“ ‘There will be no fighting,’ said Denyse. ‘This is not the time or the place. David asked a straight question and I gave him a straight answer—as I have always done. And straight answers are something David doesn’t like except in court, where he can ask the questions that will give him the answers he wants. Boy was very proud of David’s success, so far as it went. But he wanted something from his only son that goes beyond a somewhat notorious reputation in the criminal courts. He wanted the continuance of the Staunton name. He would have thought it pretentious to talk of such a thing, but you know as well as I do that he wanted to establish a line.’
“Ah, that line. My father had not been nearly so reticent about mentioning it as Denyse pretended. She has never understood what real reticence is. But I was sick of the fight already. I quickly tire of quarrelling with Denyse. Perhaps, as she says, I only like quarrelling in court. In court there are rules. Denyse makes up her rules as she goes along. As I must say women tend to do. So the talk shifted, not very easily, to other things.
“Denyse had two fine new bees in her bonnet. The death-mask idea had failed, and she knew I would not tell the others, so as far as she was concerned it had perished as though it had never been. She does not dwell on her failures.
“What she wanted now was a monument for my father, and she had decided that a large piece of sculpture by Henry Moore would be just the thing. Not to be given to the Art Gallery or the City, of course. To be put up in the cemetery. I hope that gives you the measure of Denyse. No sense of congruity; no sense of humour; no modesty. Just ostentation and gall working under the governance of a fashionable, belligerent, unappeasable ambition.
“Her second great plan was for a monument of another kind; she announced with satisfaction that my father’s biography was to be written by Dunstan Ramsay. She had wanted Eric Roop to do it—Roop was one of her protégés and as a poet he was comparable to her dentist friend as a sculptor—but Roop had promised himself a fallow year if he could get a grant to see him through it. I knew this already, because Roop’s fallow years were as familiar to Castor as Pharaoh’s seven lean kine, and his demand that we stake him to another had been circulated to the Board, and I had seen it. The Ramsay plan had merit. Dunstan Ramsay was not only a schoolmaster but an author who had enjoyed a substantial success in a queer field: he wrote about saints—popular books for tourists, and at least one heavy-weight work that had brought him a reputation in the places where such things count.
“Furthermore, he wrote well. I knew because he had been my history master at school; he insisted on essays in what he called the Plain Style; it was, he said, much harder to get away with nonsense in the Plain Style than in a looser manner. In my legal work I had found this to be true and useful. But—what would we look like if a life of Boy Staunton appeared over the name of a man notable as a student of the lives of saints? There would be jokes, and one or two of them occurred to me immediately.
“On the other hand, Ramsay had known my father from boyhood. Had he agreed? Denyse said he had wavered a little when she put it to him, but she would see that he made up his mind. After all, his own little estate—which was supposed to be far beyond what a teacher and author could aspire to—was built on the advice my father had given him over the years. Ramsay had a nice little block of Alpha. The time had come for him to pay up in his own coin. And Denyse would work with him and see that the job was properly done and Ramsay’s ironies kept under control.
“Neither Caroline nor I was very fond of Ramsay, who had been a sharp-tongued nuisance in our lives, and we were amused to think of a collaboration between him and our stepmother. So we made no demur, but determined to spike the Henry Moore plan.
“Caroline and Beesty got away as soon as they could, but I had to wait and hear Denyse talk about the letters of condolence she had been receiving in bulk. She graded them; some were Official, from public figures, and subdivided into Warm and Formal; some were from personal friends, and these she classified as Moving and Just Ordinary; and there were many from Admirers, and the best of these were graded Touching. Denyse has an orderly mind.
“We did not talk about a dozen or so hateful letters of abuse that had come unsigned. Nor did we say much about the newspaper pieces, some of which had been grudging and covertly offensive. We were both habituated to the Canadian spirit, to which generous appreciation is so alien.
“It had been a wearing afternoon, and I had completed all my immediate tasks, so I thought I would permit myself a few drinks after dinner. I dined at my club and had the few drinks, but to my surprise they did nothing to dull my wretchedness. I am not a man who is cheered by drink. I don’t sing or make jokes or chase girls, nor do I stagger and speak thickly; I become remote—possibly somewhat glassy-eyed. But I do manage to blunt the edge of that heavy axe that seems always to be chopping away at the roots of my being. That night it was not so. I went home and began to drink seriously. Still the axe went right on with its destructive work. At last I went to bed and slept wretchedly.
“It is foolish to call it sleep. It was a long, miserable reverie, relieved by short spells of unconsciousness. I had a weeping fit, which frightened me because I haven’t cried for thirty years; Netty and my father had no use for boys who cried. It was frightening because it was part of the destruction of my mind that was going on; I was being broken down to a very primitive level, and absurd kinds of feeling and crude, inexplicable emotions had taken charge of me.
“Imagine a man of forty crying because his father hadn’t loved him! Particularly when it wasn’t true, because he obviously had loved me, and I know I worried him dreadfully. I even sank so low that I wanted my mother, though I knew that if that poor woman could have come to me at that very time, she wouldn’t have known what to say or do. She never really knew what was going on, poor soul. But I wanted something, and my mother was the nearest identification I could find for it. And this blubbering booby was Mr David Staunton, Q.C., who had a dark reputation because the criminal world thought so highly of him, and who played up to the role, and who secretly fancied himself as a magician of the courtroom. But in the interest of justice, mind you; always in the constant and perpetual wish that everyone shall have his due.
“Next morning the axe was making great headway, and I began with the bottle at breakfast, to Netty’s indignation and dismay. She didn’t say anything, because once before when she had interfered I had given her a few sharp cuffs, which she afterward exaggerated into ‘beating her up.’ Netty hasn’t seen some of the beatings-up I have observed in court or she wouldn’t talk so loosely. She has never mastered the Plain Style. Of course I had been regretful for having struck her, and apologized in the Plain Style, but she understood afterward that she was not to interfere.
“So she locked herself in her room that Saturday morning, taking care to do it when I was near enough to hear what she was doing; she even pushed the bed against the door. I knew what she was up to; she wanted to be able to say to Caroline, ‘When he’s like that I just have to barricade myself in, because if he flew off the handle like he did that time, the Dear knows what could happen to me.’ Netty liked to tell Caroline and Beesty that nobody knew what she went through. They had a pretty shrewd notion that most of what she went through was in her own hot imagination.
“I went back to my club for luncheon on Saturday, and although the barman was as slow as he could be when I wanted him, and absent from the bar as much as he could manage, I got through quite a lot of Scotch before I settled down to having a few drinks before dinner. A member I knew called Femister came in and I heard the barman mutter something to him about ‘tying on a bun’ and I knew he meant me.
“A bun! These people know nothing. When I bend to the work it is no trivial bun, but a whole baking of double loaves I tie on. Only this time nothing much seemed to be happening, except for a generalized remoteness of things, and the axe was chopping away as resolutely as ever. Femister is a good fellow, and he sat down by me and chatted.
I chatted right back, clearly and coherently, though perhaps a little fancifully. He suggested we have dinner together, and I agreed. He ate a substantial club dinner, and I messed my food around on my plate and tried to take my mind off its smell, which I found oppressive. Femister was kindly, but my courteous non sequiturs were just as discouraging as I meant them to be, and after dinner it was clear that he had had all the Good Samaritan business he could stand.
“ ‘I’ve got an appointment now,’ he said. ‘What are you going to do? You certainly don’t want to spend the evening all alone here, do you? Why don’t you go to the theatre? Have you seen this chap at the Royal Alex? Marvellous! Magnus Eisengrim his name is, though it sounds unlikely, doesn’t it? The show is terrific! I’ve never seen such a conjuror. And all the fortune-telling and answering questions and all that. Terrific! It would take you right out of yourself.’
“ ‘I can’t imagine anywhere I’d rather be,’ I said, slowly and deliberately. ‘I’ll go. Thank you very much for suggesting it. Now you run along, or you’ll miss your appointment.’
“Off he went, grateful to have done something for me and to have escaped without trouble. He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. I had been to Eisengrim’s Soirée of Illusions the week before, with my father and Denyse and Lorene, whose birthday it was. I was sucked into it at the last minute, and had not liked the show at all, though I could see that it was skilful. But I detested Magnus Eisengrim.
“Shall I tell you why? Because he was making fools of us all, and so cleverly that most of us liked it; he was a con man of a special kind, exploiting just that element in human credulity that most arouses me—I mean the desire to be deceived. You know that maddening situation that lies behind so many criminal cases, where somebody is so besotted by somebody else that he lays himself open to all kinds of cheating and ill-usage, and sometimes to murder? It isn’t love, usually; it’s a kind of abject surrender, an abdication of common sense. I am a victim of it, now and then, when feeble clients decide that I am a wonder-worker and can do miracles in court. I imagine you get it, as an analyst, when people think you can unweave the folly of a lifetime. It’s a powerful force in life, yet so far as I know it hasn’t even a name—”
“Excuse me—yes, it has a name. We call it projection.”
“Oh. I’ve never heard that. Well, whatever it is, it was going full steam ahead in that theatre, where Eisengrim was fooling about twelve hundred people, and they were delighted to be fooled and begging for more. I was disgusted, and most of all with the nonsense of the Brazen Head.
“It was second to the last illusion on his program. I never saw the show to the end. I believe it was some sexy piece of nonsense vaguely involving Dr Faustus. But The Brazen Head of Friar Bacon was what had caused the most talk. It began in darkness, and slowly the light came up inside a big human head that floated in the middle of the stage, so that it glowed. It spoke, in a rather foreign voice. ‘Time is,’ it said, and there was a tremble of violins; ‘Time was,’ it said, and there was a chord of horns; ‘Time’s past,’ it said, and there was a very quiet ruffle of drums, and the lights came up just enough for us to see Eisengrim—he wore evening clothes, but with knee-breeches, as if he were at Court—who told us the legend of the Head that could tell all things.
“He invited the audience to lend him objects, which his assistants sealed in envelopes and carried to the stage, where he mixed them up in a big glass bowl. He held up each envelope as he chose it by chance, and the Head identified the owner of the hidden object by the number of the seat in which he was sitting. Very clever, but it made me sick, because people were so delighted with what was, after all, just a very clever piece of co-operation by the magician’s troupe.
“Then came the part the audience had been waiting for and that caused so much sensation through the city. Eisengrim said the Head would give personal advice to three people in the audience. This had always been sensational, and the night I was there with my father’s theatre party the Head had said something that brought the house down, to a woman who was involved in a difficult legal case; it enraged me because it was virtually contempt of court—a naked interference in something that was private and under the most serious consideration our society provides. I had talked a great deal about it afterward, and Denyse had told me not to be a spoil-sport, and my father had suggested that I was ruining Lorene’s party—because of course this sort of nonsense was just the kind of thing a fool like Lorene would think marvellous.
“So you see I wasn’t in the best mood for The Soirée of Illusions, but some perversity compelled me to go, and I bought a seat in the top gallery, where I assumed nobody would know me. A lot of people had been going to this show two and even three times, and I didn’t want anybody to say I had been among their number.
“The program was the same, but the flatness I had expected in a show I had seen before was notably missing, and that annoyed me. I didn’t want Eisengrim to be as good as he was. I thought him dangerous and I grudged him the admiration the audience plainly felt for him. The show was very clever; I must admit that. It had real mystery, and beautiful girls very cleverly and tastefully displayed, and there was a quality of fantasy about it that I have never seen in any other magician’s performance, and very rarely in the theatre.
“Have you ever seen the Habima Players do The Dybbuk? I did, long ago, and this had something of that quality about it, as if you were looking into a stranger and more splendid world than the one you know—almost a solemn joy. But I had not lost my grievance, and the better The Soirée of Illusions was, the more I wanted to wreck it.
“I suppose the drink was getting to me more than I knew, and I muttered two or three times until people shushed me. When The Brazen Head of Friar Bacon came, and the borrowed objects had been identified, and Eisengrim was promising his answers to secret questions, I suddenly heard myself shouting, ‘Who killed Boy Staunton?’ and I found I was on my feet, and there was a sensation in the theatre. People were staring at me. There was a crash in one of the boxes, and I had the impression that someone had fallen and knocked over some chairs. The Head began to glow, and I heard the foreign voice saying something that seemed to begin, ‘He was killed by a gang …’ then something about ‘the woman he knew … the woman he did not know,’ but really I can’t be sure what I heard because I was dashing up the steps of the balcony as hard as I could go—they are very steep—and then pelting down two flights of stairs, though I don’t think anybody was chasing me. I rushed into the street, jumped into one of the taxis that had begun to collect at the door, and got back to my apartment, very much shaken.
“But it was as I was leaving the theatre in such a sweat that the absolute certainty came over me that I had to do something about myself. That is why I am here.”
“Yes, I see. I don’t think there can be any doubt that it was a wise decision. But in the letter from Dr Tschudi he said something about your having put yourself through what you called ‘the usual examination.’ What did you mean?”
“Ah—well. I’m a lawyer, as you know.”
“Yes. Was it some sort of legal examination, then?”
“I am a thorough man. I think you might say a whole-hearted man. I believe in the law.”
“And so—?”
“You know what the law is, I suppose? The procedures of law are much discussed, and people know about lawyers and courts and prisons and punishment and all that sort of thing, but that is just the apparatus through which the law works. And it works in the cause of justice. Now, justice is the constant and perpetual wish to render to everyone his due. Every law student has to learn that. A surprising number of them seem to forget it, but I have not forgotten it.”
“Yes, I see. But what is ‘the usual examination’?”
“Oh, it’s just a rather personal thing.”
“Of course, but clearly it is an important personal thing. I should like to hear about it.”
“It is hard to describe.”
>
“Is it so complex, then?”
“I wouldn’t say it was complex, but I find it rather embarrassing.”
“Why?”
“To someone else it would probably seem to be a kind of game.”
“A game you play by yourself?”
“You might call it that, but it misrepresents what I do and the consequences of what I do.”
“Then you must be sure I do not misunderstand. Is this game a kind of fantasy?”
“No, no; it is very serious.”
“All real fantasy is serious. Only faked fantasy is not serious. That is why it is so wrong to impose faked fantasy on children. I shall not laugh at your fantasy. I promise. Now—please tell me what ‘the usual examination’ is.”
“Very well, then. It’s a way I have of looking at what I have done, or might do, to see what it is worth. I imagine a court, you see, all perfectly real and correct in every detail. I am the Judge, on the Bench. And I am the prosecuting lawyer, who presents whatever it is in the worst possible light—but within the rules of pleading. That means I may not express a purely personal opinion about the rights or wrongs of the case. But I am also the defence lawyer, and I put the best case I can for whatever is under examination—but again I mayn’t be personal and load the pleading. I can even call myself into the witness-box and examine and cross-examine myself. And in the end Mr Justice Staunton must make up his mind and give a decision. And there is no appeal from that decision.”
“I see. A very complete fantasy.”
“I suppose you must call it that. But I assure you it is extremely serious to me. This case I am telling you about took several hours. I was charged with creating a disturbance in a public place while under the influence of liquor, and there were grave special circumstances—creating a scandal that would seriously embarrass the Staunton family, for one.”
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