Pilgrim (5 page)

Death is always provocative and the young require so many answers which none of us can provide. Not so much
what is it?
as
why?
And, of course, in the case of Symes Copland, every question offers the dreadful possibility of a betrayed truth.

I knew him, though not well. He did a masterly job
at the Tate, so recently opened. Such a tragedy, following such a triumph. The popular notion is that exhaustion killed him, leaving him run down and prone to a dozen diseases.
He had gone off to Venice, where the plague lurks in every sewer and under every stone.
That was one story. Or
he had gone to Biarritz, made so popular by the Prince of Wales and Mrs Keppel—where Symes,
as some would have it,
had died of a poisoned mussel!
These were the sort of penny-novel stories Rose Harcourt delighted in hearing and spreading from salon to salon.
And of course,
she would add maliciously,
he went without his wife. And we all know what that means…
In the papers it was stated plainly that
Mister Copland, due at any moment to receive a knighthood honouring his brilliant accomplishments in achieving the sixteenth- and seventeenth-century British Collections at the newly opened Tate Gallery, had gone to Paris on business and succumbed there to a particularly virulent pneumonia.
Or some such words.

This is what the children were told. If not a penny-novel version, then at least a tuppeny-novel truth.

The real truth is, he hanged himself in a hotel room near Vauxhall Station, across the river from his beloved gallery. His body had been discovered by his secretary, a man called Exeter Riley, whom Symes had asked to book the room from time to time so he could take an hour or two of rest before returning to the enormous burden of his work. On that particular weekend, he had let it be known that he was going to Paris to acquire a hitherto unknown Hillyard miniature—which, of course, did not exist. All this was
explained to Susan by Exeter Riley himself, standing in her drawing-room on a day in September, while the sun was shining and an out-of-season garden party had been planned.

Sybil told me a farewell letter had been found but Exeter Riley had destroyed it. Susan never saw it.
Exeter Riley has sworn himself to secrecy,
according to Sybil,
and there’s not a law in the land that can force him to speak.
Which may be just as well. If Symes had been leading—in whatever way, to whatever degree—a double life or had been ill with some appalling disease, what good could ever be done by revealing such news to his wife. Whatever had become of his will to live is still and will remain a mystery. And in my heart of hearts, I think this right. In a tragic moment of his own perception, he wanted to die—and did. But he left behind him a cherished monument to art, a wife and children who will always remember the best of him and a memory of decency worth some honour. And at least the poor fellow was able to fulfil his wish for death. In that alone, he was lucky.

Sybil shoved the journal away from her and poured herself a portion of whisky, her preferred drink. She drank it neat and without grimacing. It went down like water over velvet. Then she lighted a cigarette.

For the briefest moment, the bodies of Symes and Pilgrim hung in her mind’s eye—faint at first, then vivid as a photograph emerging in a tray of developer. There was nothing she had read she did not already know in the broadest terms—including Pilgrim’s
opinion of Symes and his death. But still…
there is ever and ever,
she thought,
that fascination with what has been and those we have loved that draws us back and back and back again to those moments of crisis when the whole of one’s life is relived. Those moments after which the inevitable conclusion can only be that nothing evermore will ever be the same.

Don’t,
she thought.
Don’t. Do not think about it. Let it all go.
Then she poured a second portion of whisky and drew the journal back beneath the spill of light.

Dream—recorded at 6:00 a.m.

Image of a sheep. One.

Am I to be amused? I’m not sure. It seems, somehow, less connected to my conversation with James about Mister Bleat than to my other dreams of muddied terrain and distant bursts of light. Besides, the sheep is silent. Nothing of bleating. It stands in profile, turning its head in order to see me—staring at me almost accusingly.
Why have you brought me here?
it seems to say—yet its silence is absolute.

As I watch, I become aware of where I am. This time, no people. The land about me is sodden, but mudless. The grass is matted, lying flat in the rain. I am standing at what appears to be the centre of a landscape so vast I can get no indication of its edges. There is no horizon, only earth. Perhaps I am looking down at myself. I have that impression—even though, in the way of dreams, I am also looking at the sheep not from above but straight on.

Around me, so it seems, there are endless miles of
ditches. Not like the ditches by the sides of roads. Deeper than that and with the look of having been dug—to whatever end—by human hands with picks and spades. The edges are cut flat as though with some purpose in mind. A trench for sewage pipes? Or would it be filled with stones and cement—the foundation for some gigantic building. Or walls, perhaps, to surround the field I am in. A priory yard. A graveyard somewhere in Europe where they built such walls around the dead.

I have still not stirred. And though I know that I am clothed, I have no notion of what I am wearing. I see no colour on my sleeve. There is no sense of texture or of cut in what I wear—only of its weight, which seems as I stand there, leaden.

Something happens. I don’t know what. But something tremendous either falls or is exploded. The rain all at once is scalding hot. I wipe my eyes, but still have not moved from my place, and when I look about me, I see that a river of sheep has begun to crowd the ditches.
River
is quite the right word. They flow in from all sides, their undulating backs rising and falling—rippling, almost, as they move forward. And when the ditches are filled, the sheep stand motionless, waiting as if for some command that I too anticipate.

The silence goes unbroken. Even though there has been all along a distant soughing of wind, it neither rises nor falls. Nor does it alter its tone. It is simply there. A wind has blown through all my dreams of late, yet always far away. And the trees, whose branches give it its distinctive sound, are never seen.

Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona eis requiem.

These words appear, as if by magic, under my hand and make their windblown way across the page. In the dream, I am unaware that I know them. I merely record them.

In the ditch, the backs surge forward and are stilled again.

Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi,

dona eis requiem sempiternam.

Lamb of God, that takest away the sins of the world,

Grant them eternal rest.

The silence now is universal.

What have I dreamt?

What am I dreaming?

Where is this place that is so bleak and unforgiving—endlessly crowded, yet seemingly emptied and sad, as if the earth itself has gone into mourning? An abattoir, I fear, and we the sheep.

Knowing what I know of the past, my discomfort with the future is now a burden I think I cannot bear. I will be glad of daylight—and of any other voice but my own.

Sybil closed the book. She was weeping. At first, she did not know why—and then she did. It was the words:
grant them eternal rest.
Pilgrim’s quest.

Before she retired, she would ask Phoebe Peebles to put the books away in one of the closets. Along with their wrapping.

Until next time.

7

“Are you certain you have told me everything?”

“Everything about what?”

“About your relationship with Mister Pilgrim.”

Facing Sybil the next morning, Furtwängler seemed less a friendly physician than a prosecuting attorney, his manner cool and his questions all but impertinent.

“I don’t know what you may be thinking, Doctor, but I can tell you this: Mister Pilgrim and I are not—and never have been—lovers.”

“I did not say so.”

“It was in your mind.”

“I admit that. Yes. But I would not have dreamt of asking for details. What you and Mister Pilgrim do…”

“You needn’t explain your attitude, Herr Doktor. I understand it perfectly. Mister Pilgrim and I do nothing. Have you never heard of simple friendships?”

“Simple friendships between men and women are relatively rare, Lady Quartermaine. I am sure that from your own experience you already know that.”

“I know nothing of the kind.”

“And your husband, the Marquis. He has lady friends?”

“Lady friends and female friends are not the same thing. And from
your
own experience, Herr Doktor, I am sure you know that.”

Doctor Furtwängler had been standing. They were in one of the main-floor reception rooms, where a fire
had been lit. He now sat down. They faced each other, each of them guarded, each of them wary, seated on green slip-covered chairs. For his part, Furtwängler was certain Lady Quartermaine had already lied to him. For her part, Sybil had begun to lose her confidence in him. She could—and would—tolerate only so many presumptions.

“You say you have not been lovers,” the Doctor said. “But I still need to know the nature of your relationship.”

Sybil Quartermaine found the question fatuous and irritating. She waved it aside and said nothing.

“Can you tell me, at least, how long you have known each other?”

“Forever.”

“Please, Lady Quartermaine. The more you tell me, the more I can help.
Forever
is not an answer.”

“Why not? Perhaps I meant it.”

“In terms of what I need to know,
forever
is not instructive. It can mean anything.”

Sybil sighed. “Very well, then,” she said. “I was twelve. He was eighteen.”

“Twelve and eighteen. That would have been in…”

“1880. It was the year my father died.”

“And Mister Pilgrim?”

“I found him in the garden.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I found him in the garden. This was at Chiswick.”

“Chiswick?”

“Yes. Where I grew up. West London. It’s by the river. The Thames.”

“And you were born there?”

“No. Though I might have been. I don’t know where I was born. No one ever said.”

“I see. And you found him in the garden—Mister Pilgrim.”

“Yes. It was summertime. August. My father had died the day before and my mother was distraught. She wanted Symes, my brother, beside her. She did not want me. I was just as pleased. I was distraught, myself. It was early morning. I hadn’t slept. I was in my nightdress. Barefoot. I remember that distinctly—the feel of the grass and the dew beneath my feet. I wore some sort of shawl—perhaps a woollen blanket. It was blue. Have you got a cigarette? I would like a cigarette.”

Doctor Furtwängler rose and offered his silver case. He also took one himself and lighted them both from the end of a taper drawn from the fire.

Sybil lay back against the cushions in her chair. She squinted at the fire. The smoke from her cigarette coiled up around her face. By daylight, her beauty was more pronounced, although she seemed herself to have no awareness of it. About her appearance there was not a trace of artifice. Her cream-pale face, her swept-back hair and her violet eyes were gifts of nature, acknowledged but unadorned. Her only jewellery was a single strand of pearls, her wedding and engagement rings and a small green shard of jade, set in silver and pinned to her dress. Furtwängler noticed, too, a birthmark on the underside of her left wrist—a tracing, not unlike a snake, but very faint. It was red.

“You had gone into the garden, you said. It was early in the morning?”

“Just after dawn. There was light, but the sun had not yet appeared. Our garden there at Chiswick had a wall around it. An old grey wall with ivy growing on it. Ivy and Virginia creeper. In the autumn, the wall was crimson—orange—it flamed. But then, that morning, it was green. The vines were very lush and dense. You could barely see the stones and…There were trees. It was charming. Beautiful. One of the trees, an oak, had a ladder propped against it. I don’t remember why, but I do remember its being there. And…”

“And?”

“Beside the ladder, lying on the grass beneath the tree, there was a young man.”

“Mister Pilgrim?”

“Yes. Mister Pilgrim. Pilgrim. I had never seen anyone so beautiful in all my life. Not even statues—not even paintings had prepared me for him. Certainly, no other human being. His hair was copper-coloured—flaming—and his face—well, you’ve seen him. Translucent skin—wide lips—an eagle’s beak…He wore a blue blazer. Pale grey trousers. No tie. A white shirt. I…He was asleep, you see. And I looked at him and I thought a god had been left, somehow, in the garden. Abandoned.”

“And when he woke?”

“I woke him myself. I couldn’t bear to see him lying there in the dew. I was sure he would catch his death of cold, so I went and touched his foot with my toe. When he saw me, he smiled and said:
I have been dreaming
…”

“Dreaming.”

“Yes. He said he had fallen asleep and had dreamt.”

“But what was he doing in your garden? How did he get there?”

“I asked him that, but gently. I was not afraid of him at all. I was merely curious. And of course I didn’t want him to go away.”

“What was his answer?”

“He said he didn’t know how he had got there. He didn’t even know where he was. When I told him my name, it meant nothing to him. I asked him who he was and at first he said he didn’t know that, either. But then he said his name was Pilgrim.”

“And that is how you met.”

“That is how we met. In a garden on a summer’s day—the year my father died. In 1880.”

There was the sound of activity in the entrance hall. People could be heard greeting one another and stamping their feet to be rid of the snow. The smell of cold fresh air was carried over the threshold. The fire guttered. Sybil reached down and touched her ankles.