Her Lover (49 page)

He walked to the window and looked out oyer Geneva tranquilly illuminated below, across at the lights shimmering on the French bank and down at the gently swaying swans on the black lake, asleep with their heads tucked under their wings. Then he was standing before her again. He watched her for a moment, and smiled at the poor weak creature who was born to die.

'Do you ever give a thought for all those future corpses now walking along the streets and pavements, so rushed and busy that they aren't even aware that the earth in which they will be buried exists and lies waiting for them? They are tomorrow's dead men, and they laugh and fume and boast. And the laughing women are also food for worms, though today they brandish their breasts at every opportunity, flaunting them, making absurd mountains out of milky molehills. Future corpses all! Yet they fill their short span of life with cruelties and write "Death to Jews" on walls. And what if you travel the world and speak to men? What if you try to persuade them to pity one another, try to make them see that they are soon to die? It doesn't work. They like being cruel. It is the curse of the teeth that bite. For two thousand years there have been hatred, calumny, plotting, intrigue and war. What new weapons of destruction will be invented in the next thirty years? They are talking apes, and in the long run they will wipe each other out and the human race will be killed by cruelty. So a man might as well find comfort in the love of a woman. But being loved is so easy, so dishonouring. The same old inevitable strategy, and the same old base motives: meat and the social factor.

'Ah yes, the social factor. She is far too noble-hearted to be a snob, perish the thought, and she genuinely believes she attaches not the slightest importance to my Under-Clownship-General. But her unconscious is riddled with snobbery. But there, so is everyone's: we all worship power. She says nothing but inwardly protests, thinks I have a vulgar mind. She is utterly convinced that the things that matter to her are culture, civilized behaviour, delicacy of feeling, honesty, loyalty, generosity, love of nature and the rest of it. But, you poor fool, can't you see that all these noble conceits are signs and symbols of membership of the dominant class, and that is precisely why, deep-down, secretly, unwittingly, you set such store by them? In reality, it is knowing that a man is a member of the club that makes him so attractive to a pretty, empty-headed woman. Of course, she won't take my word for it. She never will.

'Clever remarks about Bach or Kafka are the tell-tale passwords, for they show that a man is a member of this exclusive club. Hence all those lofty conversations which mark the first stage of love's way. He says he likes Kafka. She, poor fool, is ecstatic. She believes he has a fine intellect, whereas in reality he has no more than a fine social status. The ability to talk about Kafka or Proust or Bach comes under the same category as having good table manners, as breaking your bread with your fingers instead of cutting it with a knife or not eating with your mouth open. Honesty, loyalty, generosity and love of nature are also signs of social status. The privileged have money to burn: why shouldn't they be honest and generous? They lead swaddled lives from the cradle to the grave and society shows them its pleasant face: why should they cheat and He? And the love of nature is not high on the slum-dweller's agenda: it takes money. What is civilized behaviour if not the manners and vocabulary of the upper classes? If I say so-and-so "and his lady wife", I am thought common. The expression, which was considered civilized enough a couple of centuries ago, has only become vulgar since the working classes got hold of it. But if it were accepted practice in high society to say so-and-so "and his lady wife", you would think me a dreadful churl if I said so-and-so "and his lady" instead. So, honesty, loyalty, generosity, love of nature, civilized behaviour and all the rest of the twaddle, are no more than badges of membership of the ruling class, and that is why you attach such importance to them from what you claim to be the purest motives. Which, of course, merely shows just how much you worship power!

'Yes, power. Because their wealth, marriages, friendships and connections give the members of this class the power to harm others. From which I conclude that your respect for culture, that prerogative of the ruling elite, is ultimately and profoundly no more than a secret, unconscious respect for the power to kill. I see you smile. People always smile and shrug their shoulders. The truth I tell is not pleasant to hear.

'The worship of power is universal. Note how underlings bask in the sun of their leader, observe the doting way they look upon their chief, see them ever ready with a smile. And when he utters some inane pleasantry, just listen to the chorus of their sincere laughter. Yes, sincere. That's the most awful part of it. For underneath the self-interested love your husband has for me exists another, perfectly genuine and selfless love: the abject love of power, a reverence for the power to destroy. Oh that fixed and captivated grin of his, the obsequious civilities, the deferential curve of his backside as I talked to him. The moment the dominant adult male baboon steps into the cage, the younger, smaller, adolescent males get down on all fours, assuming the welcoming, receptive position of females, adopting the position of voluptuous vassalage, paying sexual homage to the power of destruction and death, the moment the dominant fearsome adult male baboon steps into the cage. Read up on apes and you will see that what I say is true.

'Baboonery is everywhere. The worship of the military, custodians of the power to kill: baboonery and the animal reverence for strength. The thrill of respect when the heavy tanks roll by: baboonery. The crowd which cheers the boxer who is about to demolish his opponent: baboonery. The crowd urging him on to the kill, "Go on, flatten him!": baboonery. And when he has knocked his man out, they are proud to touch him and slap him on the back: "It's what sport's all about!" they yell. The adulation given to the stars of cycle racing: baboonery. And the transformation brought about in the bully trounced by Jack London who, because he has been well and truly thrashed, forgets his hate and from that day forth venerates the man who bested him: more baboonery.

'Baboonery is everywhere. The crowds who cry out to be enslaved, who shake in orgasmic ecstasy when the square-jawed dictator, custodian of the power to kill, makes his appearance: baboonery. Their hands reaching out to touch the sanctifying hand of their leader: baboonery. Discreet, ecclesiastical, ministry baboons who stand behind their minister as he is about to sign the treaty and rush forward bearing blotting-paper and feel honoured as they beatifically dry his signature: such loyal little baboons! The gushing smiles of the ministers and ambassadors as they gather round the queen as she kisses the little girl who offers her a bouquet of flowers: baboonery. Baboonish too Benedetti's smile the other day at the Sixth Committee while old Cheyne read out his speech. The swine had on his fat face a smile which the thrill of veneration made, so to speak, pure, virginal and delicate. But that smile also signified that in loving the supreme chief he was really loving himself, for he felt that in some way he was part of the adorable Greatness which stood there droning on and on.

'Baboons, the morons who call on the Italian dictator and then come and tell me rapturously about the brute's charming smile, "such a warm smile underneath," they all say in female surrender to the strong. Baboons, the people who swoon over some small act of charity attributed to Napoleon, the same Napoleon who said: "What are five hundred thousand dead to me?" They all have a weakness for strong men, and the smallest crumb of sweetness that falls from the table of the mighty is balm to their souls and they are bewitched. In the theatre, their eyes moisten as they watch some stiff old martinet of a colonel unbend and turn unexpectedly into a kindly old party. Oh the slaves! On the other hand, the really good man is always treated as though he is not quite right in the head. In plays, the villain is never ridiculed, but the good man often is and audiences laugh at him. And is there not more than a hint of contempt in the words "there's a good chap" or "he's a good sort"? And surely it's a dead give-away that earthly possessions are called "goods".

'Baboonish worshippers of power, those American girls who stormed the railway carriage in which the Prince of Wales was travelling, kissed the cushions on which he had parked his behind, and gave him a pair of pyjamas to which each had contributed a few stitches. They did: it's a fact. The baboonery of the gale of laughter which convulsed the Assembly the other day when the British Prime Minister made a joke and the Chairman almost choked himself to death, on it. It was a silly joke, but the reception given to jokes is in direct proportion to the standing of the teller, and the laughter is no more than the acknowledgement of power.

'Snobbery, which is the desire to be sucked into the ambit of the powerful, is baboonery and reverence for power. If the Prince of Wales forgets to do up the bottom button of his waistcoat, or if, because it's raining, he turns up the bottoms of his trousers, or if, because he has a boil under his arm, he raises his elbow when he shakes hands, the baboons fall over themselves to leave their bottom waistcoat buttons undone, order turn-ups for their trousers, and give overarm handshakes. And this fascination for the idiotic love-affairs of princesses: more baboonery. If a queen has a baby, all the ladies simply can't wait to find out how much the brat weighs and what his official title will be. But the real depths of baboonism are plumbed by the dim-witted dying soldier who asks to see the queen of his heart before he breathes his last.

'The feminine urge to follow fashion, which simply means aping the powerful and wanting to be counted in the ranks of the strong, is baboonery. The habit of the great and the good, kings, generals, diplomats and even members of the French Academy, of wearing a sword which is the badge of the killer: baboonery. But the height of baboonery is the way people express their respect for He who is respectable above all things and their love for He who is Love, for they dare to say that He is Almighty: this is an abomination and an acknowledgement of their odious veneration of Might, which is nothing more nor less than the power to inflict hurt and, in the final analysis, the power to kill.

'It is worship of the lowest, animal kind, and its vocabulary shows it for what it is. Words associated with Might are rooted in respect. A "great" writer, a "powerful" book, "elevated" sentiments, "lofty" inspiration. And behind them lurks the eternal image of the doughty, strapping war-dog and potential killer. On the other hand, adjectives denoting weakness are invariably expressive of contempt. A "small" mind, "low" sentiments, a "feeble" book. And why should "noble" and "chivalrous" be terms of praise? They are a hangover from the Middle Ages. Then only nobles and knights exercised real power, by force of arms, and they were doers of harm and killers of men and therefore respectable and admirable. Humanity caught napping! To express their admiration, the best the little people could come up with was two epithets redolent of feudal society in which war, that is murder, was the goal and supreme honour in the life of man! In medieval sagas, nobles and knights do little else but slaughter and butcher, and around them guts spill out of bellies, skulls crack open and ooze brains, and horsemen are cleft in twain, right down the middle. How noble! How chivalrous! Oh yes, the baboons were caught napping! For they linked moral beauty to physical might and the power to kill!

'All they love and revere is Strength. To occupy a high position in society is strength. Courage is strength. Money is strength. Character is strength. Fame is strength. Beauty, the outward show and guarantee of health, is strength. Youth is strength. But old age, which is weakness, they loathe. In primitive tribes, the old are clubbed to death. When good middle-class girls cannot find a husband, they advertise in the newspapers and in their adverts they always make a point of stating that they have direct Expectations soon to be realized, which means that their mummies and daddies will soon drop dead, thank God. And I myself am repelled by old women who always insist on sitting next to me on trains. It never fails. Whenever some bearded old hag heaves herself into my compartment, she always makes a beeline for me, attaches herself to me like a limpet, while I hate her in silence and try to put as much space as I can between myself and her repulsive person which is soon to die. And when I stand up I do my level best to step on her corns, unintentionally of course.

'What they call original sin is nothing more than the vague, shameful awareness we have of our baboonish nature and its disgusting affects. Just one out of coundess examples of this base nature: smiling. Smiling mimics animal behaviour which we have inherited from our ancestors the primates. When one homuncule smiles at another, he is signalling that he comes in peace and will not bite, and to prove it he bares his teeth inoffensively for him to see. For us descendants of the brutish beasts of the Stone Age, showing our teeth without using them to attack has become a peaceful greeting, a sign of meekness.

'But enough. Why am I bothering with all this? I shall now begin the seduction. It's child's play. In addition to the two basic requirements, the physical and the social, all we need now are the right tactics. A matter of playing the right cards. At one in the morning, you in love. Come twenty to two, you and I off to station, off our heads, off to sun and sea, and maybe at last moment you left in lurch on station platform, to pay you back for the old man. Do you remember the old man? Sometimes at night I wear his long robe, dress myself up as my ideal Jew, with beard and poignant ritual ringlets and fur hat, dragging my feet, bending my back, artlessly waving my umbrella, an aged Jewman, noble since the start of time, O love of my life, transmitter of the Law, O redeeming Israel!, and I walk through .the streets at night, to be mocked, proud to be mocked by them. But now: tactics.

'First tactic: give the subject notice that she is about to be seduced. It's an excellent way of stopping her walking out on you. She stays because it's a challenge, because she wants to see pride take a fall. Tactic number two: demolish the husband. That's in the bag. Tactic number three: wheel out the poetic gambit. Behave like a haughty
aristocrat, a romantic spirit unhampered by social convention, and back it up with sumptuous dressing-gown, sandalwood beads, black monocle, a suite at the Ritz, and attacks of liverishness, carefully disguised. All of which is designed to allow the little fool to work it out for herself that I belong to the miraculous race of Lovers, the antidote to a husband who takes laxatives, and the Gateway to Life Sublime. The husband, poor devil, cannot hope to be poetic. No one can keep up the pretence twenty-four hours a day. Constantly on view, he is forced to be himself, his pathetic self. All men are pathetic, including seducers when they are alone and not play-acting for the benefit of some stupid, starry-eyed female. Pathetic, the lot of them, and I most pathetic of all!