To the Dark Tower (26 page)

The pencil stopped short. Mark stared at him, as though in incredulity."To the Amazon?"

‘‘Yes."

‘‘My plans are very sketchy as yet. I haven’t thought about a party. Of course, I should be only too pleased... It’ll be hard going, you know."

‘‘I’m used to that."

It sounded like a rebuke."Oh, yes, I know. I didn’t mean that you wouldn’t be equal to it—"

The General cut in:"You young fellows always imagine that we’re fogeys. We’re not. My grandfather rode to hounds when he was over eighty... Think about it, anyway. And let me know."

‘‘Another drink?" Mark switched the conversation without much deftness.

‘‘Thanks." The General watched him as he took the glass, and began to pour whisky into it from a Victorian decanter. A lock of hair fell across his forehead, which he brushed back with a gesture of impatience. His hand was steady.

A moment later there was the sound of a key in the front door and Cynthia came in. She hesitated when she saw the General, with a subdued" Oh!" of surprise. Then she smiled bleakly and held out a hand on which gleamed an opal, her engagement ring."I didn’t expect to see you. Mark never told me—"

‘‘The General is staying the night."

‘‘Oh, yes." She sat down on the arm of a chair. She wore a dark-green skirt of some soft woollen material and a purple jumper. Strange that a tranquil, dreamily idealistic girl who believed in the perfectability of mankind should yet feel this hostility towards someone who had never done her an injury. She herself could not explain it; and it worried her. It was not simply that she was a pacifist, for many of her friends had headstrong and violent characters. The antagonism was more fundamental than any difference of opinion. When she was with this man she wanted to score off him at any cost; and because she disliked scoring off anybody she contrived to be with him as little as possible. Even now one cutting remark after another came into her head and had to be suppressed: until, unable to endure it longer, she said:"I think I’d like some tea. Would anyone else?"

‘‘We’re quite happy with our whisky, thank you. Shall I get it?" Mark rose to his feet.

‘‘Oh, no, no. Don’t be absurd." As she went out she had to restrain herself from slamming the door.

Suddenly the General leant forward and said:"Tell me, Mark: are you and Cynthia living together?" He spoke in a matter-of-fact voice.

‘‘Since you ask—yes."

‘‘I hope you don’t mind the question. I feel that I know you well enough... To tell you the truth, I’d already guessed—"

‘‘You’d—guessed?" He stared at him, flushing.

‘‘Didn’t you want anyone to know? It seemed rather obvious to me. I’m sorry... I suppose Cynthia is already married—"

‘‘No."

‘‘Then you—"

‘‘Neither of us have any—commitments." He spoke with abrupt coldness."As for your knowing—Cynthia certainly won’t mind. You see, she doesn’t believe in just rushing into marriage without a trial."

The General interposed:" But you do?"

‘‘I don’t think an unmarried relationship can ever be really satisfactory." He was becoming a little pompous as he kicked at the fire-dogs."If I had had my way we should have been married six months ago. But, of course, I respect her principles. She’s terribly idealistic. We’re going to give it a trial for a year."

‘‘And you’d like it to be a secret?"

‘‘Y-yes. I don’t exactly want it shouted from the house-tops. Of course Cynthia’s very proud of it, and says there’s nothing to hide. I admire that. But it’s an attitude which I simply can’t share. Perhaps I’m inherently conventional... Not that I haven’t told all my closest friends. I have. But with acquaintances—"

The General winced at this not too tactful suggestion that his relationship with Croft might be anything less than intimate." Did you imagine I should be shocked?" he asked.

‘‘Frankly—yes."

‘‘But why?"

‘‘Oh, your generation—"

‘‘My generation is a good deal less prudish than yours. Good heavens—of course, it doesn’t shock me." He was being unconvincingly emancipated."What do you take me for? My own wife and I..." But he found it impossible to talk of that day when he and Lucy had found themselves alone in the clearing in the jungle and Lucy had thrown her arms about him. He went to the sideboard and poured himself another drink.

Later, Cynthia came in with a tray, and they sat, making forced conversation. She herself said little, but remained curled up in an armchair while she sipped tea from a china beaker. Then, when she had finished:"I must go," she said,"or I’ll miss that last train. Good-night, General."

‘‘Good-night."

‘‘Good-night, darling."

‘‘I’ll see you out."

‘‘No, don’t bother." They kissed, almost ashamedly, and she left them. The General watched Mark, expecting that this was all a show and that she was going to spend the night with him. But a moment later the front door slammed and feet descended.

He was glad.

Mohtherlant’s
Pitié pour les Femmes
first gave Shirley the idea. As she wrote in one of her letters to the General, her mother had lent it to her, and she had been struck by the similarity between the love which three women bear for the libertine, Costals, and her own devotion to someone who seemed so much more worthy.

She had read in that book of how Andrée Haquebaut, the little provincial, offers herself to Costals for a week, a night even; the happiness of such an encounter will be sufficient for a lifetime. At first Shirley had dismissed the notion as ‘improbable’, ‘untrue to life’, as so many people dismiss what they cannot see themselves experiencing. But the seed was to germinate.

She had sat down in a cinema, with her shoes off, while next to her two lovers huddled together, and on the screen two other, gigantic lovers met in a less ungainly embrace. The girl on her right was stiff as though with some intolerable ache, her eyes staring moonily; while the sinuously voluptuous lady, balanced above the craning necks in the ‘ninepennies’, seemed almost nonchalant. Somehow, the conjunction of these two beatitudes, the shadow and the substance, made her feel sick and empty. It was then that she decided on a last desperate step; propriety and pride and self-respect were to be forgotten.

Sitting in her room, on that airless afternoon, she wrote frantically:

M
Y OWN DEAREST ONE
,—Two weeks have passed now since I sent you the last of my three letters, and still there is no answer. You are tired of all this; you would like to be rid of me; you do not wish to hear from me again. I know that you feel all these things without your saying them. And I only wish that I could satisfy you—that I could say"No more letters" and that were an end of it. But I
must
write. Perhaps I should go mad if I didn’t. It is as necessary to me as food and drink and sleep—no, more necessary, much more necessary.

But I should be sorry to become a nuisance to you. I should be sorry if even my love were to prove a burden—a greater burden, perhaps, than the hostility of your enemies. I wish to act only as you would like me to act. But to cease to write these letters—Oh, no, no, no!

As I turn all this over in my mind—over and over, in trains, at school, at night—it seems that there can be only one way out, and only one solution. Otherwise I shall always be a prisoner; I shall always burn in this flame. Take me—take me, I beg of you—even if it be for only one night. One night would be sufficient. After that annunciation, that seal on my faith, I think I should learn resignation and patience. I think. I should learn how to set aside all desire, complete in my love, in the consummation of my love. Without this seal, all life is meaningless. But with it—how full it then becomes. In your hands are the keys of the kingdom. Shall these dry bones live?

… If you will have me once, then I shall not importune you again. You shall not hear from me again.
One night will be sufficient
. Is this so much to ask? Is my whole life, my salvation, worth less than just one night with you? I beg of you...

She wrote much in the same vein until exhausted, she put the five sheets into an envelope and posted them at Earl’s Court post office. They were overweight, and the General, to his annoyance, had to pay one penny for them at the other end.

Mark Croft had a violent temper. It was many months before the General discovered this. When he did he felt as one does when the young stranger sitting next to one in the theatre suddenly throws an epileptic fit. One feels that there should have been some sign. But the youth appeared quite normal; one suspected nothing.

Cynthia, who wore the badges and read the literature of many societies, was agitating for Indian freedom. On Sunday she stood at Marble Arch with a placard" Free India Now" and a dozen copies of
The Black Man’s Burden
. On her right was a woman in a beltless mackintosh and a tam-o’-shanter whose placard proclaimed" The dead speak to us"; on her left was a cloth cap and the
Matrimonial Post
. She thought: I
am
being crucified in bad company. But then she blushed, feeling she had been irreverent. Many people stopped to stare at her, as one does at a model in a shop window; a few held out two coppers, the price of the pamphlet. An old woman passed and said" Disgraceful.""I beg your pardon?" But it appeared that she was referring to the
Matrimonial Post
.

Later, Mark and the General came up to her and the General offered to buy a pamphlet.

‘‘Oh, no," she said, with a dry little laugh."I’ve no hopes of converting you. My pamphlets are scarce."

‘‘You might give me a chance."

But she shook her head,"I only sell where I think there’s a chance of success. I don’t expect you to believe in Indian freedom."

‘‘Why not?"

But before she could answer Mark had eased a copy out of her hand and handed it to the General." It’s never too late," he murmured pacifically, smiling. Cynthia scowled.

They stood by her for several minutes during which the General, who was in high spirits, bought a copy of the
Matrimonial Post
and read the advertisements aloud to them." Single woman, C. of E., thirty-seven, simple tastes..." But suddenly he stopped short, thinking for no reason of Shirley Forsdike. He found himself pitying her.

‘‘Let’s move on," Mark said at last. Turning to Cynthia he queried:"You won’t mind if we leave you?"

‘‘Of course, not. I haven’t sold a single pamphlet while you’ve been with me. You don’t look serious enough. People think we’re having a joke."

As they boarded their bus Mark happened to glance back over his shoulder."Oh, Lord!" he exclaimed."It looks as if there were going to be trouble." Cynthia was in conversation with a red-faced man in a bowler hat. There was a high-pitched, indignant torrent:"You young girls... Bolshie... traitors to your country... ought to be locked up..." The man had a mean little snout, eyes with long, white eyelashes, and a blue shirt against which he wore a tie whose spots were the size of billiard balls.

‘‘What’s the matter, darling?"

‘‘Nothing much, really. Just this creature being particularly offensive."

‘‘Offensive! Me offensive! Well—didn’t she call me a Blimp? Didn’t she—" He began to appeal to the beltless spiritualist who rubbed a damp nose on the back of her hand."Didn’t she—"

‘‘That’s enough," Mark cut in sharply."Just apologise to this lady. Or there’ll be trouble."

‘‘Apologise! Me apologise! I like that! You won’t catch me bloody well apologising. Ought to be locked up—"

‘‘Apologise!" Mark caught the man’s arm and thrust him towards Cynthia. But squirming, he evaded this grip and punched Mark timidly in the stomach."Let me go!" he squealed."Don’t you touch me!"

But Mark, white with rage, advanced on him inexorably. Taking the rim of his bowler hat in either hand he began to force it downwards with successive jerks, until it touched the man’s nose. His ears stuck out, grotesquely crumpled. Then as the man floundered Mark caught the lapels of his check suit and hurled him against a lamp-post.

Afterwards, he said to the General ashamedly:"I’m afraid I just saw red."

‘‘Do you often do that sort of thing?"

‘‘Far too often. I have an infernal temper. And when I lose it—well—anything may happen... Cynthia’s marvellous about it. I think she’ll probably cure me in the end."

The General smiled sardonically.

From the Diary of
General Sir H
UGH
W
EIGH

May 8th
1938

Frank Cauldwell is in town for the day. He tells me that he is looking for another job, and asks if I can meet him. I am afraid that he is just another drifter. The tutoring post I got for him with the Maccabaes should have suited him pretty well.

Our rendezvous is outside Tottenham Court Road Underground station, at eleven o’clock. He is seeing some publishers there. Of course he is late, arriving breathless with a portfolio in his hand."Oh, I
am
sorry," he says." This really is awful of me. I must have kept you here for nearly twenty minutes. And now I can only spare half an hour. I’ve just been told of someone who wants a secretary: I’m going off to see him at twelve." I grunt my indignation.

‘‘Let’s go in here," he says, and without waiting for an answer disappears into a milk bar. I should have chosen a pub.

We push our way to the far end, and both perch on stools covered with imitation leather. The counter is of smeared marble, flecked with pieces of egg from someone’s sandwich. In glass cases there are curling pieces of bread with mauve ham between them and shiny pork-pies. Frank gives the order and a nonchalant girl pulls at a lever from which gushes a frothy, bright pink concoction. She takes two straws, sticks them into the tumblers, and slaps them down before us. I suck gingerly; my front teeth ache.

We talk for a while in the inconclusive, self-conscious fashion of people who know that they are being overheard. The waitress takes a cloth and swabs over the place before us, her head inclined. Then she says,"Excuse me," crossly, and Frank has to remove his portfolio. I notice that, for once, he is dressed in an almost dandified fashion—bow-tie, brown suède shoes, and so forth. I suppose that he has never had the money to dress well before. I remember him at Dartmouth in indescribably stained flannels, a Fair Isle sweater, and gym-shoes.