Lord Dismiss Us (26 page)

‘Maybe so.’

Ashley was gazing down at Johns with his expression of fierce contempt. How real? How much assumed? He was snarling – ‘Montesquieu . . . Voltaire. . . .’

‘Maybe so.’

Johns was meeting his gaze. But he was blushing a little.

‘Boileau . . . Fenelon . . . not to mention Euripides and the greatest intelligences of the most supreme civilisation the world has ever KNOWN!’

‘Ssh,’ said Petty.

‘Maybe they missed something,’ said Johns.

Ashley’s face was dreadfully white. His cheek-bones were grinding away.

‘Maybe we know more about these things nowadays.’

‘Yes,’ Ashley jeered. ‘Beautiful lofty things.’

‘If that’s your Yeats, there aren’t any beautiful lofty things any more.’

‘How cheerful you sound about this good news.’

Extraordinary, but Carleton had been feeling almost jealous . . . of Johns!

‘Didn’t Yeats say so himself?’ he chipped in.

‘And what rough beast its hour come round at last, slouches to Bethlehem to be born?’ said Ashley, with venom, and transferring his gaze to Carleton.

‘Exactly,’ Carleton said. But he wasn’t sure whether Ashley had
meant agreement. Much in Ashley’s classes was incomprehensible. They were never sure whether he was many steps ahead of them
on the same path, or whether he was merely being cussed and confusing. Just lately, it had become more confusing than ever.

‘As a matter of fact,’ said Johns, not to be outdone, ‘Phèdre reminds me a bit of Yeats, the way he went on about Maud Gonne.’

‘Be careful,’ Ashley said quietly.

‘They half enjoy their frustrations. It makes them very chatty.’

‘Look at Dante and Beatrice,’ said Petty in a voice more piping than he had intended, so that all ten of them burst out into giggles.

‘What precisely do you mean by “Look at . . .
”
’ began Ashley, who was very nearly smiling.

‘Except that this is all so French,’ said Carleton.

‘So “French”?’

‘Yes. Grim and tough and hopeless.’

‘That’s “French” is it?’ said Ashley, ‘That’s “French”?’

‘Yes,’ said Carleton. ‘They all seem to accept being kind of trapped, and don’t really try and get out of it.’

‘Had you been present you could have offered them some simple solution?’

‘No, I suppose there isn’t any. It’s like that thing I saw in Oxford. Sartre. Three people stuck in a room.’

‘That was Hell,’ said Ashley.

‘Maybe this is, too,’ said Carleton. He didn’t really know what it meant – if anything – but Ashley looked almost interested, instead of angry. ‘Anyhow, they’re both French,’ he added, to keep things simple.

‘Write me an essay on that,’ said Ashley.

‘What!! Oh, listen here . . .’

‘Write me an essay. It might just be interesting.’

‘That’s not fair! Merely because I said something, I’m made to . . . I’m penalised. What about everyone else?’

‘The essay is not generally regarded as punitive, you idle fool. Write it! Do as I say!’

‘There’s not much point in his doing so,’ Johns interposed. ‘You never correct them anyhow. You have a pile of them up there!’

‘You insolent wench.’

‘That’s true,’ Carleton shouted out excitedly. ‘That’s true. And what about my story?’

‘Of what do you speak?’

‘I gave it to you ages ago. Do you even know where it is?’

‘No.’

‘This is costing our parents money,’ said Johns.

There was a long silence – with a few suppressed giggles. They would normally have expected a smile here, at their common predicament. But he was not cooperating. At length he said: ‘The virtues of Youth are much exaggerated. You are vain, ruthless, shallow, ignorant of the precipice upon which you stand, and unacquainted with grief.’

Carleton thought, ‘Except for Nicky,’ and the bell went.

‘Aren’t you flying today?’ Johns inquired.

‘You will all retire, except Carleton,’ said Ashley.

‘Me?’

‘Retire! Leave my sight! Go and play ball or whatever it is you do.’

There were cheers and a few desk-lids were banged; and they were gone.

They stood in silence. Ashley made his face. Contemptuous? Mocking? Merely a way of covering shyness? Carleton could not tell.

‘You are persevering in this romance?’

Carleton was astonished.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Have no fear. I am sealing my lips. I suggest, very seriously, for your own future, that you stop it.’

‘Why should I?’ Carleton said. ‘Anyhow, I couldn’t.’

‘You are “kind of trapped”,’ said Ashley, with a nasty smile, ‘and you’re not really trying to get out of it.’

‘If you like. Though I don’t see it that way.’

‘Our friend Johns would have it that you’re half enjoying not being able to do anything about it.’

‘I’m entirely enjoying it.’

‘In that case, God help you. We’d better have a look at your story.’

‘What? Why? I don’t see any connection.’

‘Maybe you will later,’ said Ashley. ‘If it has no merit, five minutes
will do. If it has – can you give me two hours?’

‘What!! Two hours?! For heavens sake, it’s only ten pages.’

‘Really? Two and a half hours then. Tomorrow afternoon?’

‘Um . . . there’s no cricket . . .’

‘You had other plans?’

Carleton was blushing deeply.

‘Cancel them. Unless, of course, it has no merit. In which case I don’t envy you. Art as solitude must be your expectation, my boy. The best way back to isolation. Art before life.’

‘Serenity after . . . ?’Carleton began, but it sounded silly, and he was not sure if it was the same thing.

‘Begone,’ Ashley said; though he had wondered what was coming.

Ashley stood there alone, playing with the detestable chalk. ‘I suppose it’s possible to look like a Michelangelo and still be able to write,’ he thought.

She had not even asked him about his own creative venture in the Reading Room. She had not even remembered.

Yes, it was harsh to have left her for the night in that ghastly place. But she had asked for it. A pathetic clown she had made of him. A naked child.

It was over, such as it was.

And now?

Strange, he found that he missed Jimmy Rich. An element of sanity. It seemed years since they left. The only two normal people had been briskly dispensed with.

Dotterel and de Vere Clinton. How did they maintain their ineffable good cheer? Strange paradox: it seemed that there was no emptiness if one was superficial enough.

Ashley went out into the corridor and upstairs. He was feeling genuinely curious about that story. Well, after all, Work was the popular prescription; and though this was not Art it was at least Work.

Chapter Twenty-one

It was called ‘Carter and McCracken.’

On the following afternoon, Ashley held it in his hand as he stood against the window, and flicked over the pages.

Carleton sat on a chair, feeling apprehensive, and tried to decipher Ashley’s expression, but he was only a silhouette against the sunny window. Not a word had been spoken. He had pressed for this, but now it was terribly embarrassing to be there while somebody else looked at something so personal.

For it was about himself as a small boy. And a true experience. It was about loss of innocence, and the destruction of illusion by reality. A small and evidently solitary child was indoors on a summer day, playing his own invented game of throwing dice and racing motor-cars across the carpet. The villain, who was always named Carter, competed ruthlessly against the hero – on this occasion named Bill McCracken. Creatures of the innocent imagination, they were doomed to be crushed underfoot.

‘I must confess,’ Ashley said, his face dark against the light, ‘I went to the trouble of looking up your Tchekov about the little dogs barking as well. Perhaps I had some notion of applying it to myself – a delusion, if so. Never mind. It continues very relevantly. They must bark as well, “and bark with the voice God gave them.” The surprising fact is that you do this.’

‘How do you mean?’ Carleton asked. ‘What other voice could one bark with?’

‘Many, I assure you. You seem to have underestimated your hero. But the unexpected feature is that underneath this rubbish you have a Voice. That is the thing I couldn’t have given you. The rest is easy.’

‘How do you mean? . . . Do you mean . . . I’m a writer?’

‘Yes.’

Goose pimples ran up his legs and arms. For some reason tears came into his eyes. Ashley saw in embarrassment and surprise, and was impressed. They both felt he had said something almost holy. Ashley had not foreseen this. He said quickly – ‘As it stands, the story is indescribably bad.’

‘But . . . how can it be?’ said Carleton. But he knew, or thought he knew, and he was smiling with happiness.

‘We shall need all of our time.’

‘I thought you said the rest was easy.’

‘Comparatively. Merely hard work and nothing to smile about. All right. Bring that chair over.’

They sat elbow to elbow at the desk in the window. Ashley ran a finger through his hair and scrutinised the careful handwriting.

‘Now, the cardinal point is that any final alterations made in this must be yours. It belongs to you and it’s your Voice. I can only suggest. I like the title. Now, let’s see. . . .’

Carleton felt marvellous. He felt they were seated there together, doing something really important: an entire new opera, a joint production, for the Metropolitan, New York; a major play, in collaboration, for the West End. Artists. Dedicated together to the one true faith. Nothing to do with School. A new and adult life. Ashley was reading to himself very quickly –

‘Owen was lying on the carpet in the warm sunlight, playing a game he had invented for himself. He used to cut out car advertisements from “The Motor” magazine, paste them on to cardboard, and stick a little stand at the back. Then he threw the dice and raced them by moving them so many lengths on. Of course, the cars were never exactly the same length, so he had to make allowances for the shorter ones, to make it fair. . . .’

‘Mm,’ said Ashley, ‘This is curiously fresh – against the odds. It’s helped, of course, by being a rather original image. But it could be fresher. It could be much more immediate. The odds you’ve set against yourself are that it’s all Statement. You’ve opened a short story with an explanation. You’ve asked the reader to endure with you a while at the very outset. You’ve added insult to injury by assuming that he will not be able to grasp this game – I wonder is “game” quite right – on his own. Do you see?’

‘I think so.’

‘Let’s try it, shall we, with Owen in action, doing it. No explanation. No apology. Put the reader on the floor beside him. Would you like to . . . here, use this pen.’

‘Um. I’m not sure what . . .’

‘All right, I’ll jot something down and we’ll see what we think of it.’

‘Owen . . . first word, yes, good . . . was lying . . . lay, I think, more immediate. . . . How? Let’s make it precise. Let’s show our certainty of vision, our authority, and put the reader in our pocket at once. A small boy. Lay on his stomach, perhaps. On the carpet, you say. Yes. But if we’re going to specify the carpet, let’s give it a reason to be there – let’s make it do some work for us. More certainty of vision. Let’s give it a colour. What would you like?’ Ashley smiled. ‘What was it?’

(Gosh, he knows it’s true. How?)

‘Green.’

‘On the green carpet. In the warm sunlight. It’s clumsy. Never mind, we’ll come back to it. Warm. Did you need that?’

‘Uh . . . well, there could be cold sunlight.’

‘Good. All right. Now, I’d like him in action at once. And I think one could convey that this has been going on for some time. Repetition, or boredom, is part of your plot. Let’s insinuate it at once, without the reader even knowing he’s been hooked. How about this? “He cast the dice again.” All right for the present?’

‘Uh . . . yes. . . .’

‘Now what happened then? Let’s not explain. Merely the sight, the action. You have them down here. . . . I don’t know what they call these things . . . a Bentley. Yes, you have it here. “The Bentley, a closed coupé, came again past the sports Alvis.” Excellent. Couldn’t be better. We’ve lost a whole paragraph. Splendid!’

‘What?’

‘
“Owen lay on his stomach on the green carpet, in the warm sunlight. He cast the dice again. The Bentley, a closed coupé, came again past the sports Alvis.” I still don’t like it enough, do you? But at least we’ve lost a whole paragraph and nevertheless told . . . no, suggested . . . in three short sentences, the age and nature of our hero, his mood of the moment, the state of the weather, the occupation in progress, and possibly even the social status of his home and parents. That’s not bad, is it? I still don’t like the first sentence, do you? Do you see why?’

‘Yes, I think so. The two “on’s”, and the “in”.’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘Um . . . Owen lay on his stomach in the warm sunlight that spread across the green carpet?’

‘Yes. Wait . . . “Across” is a little heavy. Distracting. “Over” is enough. Let’s write that out. . . . We’re a pair of amateurs without a typewriter. . . .’

‘My next birthday,’ Carleton thought.

‘But I’d no idea you were supposed to go through all this,’ he said. ‘Nobody ever told me.’

‘But it’s exciting, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Yes.’

‘Now then. . . . Look what’s happened. We’ve two “agains”. The sense that this has gone on for some time is good. The second one helps. How can we keep them both? Only by splitting them apart a bit. I know. We haven’t said what the dice did. Visual and immediate. Must be a big number but not too big to distract. “Six and four”. How about that? And he’s a small boy and, even though bored, he will still retain some childish enthusiasm, so let’s give it an exclamation mark. All right, what have we got – for the moment? Here . . . you write it this time.’