To the Dark Tower (27 page)

Suddenly he opens the portfolio and takes out seven or eight typed sheets of paper."I wanted to show these to you. They’re from the novel." As he pushed them across his hand catches my glass and spills some of the sickly liquid on to them. This he mops up with a silk handkerchief. The sheets are now moist and pink in one corner.

Feeling that he will want some critical opinion from me I try to concentrate on the illegibly dim typing. The passage is about a young girl in a hotel in France. But someone jolts me; and two women on my right are reciting to each other the names of most of the cinemas in Greater London with their current attractions. It is difficult.

What disappoints me at first is the discovery that in these sheets I do not appear. So I was right! I am merely to be introduced for comic relief. I read through twice and then hand them back to him.

‘‘Well?" he queries.

‘‘I like it."

‘‘But you must say more than that. That doesn’t help me at all."

‘‘You know, Frank—it seems to me that you haven’t begun to discover people yet; you’ve only discovered their genital organs."

Then, seeing the look of resentment on his face, I hurriedly add:"You mustn’t take that seriously. It was intended as a witticism rather than a criticism."

I begin on a detailed but dull examination of his prose style.

Judith, in tweeds, lay curled up beside the General, running the fingers of one unmanicured hand through his close-cropped hair.

‘‘Fibsy, darling?"

‘‘Yes?"

‘‘What would you say if Eric Anwood and I got engaged to each other?"

The General started."Engaged! But don’t you think he ought to see me first? I mean—" He put a hand on her knee as though to restrain her.

‘‘Oh, don’t be so old-fashioned!" She laughed, not very satisfactorily."In any case, he hasn’t asked me yet... But he might."

‘‘Judith—promise me something. Don’t commit yourself until I’ve—"

She pulled away angrily, pouting."Why must you be so mercenary? I know what you’re thinking. Eric’s only a lieutenant. He hasn’t any money. Hadn’t we better wait. Those sort of considerations don’t count if one is in love."

‘‘And you’re in love with Eric?"

‘‘You say it in such a contemptuous way. I know you don’t like him—"

‘‘I never said that"

‘‘Oh, yes, you did! That evening—you said he was horrible—and mean—"

‘‘Judith! You know I was only distressed because—"

‘‘Oh, don’t pretend. I’ve seen it all along. He’s not much of a catch—no money, no position. In any case I think you’d like me tied to you all my life. I don’t believe you
want
me to get married—to anyone."

Conciliatory, he put an arm round her, but she wrenched herself tree."Please don’t treat me as if I were a child, to be cuddled and mauled about! Oh, don’t you see—Eric may be my only chance. I’m not the sort of girl whom people fall in love with easily. And he does love me—he loves me so very much." For the first time she was giving away to him her morbid fear of spinsterhood.

‘‘Well—that’s all right, then," he said, not without irony."That’s fine."

He took up
The Times
once more. But a moment later the door slammed.

At lunch, Judith came and kissed him and said she was sorry; and he took her on one knee and kissed her and said:"I just don’t want you to do anything rash." At the words she seemed to stiffen with resistance, but he went on:" I want nothing so much in the world as my little Pynx’s happiness." And again she embraced him:"Fibsy, darling. I’ve been horrid to Fibsy." Then they both sat down to veal cutlets.

The scene was reminiscent of others with Lucy.

S. N. G.’s chair had been set in the afternoon sunshine. But the sun had moved, the shadows had lengthened; and now he felt cold and a little querulous. He had called many times, but no one seemed to hear him; far away the maids giggled and rattled crockery, and cars pushed along the by-pass, and an errand-boy whistled. He drew his rug up to his chin, yawning. On his knees was the latest detective story by Agatha Christie and a leather knitting-bag. All that morning he had knitted; he was making a scarf for his nephew, and already it was so long that it dangled on the grass. But he did not like visitors to see him at this pastime. As soon as the bell rang he bundled it away and pretended to be reading. Hence the bag; hence the book.

At the moment he was doing nothing. His scholarly face, the cheeks caving in and raddled, was turned to the orchard in front of him. The trees had been planted by his mother shortly before her death; but they had suffered a pest, a beetle with saw-like jaws, and had never grown. They should have been pulled up long ago, before they infected the apricot tree and the quince. But something prevented this step. Sentimentality, perhaps.

On this lawn, he pondered, he had written
The Effigy
; here he had given tea to generations of undergraduates; it was here, too, that his mother had asked to be wheeled, dying, breathless in purple silk. But why here? The view was so much better on the other side of the house, where one could see the rose-garden, and the Downs, and the sea. Here there was nothing but a wall of brambles, and the curve of the by-pass, droning with cars.

The house was one of the oldest in those parts. He could remember a time when the by-pass had been a lane, and instead of the vistas of bungalows there had only been the Hall and the church and some cottages. But the countryside was now ruled symmetrically by threads of concrete, pinioning it, holding it down. In the valley were the electric trains, bringing each evening bowler-hatted multitudes to"Chay-Noo","Dun-romin’ ","St. Leonards.” The Hall had become an anachronism.

He meditated on all this, his white hair sticking up in astonished tufts, his hands crossed over his stomach. He remembered how, as a boy, he had leant out of his bedroom window, and the nightingales had sung ceaselessly for him from the bramble thickets. But the children and the lovers and the noise of cars had silenced them long ago. Only a few sparrows now splashed in the bird-bath that his mother had had erected.

In this way he tended more and more to savour with wry satisfaction the deterioration which he saw about him. He was out of it, thank God. He had just escaped the lean years...

‘‘Hullo, S. N. You seem to be in a brown study." The General appeared round the house, followed by the patient Simpson, who had been gardener’s boy, chauffeur, and now sick-nurse.

S. N. George smiled wanly:"Hullo!" Then he turned to Simpson:"Please move me into the sun. I’ve been calling for hours and hours."

‘‘Sorry, sir." Tenderly, he wheeled the chair out into the open."Anything else, sir?"

‘‘Get the General something to sit on."

‘‘And how’s the patient?"

‘‘The patient’s in excellent spirits. The patient has knitted over six inches." He pulled out the scarf."Look! How would you like to wear that round your neck."

Simpson came out with a deck-chair."Shall I get the tea, sir?"

‘‘Oh, yes, yes. Good gracious, yes. It’s nearly five."

The General sat down, taking the book from his friend’s lap."Agatha Christie! Well, I never expected you—"

‘‘Oh, yes. I read little else now... This is an extraordinary refreshing existence, you know. I mean, the whole cultural racket—the strain of being clever, of knowing the right people—the need, my dear, of keeping up—well, it all just vanishes. I sit here, and see nobody, and do exactly what I want."

‘‘I think it’s a pity."

‘‘Reading Agatha Christie?"

‘‘No—not only that. I think the whole thing is a pity. You seem to have made a sort of premature exit from the world."

‘‘Considering the circumstances, is that exactly kind? When one is crippled—"

‘‘Oh, yes. But I didn’t mean that. You seem to have rejected life—"

‘‘Life! Ah, that’s the word. It all depends on what you mean by life. For you life is bathing, and buccaneering, and writing newspaper articles. For me parties and lectures and week-ends in country houses. But there is something else, you know. One day you will have to discover it. Life isn’t simply doing. It’s also being... just to sit here, in the sun, while that wretched bird picks the buds off the peach tree—that has its importance also." The General was smiling, and he continued:"A truism, perhaps. You’re laughing at me. But when you, too, are old, and everything seems flat and rather worthless—then perhaps..."

He did not complete his sentence.

Simpson had dressed him for dinner; he always dressed when possible. He himself tied the tie, for this was one thing which Simpson could never do."Easier to buy it made-up," Simpson grumbled as he laced S. N. George’s shoes. Then he held up a mirror, after the fashion of hairdressers, and the invalid peered into it."Do I look very pale to-night, Simpson?""A bit off colour, sir. It’s that asparagus you ate." With relish they discussed the symptoms until the gong sounded.

Seated at either end of the mahogany table course after course was brought them: but only the General ate with any appetite. S. N. G. had a prescribed diet; delicately, like a bird, he picked his way over boiled fish while Simpson stood behind him. From the cellar some excellent wines had been produced. When S. N. G. wasn’t eating he sipped at some hock and watched the General with grave eyes. They neither of them spoke much. The polished mahogany table held the reflection of S. N. G.’s aureole of white hair, the glitter of diamond cuff-links, and a steady glow from the lights. This mirrored effulgence burned up at them, making them seem somehow drab by comparison.

After the meal S. N. G. was wheeled into the study, and Simpson was told he could go. The General was offered a fat Romeo and Julietta which at first he declined; but S. N. G. urged him:"Oh, do, my dear. I like to see you smoke."

‘‘Do you? Why?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

On the desk was an accumulation of unanswered correspondence, among which could be perceived the yellow of many telegrams. These were the congratulations sent by friends and admirers at the news of the success of the operation."An internal operation",
The Times
discreetly put it. On the wall was his mother, painted by Sargent in a blaze of emeralds: she had been young then, thin-lipped, ugly. But elsewhere there was a de László portrait of a lined but magnificent matriarch.

S. N. G. stretched his hands to the fire, scratching the palms as the heat made them tingle. Again he watched the General, seeming to brood upon him as though upon a mystery."Well? What news of yourself?"

The General told him about Judith, and the meeting with Frank Cauldwell, and how he had asked if he might accompany Croft to the Amazon. Then suddenly, on an impulse, he took from his wallet the letter from Shirley Forsdike which he had received a few days ago and passed it across."What do you make of that?"

The flames seemed to corrode each of the five sheets of paper as S. N. G. read them in turn. Then, when he had finished, he put his head back in the chair and smiled. It was not the usual sickly, fragile twitching of the lips. This was a full-blooded grin.

‘‘Well?"

‘‘What are you going to do about it?"

‘‘Do about it? What is there to do about it? This is the fourth letter this month."

‘‘But you must see her."

‘‘My dear S. N. G.—"

‘‘You
must
." A thin, blue hand with pointed nails closed on the General’s wrist."It’s the sort of thing one must accept. You must live up to your myth."

‘‘Do you mean that I’m to do what she asks—?"

‘‘Of course—grotesque though it sounds. This is a symbol, a gesture. You can’t reject it."

‘‘I don’t understand you."

‘‘You should. Gods are magnanimous creatures. They like to make these sudden descents—"

The General stared at him in incredulity."Do you really think I should write to this girl—?"

‘‘You
must
! You must promise me—"

‘‘Certainly not."

‘‘Please, H. W.! You can’t reject—"

‘‘No."

‘‘Please!"

Again he caught his wrist, but the General drew it away."You must be mad... Do you know—I think this is the first time you have ever shocked me." And indeed he was shocked—not so much by what had been said as by his friend’s importunity.

‘‘So I shock you? Well—I don’t mind chat. Perhaps all my life I’ve been too afraid of shocking people. All I ask is that you shouldn’t be traitor to your myth. Reveal yourself." He smiled:"Otherwise people may forget that you are a god."

The General stared into the fire. There was sweat on his forehead.

Judith was staying with her friend Mabel in a mews flat off Russell Square, while the General stayed at his Club. They were spending a week in London. It is Mabel who must really be held responsible for what followed. Without her it is doubtful whether either Judith or Eric would have taken the step.

Mabel had spent three or four terms at St. Jocelyn’s, during which she and Judith struck up a romantic friendship. Mabel was fat and rather jolly, and the girls looked up to her; she seemed so securely adult. She brought back to school a copy of
The Well of Loneliness
which she said she had stolen from her mother, and a souvenir programme of the Pokes Bergères. She swore vehemently. The mistresses soon decided that she was ‘a bad influence’ and the head took to having long talks with her on Sunday, after prayers; she emerged from these flushed and giggling.

Eventually she left, but whether from choice or compulsion, it never became quite clear. She took up art; and stories circulated that she was living in sin, had had a baby, and so forth. Little of this was true. Perhaps if she had had the opportunity it might have been. But no one could be found willing to face that greyish countenance, plump and like suet-pudding, in which were embedded currant eyes, day after day, at breakfast. So although Mabel had ‘boys’, none of them ever shared the flat.

On the night after Judith arrived Mabel gave a party, during which a number of people were sick; and someone threw a bottle up at the ceiling so that it splintered and cut Mabel’s arm; and Mabel, grinning and always a good sort, bled profusely on to the carpet. But Eric and Judith sat apart, huddled together on a corner of Mabel’s bed. Judith was shocked but fascinated by Mabel’s friends, who appeared at all hours with bottles bulging in their overcoat pockets. Many of them kissed Mabel; some were now petting in corners.