The Philosopher's Pupil (81 page)

As he came up on to the top level of the Common there were a few people about, but not near him. He began to walk through the long grass in the direction of the Ring. The electrical vibration of the blue zenith beyond the stones was hurting his eyes, and he turned his head away toward where the sun, descending in the sky, was hazed by a little cloud against a gentler less vivid blue. Only the sun, blazing through the misty light, had changed or was changing. It was no longer round but was becoming shaped like a star with long jagged mobile points which kept flowing in and out, and each time they flowed they became of a dazzling burning intensity. The star was very near, too near. It went on flaming and burning, a vast catastrophic conflagration in the evening sky, emitting its long jets of flame. And as it burnt with dazzling pointed rays a dark circle began to grow in its centre, making the star look like a sunflower. George thought, I'll look at the dark part, then I shall be all right. As he watched, the dark part was growing so that now it almost covered the central orb of the sun, leaving only the long burning petals of flame which were darting out on every side. The dark part was black, black, and the petals were a painful shimmering electric gold. The thing shone and shuddered and seemed to be getting closer, while at the same time it gave less and less light and the sky was darkening. It's killing me, thought George, it is a death thing, this is my death that I prayed for. Oh God, if I can only look away, or my eyes will be destroyed in my head. He turned, wrenching his head round. He caught a glimpse of the Ennistone Ring, quite close and bathed in an odd vivid crepuscular light. Then from beyond the Ring and coming toward him, there appeared a brilliant silver saucer-shaped space-ship, flying low down over the Common. It came toward George flying quite slowly, and as it came it emitted a ray which entered into his eyes, and a black utter darkness came upon him and he fell to his knees and lay stretched out senseless in the long grass.

And here some time later Father Bernard found him. The priest had first visited Diane, and had found her spreading out upon the bed all the frilly flowery summer clothes she had bought for going to Spain. He managed to conceal his agitation from Diane, and went on to Druidsdale where he found Stella. Stella realized at once that something was very wrong, but the priest told her nothing except that he urgently wanted to see George. It had already occurred to Father Bernard that George might have run up on to the Common and if he did so would be likely to go toward the Ring. Here Father Bernard stumbled about in vain in the long grasses, almost weeping with tiredness and distress, falling over courting couples whom the grass, uncut, was long enough to conceal, beginning to mistrust his intuition and increasingly to fear that, wherever George was, he would not be discovered alive. When at last he glimpsed, in the green sea into which the sun was now laying down long shadows, the familiar colour of George's grey jacket, and saw his dark hair, he fell down beside him with a cry of thankfulness.

George was lying on his face and seemed at first to be unconscious or asleep, as the priest laid his arm across the humped shoulders.

‘George, George, it's me, Father Bernard, I've come to find you, wake up.'

George stirred, rolled on his side, opened his eyes, blinked a little, then closed them again.

‘George - don't worry - it's me - I'll help you.'

George reached out and found a piece of the cassock and held it. He said, ‘I killed John Robert. I drowned him. He's dead.'

‘I know,' said the priest. He had read this, or something like it, in George's face as they met in the corridor. ‘Only you didn't kill him, you
didn't.
'

‘You mean he's still alive?'

‘No, no, but
you didn't kill him.
Look, I'll show you.'

‘He's still alive, thank God, it's a miracle - oh thank God.'

‘George, George,' he cried, ‘he is dead, but not by your hand, he took his own life - look at this — '

But George, hiding his face in the grass, just went on saying, ‘Oh thank God - oh forgive me - oh thank God.'

‘Look at this, look at
this,
look at his letter.'

George, turning on his side again, said, ‘I can't see anything. I have become blind. I open my eyes and there is nothing, it is all dark, black. Was there an eclipse of the sun?'

‘No.'

‘I remember now. It was the flying saucer. It sent out a beam at me. It took my sight away.'

‘George, my dear, get up, can you, I'll take you home. I'll explain - John Robert's dead - but you didn't kill him, you're not a murderer, you're not.'

Very slowly with the priest's help George rose to his feet. It was evident that he could not see. He swayed, holding out his hands. Together they stumbled as far as the path. It was late evening now, darkening to a clear greenish sunset sky.

As they began to walk slowly arm in arm along the path together Father Bernard asked, ‘Where shall I take you to?'

‘Take me home to Druidsdale. Stella is there.'

WHAT HAPPENED AFTERWARDS

The inquest brought in a verdict of ‘accidental death' upon the decease of John Robert Rozanov, philosopher. George McCaffrey's name was never mentioned or thought of in this connection. No one had seen him either enter or leave the Institute.

When Father Bernard got back there after leading George home to Druidsdale he found the whole matter of the ‘accident' completely set up. What had happened was clear. Rozanov had been standing on the edge of the bath looking at his notebook and had slipped and stunned himself in falling. The circumstances of the death seemed to preclude suicide, and the only other theory which circulated (hushed up by the Director, Vernon Chalmers) was that the philosopher had been killed by a sudden inrush of scalding water which had rendered him unconscious. Father Bernard gave evidence at the inquest. He prayed for long hours to his inmost soul for guidance about whether or not he should produce the suicide note. In the end he was still uncertain about his duty but had become afraid of getting into trouble for concealing evidence. The inquest had been hustled on by Chalmers, who was afraid of talk and adverse publicity, and the funeral, a cremation in accordance with wishes expressed in the will, followed promptly. The national press had taken due notice of John Robert's death, and various outsiders turned up at the brief ceremony (which was organized by Robin Osmore) including John Robert's pupil Steve Glatz who happened to be in Oxford at the time, and a mysterious American woman who cried a lot.

George's hysterical blindness left him after about a fortnight, and after that the priest took Rozanov's letter round to show to him. George nodded his head, but did not utter any words after reading the note. Father Bernard brought it again on two occasions until he was satisfied that George had really understood it, although he still said nothing about it. Later on Father Bernard showed the note to me.

I think the priest's intuition was probably right in guiding him not to reveal that Rozanov had intended to kill himself. Hattie Meynell, who felt enough guilt about it all in any case, was thereby spared the anguish of knowing that John Robert had proceeded almost directly from his conversation with her into the extremity of such an act. My own view is that John Robert had long been preparing his decision to die; this is certainly suggested by his possession of a specially compounded drug. And Hattie had perhaps not been mistaken in thinking that he was in a state of destructive despair about what he felt to be the failure of his philosophical work.

There are of course a number of factors in the case which must remain forever undecided. That John Robert should have chosen to die at the Institute is easily explained. He did not want to run the risk of being found by Hattie. But did Rozanov actually take the poisonous compound, did such a thing even exist? That it existed is, I think, given the man, simply proved by the letter, and equally I do not imagine Rozanov as one to delay or shirk, after writing the letter, the completion of the act. What caused his death? Was he, as is possible, already dead by the time George immersed him? And even if Rozanov did swallow a supposed lethal dose, would it necessarily have proved fatal? Supposing Father Bernard had arrived before George (as he might have done had he not gone first to Hare Lane)? Could the philosopher have been resuscitated? A confession by George together with the production of the suicide note would certainly have posed some interesting medical, legal and indeed philosophical problems. It is the sort of thing that would have interested John Robert, who might even have felt some odd ironical appreciation of George's last-minute intervention in his life. That, at least, would have held his attention. What would the law have judged George to be guilty of? And what indeed, as things stand, is he guilty of? All these unanswered questions are likely to continue to disturb the minds of both George and Father Bernard. I had several talks with Father Bernard before his departure (of which I shall speak below). I have not yet been able to talk to George, but I hope that, with Stella's help, this may prove possible in the near future.

Hattie suffered extreme grief and shock at her grandfather's sudden death. Love is joy, even impeded love is joy while hope remains, and of course Hattie did indeed love her ‘newly found' grandfather and did not really believe his ‘nevermore'. The instant frightful loss was hard to bear. She felt it moreover as ‘her fault', because she had obeyed him and gone away, and had not, by staying, altered that accidental (as she thought) chain of events which led to that senseless fall on that slippery edge. Although she knew how unhappy John Robert was and why, I do not think that, given the circumstances, she has ever wondered whether that death was other than accidental. She has not, so far as I know, discussed John Robert's final revelation with anybody, probably not even with Tom. She has decided (here I am guessing) that this secret of the old man whom she so suddenly and strangely and briefly came to know and love is hers and hers alone. (Remarks which she made to me when very upset would have been comparatively obscure had I not had access to other sources of information.) Herein, as in other ways, she has shown herself to be a strong character. As for Tom McCaffrey, if he ever wondered whether he were not really being recruited to protect Hattie against John Robert himself, he has probably by now dismissed these speculations or indeed, in the felicity of his happy nature, forgotten them.

When it was that Tom untied Hattie's virgin knot is not known for certain. Perhaps it was during that first strange protected aeon of their love which lasted from Sunday morning to Monday evening, when they were told of John Robert's death. (The news that Hattie Meynell and Tom McCaffrey were together at the Slipper House had circulated in Ennistone as early as noon on Sunday. No doubt I was not the only witness of that early morning flight.) However that may be, Tom and Hattie were married in the autumn following all these events. Perhaps a period of mourning is not a bad preparation for a marriage. The match gave universal satisfaction in the town, not dimmed by those who enjoyed asserting that he would have done much better to marry Anthea Eastcote who was now so fearfully rich. As for Hattie's dowry, Tom did not do too badly. John Robert turned out to have saved quite a lot of money, even apart from his two houses in California, one at Palo Alto and one at Malibu.

The marriage took place according to the Quaker rite at the Meeting House, in the course of the usual meeting for worship, with only Friends present. Here, taking Hattie by the hand, Tom declared,

‘In the presence of this assembly, I take my friend Harriet Meynell to be my wife, promising, with God's help, to be unto her a loving and faithful husband, so long as we both on earth shall live.'

After Hattie had made her answering declaration, Tom placed Feckless Fiona's wedding-ring upon Hattie's finger. A lot of people cried, not only Gabriel. There was a party afterwards at Belmont, instigated and, with remarkable success, organized by Gabriel who was suddenly able to put into practice a lot of her hitherto frustrated conceptions of what family life should be like. (Alex, who survived her fall, was at this time, as I shall explain later, in eclipse.) Brian walked about, saying with satisfaction, ‘What a waste of money, thank God we're not paying.' Pearl was present as unofficial ‘bridesmaid' and Emma in the role of ‘best man'. Tom wanted him to sing but he refused. There were no speeches. The occasion, like that of many weddings, brought together a number of lively persons, who had not all hitherto met, and who all seemed very pleased with themselves. Milton Eastcote was present. So was Steve Glatz, who is now editing John Robert's surviving notebooks which constitute the ‘great work', of which so much is expected. Margot (
née
Meynell) Markowitz turned up with her Jewish lawyer husband, Albert (who had, Pearl and Hattie agreed, greatly improved her). Verity Smaldon, Hattie's pretty school friend, made a refreshing dint in the grieving heart of Andrew Blackett. I had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of Stella's father, Sir David Henriques, with whom, as she predicted, I got on extremely well. Hector Gaines, lately engaged to a well-known academic lady, came especially to show off his recovery to Anthea, but suffered, on seeing her, a regrettable relapse. (This may be the place to add that, in spite of all our various misfortunes,
The Triumph of Aphrodite
was successfully performed - the show must go on, as Hector said – and even attracted the favourable attention of London critics.) Joey Tanner made his first appearance as Anthea's fiancé. He made a bad impression on the town gossips, but chiefly because they were determined to think he was marrying her for her money. Emma's mother on the other hand, looking incredibly young, charmed everyone. Matchmakers, who abound at weddings, were certain that she and Sir David were made for each other. Gavin Oare was not invited, but Mike Seanu came under the wing of Nesta, Olivia and Valerie to ‘cover' the event for the
Gazette.
Ruby, no longer employed at Belmont, came as a guest but helped Gabriel and Dorothy Osmore with the washing-up. Judy Osmore, to please Gabriel (for she was a kind-hearted girl), wore the dress which had been dyed with tea. (She did not know the details of its misadventure.) Zed, wearing a white ribbon and a red rose, was petted by many and stepped on by not a few. Adam, who in the intervening months had suddenly decided to grow considerably, wore a dark suit especially made for him by Dominic Wiggins. In this he hovered, hardly recognizable as a tall slim solemn youth with large eyes. George too was present for a while, watchfully piloted by Stella. He was generally and vaguely known to have been ‘rather ill'. A lot of people made a point of greeting him but retiring quickly.

I must now try to give some account of what happened to George. This is difficult because, as I say, I have not yet had the opportunity of talking with him, although I have talked at length with Stella; she remains puzzled about her husband and may even still harbour long-standing misconceptions about him. It is a feature of marriages, including happy ones, that two people who live together may have quite false ideas of each other. This does not at all necessarily lead to disaster or even inconvenience. Stella, to speak of her first, has suffered from feelings of guilt which may well be a good deal more rational than those of Hattie. Her image has remained in my mind of George hooked by a long invisible line by which she held him fast while letting him run: an image which she agreed to be terrible. More simply, Stella assumed that George would somehow be restored to her ‘in the fullness of time', that she would at last, and satisfactorily, ‘get him back'. Meanwhile she was prepared to watch and wait because, as she had put it, George ‘interested her absolutely'. This could also be put as ‘because she loved him absolutely', which indeed she did with her whole intense almost fanatical being. Some people thought Stella was simply afraid of George, others blamed her for ‘abandoning' him. Rozanov's death was counted as the event which brought her back and ‘sobered George up', while visibly, in some sense which remained difficult to determine, changing him.

In retrospect of course Stella blamed herself for not having, and as a matter of course, returned to George soon after the episode of the car in the canal. Indeed shortly after she had (her phrase) ‘put herself under my protection', I advised her to go back, but she would not. Once she had formally ‘run away' it became harder and harder to return, her pride had become involved in the matter, speculation about him had become an activity and a pleasure, being in hiding had its charm, and the interval carried an imaginary sense of healing. It must be added to this picture that Stella's undoubted love contained ingredients of anger and even cruelty and she could not help feeling that by staying mysteriously away she was inflicting some sort of punishment upon George. Ought Stella, as she herself later believed, to have been able to foresee the extremities of which George was capable? (I should say here that George told her everything, every detail of what he had done, and as far as he could why he had done it, during the period of his blindness.) With this question she came running to me. I told her sincerely that I thought the answer was no. Stella was of course, as she came to admit, fascinated by George's ‘violent tendencies'. But it was part of her theory that these had run their course and that, however oddly George might in the interim behave, he would before long, and harmlessly, return to her to be ‘saved'. In this connection she attached an almost magical significance to the ‘attempted murder' in the canal, which was supposed to be the significant final crisis or turning point. Herein Stella was perhaps misled by vanity, a simple and ubiquitous failing often overlooked by those who profess to explain the mysteries of human conduct. As for the prediction, I think that homicidal or suicidal acts often depend upon contingent elements too tiny and too sheerly accidental to be discernible by the eye of science. And I have to admit that I myself did not foresee or expect what ultimately happened.

Naturally Stella attaches great significance to the fact that George asked Father Bernard to lead him back to her after he had been struck down on the Common. Since that moment George has never once mentioned Diane. What happened to George's brain cells in the curious episode of the flying saucer and the sunflower sun remains, in part, to be seen. The brain is a versatile organ and has an amazing capacity to repair damage. I do not, incidentally, hold Dr Roach's epilepsy theory about George. I also take this opportunity to deny that George has had a lobotomy or any electric shock treatment since John Robert's death. I also know for a fact that he has not, to use the rather melodramatic expression current in Ennistone, ‘been through the hands of Sir Ivor Sefton'. The mild drugs which he took in the early days of his ‘new life' have now, according to Stella, been discontinued. Whatever the cause, there is no doubt that he is a changed, and still changing man. A stranger, meeting him now for the first time, would find him an ordinary, quiet person. (Not, as Stella put it, ‘weak and pale like a grub in an apple'.) Those who knew ‘the old George' are amazed at his ‘reform', though it is still true that none of his old acquaintances feels quite comfortable with him. He is gentle, polite, quietly humorous (though he smiles little), attentive to his wife, interested in the details of everyday existence. He even has a modest social life. What I cannot find out from Stella, perhaps because she is reluctant to find it out herself, is whether there are identifiable tracts of his mind, evidenced by memory or performance, which seem to have been ‘blotted out'. She insists that he seems ‘normal'. Sometimes, however, this unnatural ‘normality' seems to her ‘too good to be true' and she wonders if he will one day suddenly attack her with an axe. As the weeks and months go by, this idea occurs to her less and less often. George stays at home and reads a lot. He reads books on art history and even makes notes on them. One day Stella found him looking over his old plays which had evidently not been destroyed after all. He has also taken up bridge again, and goes out with Stella (who is a very good player) to bridge evenings at the Osmores'. He has not been over to Leafy Ridge to visit Brian and Gabriel, but he is polite and amiable to them if they visit Druidsdale, which they rarely do, as they think Stella is not too pleased to see them. Adam and Zed on the other hand are fairly frequent and welcome visitors. George seems to talk a lot to Adam when they are alone together, Stella is not quite sure what about. I lately expressed the hope to Stella that now that life has become (it seems) more predictable she should stop regarding George as a full-time occupation, and consider harnessing her excellent mind to some coherent and developing intellectual study. She says that no doubt she will, but ‘not yet', that perhaps she will ‘write something'. I am afraid that at present she is more concerned about George's mind than about her own. I also asked her, recalling a question which I put to her earlier, whether a quiet docile George continues to interest her. She says most emphatically that he does and that she loves him now in a new and better way. She was always possessively watchful, but now seems to me, when I see them together, to be more tender and ‘sentimental', and in this sense, she is without doubt profitably ‘occupied' with her husband. I have not inquired about their sex life. Perhaps she is right to see these developments as ‘new and better', and it may even be that love, that old unpredictable force left out of account by natural science, will actually ‘save', after all, not only him but her.