty of money—being spared the struggle to make two ends
meet, she was also deprived of the innocent pleasure of scheming to
provide little happy surprises, little extra comforts for the person she
loved, which in youth can add a real zest to existence. Then Stephen
had found her typing too slow, so was sending the work to a woman
in Passy; obsessed by a longing to finish her book, she would
tolerate neither let nor hindrance. And because of their curious
isolation, there were times when Mary would feel very lonely. For
whom did she know? She had no friends in Paris except the kind
Mademoiselle Duphot and Julie. Once a week, it is true, she could go
and see Buisson, for Stephen continued to keep up her fencing; and
occasionally Brockett would come strolling in, but his interest was
centred entirely in Stephen; if she should be working, as was often
the case, he would not waste very much time over Mary.
Stephen often called her into the study, comforted by the girl’s
loving presence. ‘Come and sit with me, sweetheart, I like you in
here.’ But quite soon she would seem to forget all about her. ‘What
. . . what?’ she would mutter, frowning a little. ‘Don’t speak to me
just for a minute, Mary. Go and have your luncheon, there’s a good
child; I’ll come when I’ve finished this bit—you go on!’ But Mary’s
meal might be eaten alone; for meals had become an annoyance to
Stephen.
Of course there was David, the grateful, the devoted. Mary could
always talk to David, but since he could never answer her back the
conversation was very one-sided. Then too, he was making it
obvious that he, in his turn, was missing Stephen; he would hang
around looking discontented when she failed to go out after frequent
suggestions. For although his heart was faithful to Mary, the gentle
dispenser of all salvation, yet the instinct that has dwelt in the soul
of the male, perhaps ever since Adam left the Garden of Eden, the
instinct that displays itself in club windows and in other such places
of male segregation, would make him long for the companionable
walks that had sometimes been taken apart from Mary. Above all
would it make him long intensely for Stephen’s strong hands and
purposeful ways; for that queer, intangible something about her that
appealed to the canine manhood in him. She always allowed him to
look after himself, without fussing; in a word, she seemed restful to
David.
Mary, slipping noiselessly out of the study, might whisper: ‘We’ll
go to the Tuileries Gardens.’
But when they arrived there, what was there to do? For of course
a dog must not dive after goldfish—David understood this; there
were goldfish at home—he must not start splashing about in ponds
that had tiresome stone rims and ridiculous fountains. He and Mary
would wander along gravel paths, among people who stared at and
made fun of David: ‘Quel drôle de chien, mais regardez sa queue!’
They were like that, these French; they had laughed at his mother.
She had told him never so much as to say: ‘Wouf!’ For what did they
matter? Still, it was disconcerting. And although he had lived in
France all his life—having indeed known no other country—as he
walked in the stately Tuileries Gardens, the Celt in his blood would
conjure up visions: great beetling mountains with winding courses
down which the torrents went roaring in winter; the earth smell, the
dew smell, the smell of wild things which a dog might hunt and yet
remain lawful—for of all this and more had his old mother told him.
These visions it was that had led him astray, that had treacherously
led him half starving to Paris; and that, sometimes, even in these
placid days, would come back as he walked in the Tuileries Gardens.
But now his heart must thrust them aside—a captive he was now,
through love of Mary.
But to Mary there would come one vision alone, that of a garden
at Orotava; a garden lighted by luminous darkness, and filled with
the restless rhythm of singing.
The autumn passed, giving place to the winter, with its short, dreary
days of mist and rain. There was now little beauty left in Paris. A
grey sky hung above the old streets of the Quarter, a sky which no
longer looked bright by contrast, as though seen at the end of a
tunnel. Stephen was working like some one possessed, entirely re-
writing her pre-war novel. Good it had been, but not good enough,
for she now saw life from a much wider angle; and moreover, she
was writing this book for Mary. Remembering Mary, remembering
Morton, her pen covered sheet after sheet of paper; she wrote with
the speed of true inspiration, and at times her work brushed the
hem of greatness. She did not entirely neglect the girl for whose
sake she was making this mighty effort—that she could not have
done even had she wished to, since love was the actual source of
her effort. But quite soon there were days when she would not go
out, or if she did go, when she seemed abstracted, so that Mary
must ask her the same question twice—then as likely as not get a
nebulous answer. And soon there were days when all that she did
apart from her writing was done with an effort, with an obvious
effort to be considerate.
‘Would you like to go to a play one night, Mary?’
If Mary said yes, and procured the tickets, they were usually late,
because of Stephen who had worked right up to the very last
minute.
Sometimes there were poignant if small disappointments when
Stephen had failed to keep a promise. ‘Listen, Mary darling—will you
ever forgive me if I don’t come with you about those furs? I’ve a bit
of work here I simply must finish. You do understand?’
‘Yes, of course I do.’ But Mary, left to choose her new furs alone,
had quite suddenly felt that she did not want them.
And this sort of thing happened fairly often.
If only Stephen had confided in her, had said: ‘I’m trying to build
you a refuge; remember what I told you in Orotava!’ But no, she
shrank from reminding the girl of the gloom that surrounded their
small patch of sunshine. If only she had shown a little more patience
with Mary’s careful if rather slow typing, and so given her a real
occupation—but no, she must send the work off to Passy, because
the sooner this book was finished the better it would be for Mary’s
future. And thus, blinded by love and her desire to protect the
woman she loved, she erred towards Mary.
When she had finished her writing for the day, she frequently
read it aloud in the evening. And although Mary knew that the
writing was fine, yet her thoughts would stray from the book to
Stephen. The deep, husky voice would read on and on, having in it
something urgent, appealing, so that Mary must suddenly kiss
Stephen’s hand, or the scar on her cheek, because of that voice far
more than because of what it was reading.
And now there were times when, serving two masters, her
passion for this girl and her will to protect her, Stephen would be
torn by conflicting desires, by opposing mental and physical
emotions. She would want to save herself for her work; she would
want to give herself wholly to Mary.
Yet quite often she would work far into the night. ‘I’m going to
be late—you go to bed, sweetheart.’
And when she herself had at last toiled upstairs, she would steal
like a thief past Mary’s bedroom, although Mary would nearly always
hear her.
‘Is that you, Stephen?’
‘Yes. Why aren’t you asleep? Do you realize that it’s three in the
morning?’
‘Is it? You’re not angry, are you, darling? I kept thinking of you
alone in the study. Come here and say you’re not angry with me,
even if it is three o’clock in the morning!’
Then Stephen would slip off her old tweed coat and would fling
herself down on the bed beside Mary, too exhausted to do more
than take the girl in her arms, and let her lie there with her head on
her shoulder.
But Mary would be thinking of all those things which she found
so deeply appealing in Stephen—the scar on her cheek, the
expression in her eyes, the strength and the queer, shy gentleness of
her—the strength which at moments could not be gentle. And as
they lay there Stephen might sleep, worn out by the strain of those
long hours of writing. But Mary would not sleep, or if she slept it
would be when the dawn was paling the windows.
One morning Stephen looked at Mary intently. ‘Come here. You’re not
well! What’s the matter? Tell me.’ For she thought that the girl was
unusually pale, thought too that her lips drooped a little at the
corners; and a sudden fear contracted her heart. ‘Tell me at once
what’s the matter with you!’ Her voice was rough with anxiety, and
she laid an imperative hand over Mary’s.
Mary protested. ‘Don’t be absurd; there’s nothing the matter, I’m
perfectly well—you’re imagining things.’ For what could be the
matter? Was she not here in Paris with Stephen? But her eyes filled
with tears, and she turned away quickly to hide them, ashamed of
her own unreason.
Stephen stuck to her point. ‘You don’t look a bit well. We
shouldn’t have stayed in Paris last summer.’ Then because her own
nerves were on edge that day, she frowned. ‘It’s this business of
your not eating whenever I can’t get in to a meal. I know you don’t
eat—Pierre’s told me about it. You mustn’t behave like a baby, Mary!
I shan’t be able to write a line if I feel you’re ill because you’re not
eating.’ Her fear was making her lose her temper. ‘I shall send for a
doctor,’ she finished brusquely.
Mary refused point-blank to see a doctor. What was she to tell
him? She hadn’t any symptoms. Pierre exaggerated. She ate quite
enough—she had never been a very large eater. Stephen had better
get on with her work and stop upsetting herself over nothing.
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