Both the women laughed, slapping their thighs and rocking to and fro. The dark one controlled herself first and said, ‘A drop more, love?’
‘I don’t mind if I do,’ she said, holding her fingers to the glass. ‘Ta.’
At this moment the black-haired woman was called out of the room and the visitor, dangling her tongue into her gin, but not sipping it, read on over the rim of her glass.
‘“It is not the observer who must be asked, but the sufferer. To the observer it must appear that there are many identical crimes, which may or may not have identical punishments. If we take the ordinary crimes, lying and theft, it can be said that in every case the criminal is punished by being a liar (for obviously it is not the punishment of being disbelieved that counts – that is no more than a haphazard retribution for lack of skill) or by being a thief, by inhabiting the mind and body of a thief: but that is a merely superficial view. Take as an example the commonest criminal of them all, the selfish, disagreeable man: this sufferer, heavy under the self-inflicted punishment of an everlasting evil temper fixed into his body by his indulgence in unpleasantness, can point out a thousand significant differences in his punishment as compared with the next man’s; the weight of his sour life presses on innumerable points of sensitivity that no other man can have. It is the same with the ordinary hysterias, neuroses, and psychosomatic diseases. Yet it is true that in this range we do have an apparent similarity: the enormous differences, the differences that instantly convince the most casual observer, come from huge and monstrous crimes. It is these that cause the monstrous births upon the other side. I think of the horrible thing at the bottom of the Last Judgment at Albi: that must have been created, automatically created, by one appalling crime alone. That crime may have been called by the same name as other crimes (Judas’ sin is nominally shared by the latest petty traitor) but obviously it was as unique as its result. This thing at Albi could never possibly have served to counterweight two crimes: it was made by one alone. Bosch and Breughel, too; they show the harmony and equipoise …”’
Her eyes skipped down the lines until a capital began again. ‘“It comes to this: each of these acts adds another to those things that live in Hell – creates it. It creates a new fiend.”’ A pleased smile spread slowly across her face: she nodded her head, staring intently at the blank wall in front of her.
‘What was it?’ she asked, as the door opened again.
‘Oh, nothing. Only the brimstone going out. But as I was saying, old Prince sits himself down and goes on and on in his quiet, soapy voice – gets very confidential and friendly.’
‘He is a proper card, old Prince.’
‘Yes. He likes to see how far he can make them go. If only he can get them to go down on their knees and blubber the whole thing out while he does you know what behind them, it sets him up for a fortnight. Sometimes he borrows Ambrose’s outfit, but the pure jam is when he can firk it out of them voluntary, sobbing in mother-bull’s bosom. Anyhow, this time he gets our gentleman on to his hobby-horse about this psychosomatic business and rewards and punishments and so on; then after a bit he breaks off and says, “But this figure that you think you see, Mr Philips, it has no certain form?”
‘“No!” he says, as quick as that. Then he hesitates and says, “No. No. It is only dark. Always behind me, as I told you; and when I turn it goes.”
‘“It always goes? Vanishes?”
‘“Yes.”
‘“Always?”
‘“Yes. Well, that is to say …” He hesitates, and old Prince looks grave and sympathetic, very interested and kind. “… that is to say, almost always. But once I turned too quick and I thought I saw it then.”
‘“Was it – forgive me if I seem indelicate – was it a dreadful thing?”
‘“I hardly know what to say,” says Philips, pretending to blow his nose and dropping his handkerchief. “Not really, perhaps. Not in itself. I thought it was the shadow of a barn – the sharp line and the corner.”
‘“Just that? No more than that?”
‘“The shadow of a barn. The side going up so sheer and the angle of the roof.”
‘Old Prince leans back in his chair, looks at his watch, and coughs. “Shadows, my dear sir,” he says, rather impatient but covering it up, you see …’
‘He’s a cunning one, old Prince.’
‘“… shadows,” he says. “We all know how a horse will shy. We all know, too, how our bodies can deceive us, and especially our eyes. An unwise indulgence, a late supper, and we are apt to dream at night and to have our faculties disturbed the next day. Singing in the ears, spots floating in the air. They tell me it is the liver.” And he looks at his watch again. But our Mr P. is getting very agitated, gripping the arms of his chair so that the whole floor trembles.
‘“Don’t go,” he cries – as if old Prince had any intention of going – “I should like to …” He bogs down there; but after a minute he says, “I had an interesting talk with Father Ambrose the other day.”
‘“Oh indeed?” says Prince, very solemn. “Well, I am sure it must have done you good. My dear colleague has a brilliant understanding: I only wish he could be here more often. But they keep him so very busy, you know.”
‘“Your colleague? But I thought you were …”
‘“Why, yes. Father Ambrose is my colleague. In my humble way I fulfil a dual function here. I am very proud of my connection with him: he is a wonderful person, and I have learned a great deal from him. I am sure he must have done you good?”
‘“Yes, yes,” he says, “Father Ambrose was very kind – wonderfully patient – most considerate.”
‘“May I ask what you talked about?”
‘“It was mostly the same subject that we have just been discussing. But he is so sympathetic that I ventured to put it on a personal plane.”
‘“I see. I see. You told him everything?”
‘“Yes.”
‘“Everything?”
‘“Yes.”
‘“So of course he was able to reassure you completely?”
‘“It was not a regular confession, you understand,” says Mr P., still holding off.
‘“No. I quite understand. But, however, he was able to reassure you.”
‘“Yes.”
‘I thought that was the end, but after a while old Prince leans forward and says, “My dear Philips – I hope you do not mind me calling you that – my dear Philips, I am afraid that you may have some unexpected reserve. Unfortunately Father Ambrose will not be back for some considerable time, but if I can be of any service to you, I am entirely at your disposition.”
‘“It was after my talk with him that I turned and saw it clearly,” blurts out Mr Philips.
‘“Dear me,” cries Prince, and I knew he was so near a fit of the giggles that I nearly went off myself, although I was alone in the corridor. But he goes on very grave and earnest. “Dear me, you must have found that very disturbing.”
‘“I can’t bear it. I can’t bear it,” he says.
‘“Now, now, my dear Philips; let us be calm. Calm. I am here to help you: you know that, don’t you? Let us look at it this way: as it happened after you had had your, your ‘talk’ shall we say, with Father Ambrose, there cannot possibly be any connection between this and your former – what term shall we employ? – your former visions. For as I understand it you told Father Ambrose everything? The account was quite complete?”
‘“Yes. But perhaps it was not valid.”
‘“If it was complete it was certainly valid. There were no omissions?”
‘“Oh no. Certainly not – no voluntary omission at all.”
‘“Perhaps some little suppression almost unnoticed at the time, which has occurred to you since?”
‘“I don’t think so. No. But I can’t bear it – I can’t. It is getting so much worse.”
‘Prince calms him down a little and then says, “Perhaps if we were to run over the main points of your conversation wi
th Father Ambrose you might find it helpful, and it is possible that you might bring something fresh into your memory, something that you unconsciously kept in the background before. As I am sure you have noticed, our memories are extraordinarily unreliable, and they have a strange capacity for hiding things that we do not wish to remember. Yes, I am sure that that would be our best course: but may I beg you to be frank? I am sure that you will realize that complete frankness is of the first importance.”
‘“You are very kind. But I am afraid of trespassing on your good nature. I kept Father Ambrose here for hours.”
‘“Not at all, not at all. Now I think – yes, I am sure of it. I think you would be more at your ease if you were to kneel here, facing the window. I shall be able to hear you perfectly well. Remember, you cannot be too minutely detailed.”
‘So Philips gets down on the floor and puts his face against the cushion of the chair old Prince has been sitting in and old Prince stands behind him in the middle of the room, bending up and down on his knees and going like that with his hands.’
‘He, he, he.’
‘But instead of beginning, he jumps up again and says, “Do you feel that my theory of punishment is sound, Mr Prince?”
‘“Eh?” says old Prince, rather put out and giving him a dirty look under his eyebrows. He hadn’t expected that, and nor had I; but he recovers himself and says, “A very interesting theory, Mr Philips, very interesting indeed. But these are terribly difficult questions and I am sure that our best course is to do as I suggested. Shall we begin at the beginning?”
‘Of course, he wants to get him down on his knees again, and for a moment he does go down. But then he bobs up again and stands there wringing his hands as good as a play. “I can’t bear it,” he keeps saying, “I can’t bear it.”
‘“There now, my dear Philips, let us collect ourselves. Let us be calm. I will be just here behind you, and I will listen without interruption, I assure you. And we must bear in mind the absolute necessity for complete frankness, must we not?”
‘Old Prince is looking very ugly, but Philips is half turned to the window and doesn’t see a thing: he keeps moaning “I can’t bear it. I can’t. I can’t.”
‘Prince sees that it is no good going on with that line, so he hands him back into his chair, waits until he has come off the boil, and then, after a little while, he says in a thoughtful voice, “The shadow of an upright wall, and the angle of the roof. Now let us reflect. What, by your theory, could have called that into being?”
‘“It is not only the line and corner now. I didn’t tell you. I didn’t like to say,” he gasps.
‘“There is something else?” murmurs old Prince, to help him on.
‘Philips whispers something, but what it was I could not catch: the next thing is old Prince saying, “Perhaps you could give me a general idea, eh?”
‘But “I can’t name it,” he says, jerking his head over his shoulder.
‘“Just some hint –?” says old Prince, for our man is very near the point now, and old Prince is all hot and excited. But it won’t do: he has pressed him just an inch too far and at that point our man sticks. He can’t bring it out, and it’s no use, although Prince soothes him and soft-soaps him for half an hour and more. You would have screamed. If you had been there I would never have been able to hold out.’
‘Was he cross?’
‘He was livid, my dear. He got out of the room all right in the end, still the dear old gentleman; but he gave me such a look as he shoved by.’
‘He doesn’t like to fail. But he’ll have him next time.’
‘Oh yes, he’ll have him next time. But he likes it first go off, and this was rather a special one.’
‘I wish I had seen it.’ She paused for a while before adding, ‘You have all the funny ones.’
‘We’ve been lucky recently. There’s another comic in the upper wing who –’
‘What was that noise?’
‘Which noise?’
‘Like a dog howling.’
They both listened. The inhuman cry swelled to an enormous volume and after an instant’s silence a furious trampling shook the ceiling of the room.
A slight frown creased the forehead of the black-haired woman, and she stood up, very tall and solid over the rickety table. ‘The students?’ she said. She stood considering for a moment with her lips pursed, while the hellish din continued overhead. ‘Yes, the young devils must be teasing him. Old Prince said he might give them leave.’
A moment later she said, ‘They’ve left him now.’ She turned to a cupboard, took an instrument out for herself and handed another to the visitor.
‘We’ll go up too, shall we?’ she said.
‘Oh yes,’ cried the other, jumping full of glee, ‘and we’ll make him say who created us.’
And laughing they hurled themselves out of the room and raced up the stairs, screaming with laughter that flew before them to the door of Mr Philips’ private room.
The Long Day Running
THE FIRST SONG Lemuel Kirk ever learnt was John Peel; he loved everything about it; he knew all the words, and he often made the palm-trees tremble with his view halloo. He had longed to go out with a fell-pack from his earliest days; and now that he was settled in Wales he had the opportunity of fulfilling this ambition – indeed, of surpassing it, for the country inland was made up not of fells but of mountains.
His predecessor at the hospital, a Welshman with a wide acquaintance in the surrounding counties, gave him an introduction to the master of a famous old pack that hunted them, and in the autumn a postcard came to tell Dr Kirk that hounds would meet at Hafod Uchaf on Thursday, at half past nine.
The dogs were a mixed body – fell-hounds, Welsh hounds, a beautiful English bitch from the Pytchley, and almost as many terriers as foxhounds: small terriers of different colours, most of them whiskered and hairy, all coupled with heavy chains. The Master was followed by a personal dog, an old cross-bred black retriever that farted every few minutes and that took no notice of anyone. The Master himself was a spare, remote man with a hawk nose, a curling moustache and a piercing blue eye: his horn could be seen under his Burberry and he carried a long-lashed crop slung over his shoulder. Something had occurred to vex him, which disturbed the rest of the field; but he greeted Kirk kindly, and hoped that they would be able to show him some sport. Gerallt Williams, the huntsman, had brought his son to the hospital for a course of treatment, and Kirk already knew him. And there was a weather-beaten woman whom he recognized as one of the magistrates who had fined him for a motoring offence in the summer. The rest of the field he had never seen, to his knowledge: some local farmers and artisans; a tall soldier called Major Boyd, some other ‘educated’ men; a schoolmaster with a hard-faced virgin at his side. They were all dressed in strong, shabby clothes; they all wore boots; they all carried sticks. Kirk felt too new altogether, except for his boots – they at least had seen service during his long walks in August and September.
Little did Kirk know about hunting, and the apparent competence of the others disturbed him. Following at all seemed to him to imply a moral duty to keep up, to go through thick and thin, and to be in at the kill. He could not possibly expect to distinguish himself in any way, still less to be given a brush; but he did hope to avoid disgrace. He was the only black man in those parts; and apart from that these people seemed to him stand-offish – it would be painful to expose himself in front of them. Yet perhaps this was no more than a question of language: many of the patients from the hill farms and villages needed a Welsh-speaking nurse to interpret for them when it came to the finer points; and in his farther walks he had noticed how people avoided conversation, not to display their imperfect English.
At this point the farmers were all speaking Welsh – the word llwynog kept recurring; the Master spoke Welsh or English indifferently when he spoke at all. ‘For Christ’s sake let’s cut the cackle, Dwch anwyl,’ he said, pulling a watch from his waistcoat. ‘If he don
’t choose to meet my bloody hounds prompt, let him go and – himself.’
They moved off, the huntsman; the lean pale pack, smelling strong of hound; the Master and his familiar spirit, farting as it went; the shabby field.
As they came into the high valley, the fox slipped up over the edge of it and away. He went with no hurry, picking the easy path through rocks and shadows, and if it had not been for two sheep that started violently, making the shale rattle on the mountainside, he would never have been seen. A big dog-fox, long-legged and uncommonly dark: he paused on the skyline, on the edge of the steep slope, and looked down before he vanished. There were half a dozen of them there at the far end of the lake and more strung out along its barren shore, all staring up at him: the hounds were farther on, where a fall came down to the water at the head of the valley. It made no difference to the fox that he had been seen, because the dogs were already working along his drag among the black rocks; but it pleased the followers – Kirk’s heart leapt with delight.
This was Cwm Llyn Du, a great bowl of a valley like a crater with a quarter of its wall broken away at the lower end; it had high steep sides, so sheer that on the two arms before the break the grass could only just get a footing, while the top end was savage, bare and sterile.
The pack was on the true line, with Bashful and Melody out in front; and its meandering path showed exactly the way the fox had gone up some hours before. This was a fair scenting day up here, and suddenly as they came to the place where he had been lying, Melody bawled out with passionate conviction, then four or five more all together, and they were away with a splendid wild crash of music, all close together with no doubt or hesitation, sweeping away in a tight white line, noses down, running fast.
Kirk stood entranced for a moment, but already the followers were toiling up to that far-away crest, taking different lines, all of them steep the moment they left the water. Out to the right there was the long-legged huntsman with four of the terriers. Running along the flat Kirk came up behind him; but Gerallt went so fast with his long legs and his ceaseless springing stride that Kirk could stay with him only by putting all his closest attention to it, taking advantage of every easy step, watching the huntsman’s feet in front and above, concentrating all the time. The least stumble jerked the breath out of him, losing distance; sometimes he was on all fours; often he seized the grass with his nearer hand to help him along, always too far behind to relax his concentration for a moment. He saw almost nothing of the hounds as they hunted up and along the side and over the rim at the very nick in the rock where the fox had stood, but all the time there was that lovely remote barbarous din to keep him tearing along like a boy. He meant to keep with Gerallt if he possibly could, both as an expert fox-hunter and as his only acquaintance – the Master was too awful a figure by far – and already there was a tacit understanding between them: most of the followers hunted in pairs.
The Rendezvous and Other Stories Page 19