GS Marlowe - I Am Your Brother

by (epub)

  Julian shivers: “It isn’t cold. Why don’t you sleep?”

  And the voice again: “I can’t. I like to see you, Brother Julian. Do stay with me. You never come near me, as Mother did. You said, Brother Julian, she will come back—where is she?”

  “She is coming back to-morrow, with food and so many stories.”

  And the voice: “Is it such a long journey? Come nearer, Brother, tell me where she went to.”

  And Julian disappears into the darkness, and he sits down, and as one tells stories to sweet children, he starts: “She went downstairs, way downstairs. There are millions of steps, and it’s dark, and there is not a single light, and it takes many years, and sometimes longer. And she meets many people, and they have no faces any more, only bodies, tired out from so many steps. It’s a very long journey.”

  “Where does she arrive?” says the voice of the Brother sleepily.

  “Sleep,” says Julian. “That’s where she and we all arrive.”

  This eternal fog. And hell! Sometimes you can’t remember the number of a house, and you stop on the pavement, and you try to figure out if it’s this or the next, or maybe it’s over there, across the square. And you walk around and you know it’s late, and you are supposed to be Somewhere at eight, and even if you know you should be two minutes late, as you were told the day before, it gets you. And you are growing nervous. And you don’t even see that you are standing right in front of the house you are looking for.

  Here it is. Ornamental lamp-posts; a magnificent drive: great pillars. But you can’t reach the door as one car after another drives up to the splendid entrance.

  A Mercedes stops. And the footman, enormous in height, with a three-cornered hat and greyish double-breasted coat with big brass buttons, opens the door of the Mercedes most respectfully. And nobody gets out. And he bangs the door again and a Rolls Royce drives up. And he opens the door and nobody gets out. And a big American car. . . . Always the same. The door is so respectfully opened and nobody sits inside and nobody gets out.

  That’s very strange. Because if you care to look at the snow, as Julian Spencer does—for there is something absurd and impossible about all this—anyway, there are no traces, so no cars have driven up and driven away again. Yet cars there were, because you can’t see things that don’t exist. Or can you?

  Julian Spencer enters.

  A fine vestibule. Family portraits: Eighteenth, Seventeenth, Sixteenth Century. Full-bosomed women with borzois, and little niggers in the background, and men with curled wigs, and men with top-hats and stock-ties.

  But there is nobody around to take his hat or coat, or show him in.

  A huge marble staircase leads up to the first floor. That’s where he stops and waits. And faintly he hears an orchestra playing: some very strange music, quite thin, and every instrument seems to be playing for itself alone. But quite loudly and distinctly he can hear the piano: ‘I’ll be your Sweetheart, if you’ll be Mine.’

  Julian strokes his forehead. He tries so hard to remember where he has heard this song last. Besides, it really doesn’t fit into these surroundings. It’s almost absurd.

  An ordinary-looking footman comes running downstairs and says: “Julian, you are late. Why don’t you come upstairs? They’re all waiting for you. Are you thinking of Viva or is it Brighton? Maybe you are thinking of Viva and Kraut?”

  As he talks he pushes him rapidly upstairs, so that Julian almost stumbles over the steps, and he wants to tie his shoelace, and he can’t.

  “It doesn’t matter,” says the footman, “Julian, it doesn’t matter.”

  And there is a butler on this landing: silk stockings and gold-embroidered Eighteenth Century coat. And he asks for his name.

  “Julian Spencer,” says Julian.

  And the butler whispers quickly: “How are you, Julian?” And then he shouts into an enormous, beautifully-furnished sitting-room: “Mr. Sullivan Kraut!”

  Julian tries to argue: “No,” he says, “that’s wrong. My name is Julian Spencer.”

  “That’s what you think,” says the butler. “But you see, it just isn’t. Besides, I’m only a butler and you mustn’t talk to me. Had any news from Viva? It’s very cold in Brighton,” he adds. “This awful wind. The wind.”

  The door is closed and Julian stands all by himself in an enormous sitting-room. There is a gallery running round, and a big organ in the middle. And suddenly he hears—through some strange device—wind coming into the pipes, and one queer chord sounds from the organ. Sir Desmond appears from behind the organ and says, frog-like: “Gluck! How are you, Mr. Spencer? Won’t you come up and join me up here?”

  And Julian looks around feverishly and can’t see any winding staircase leading up to the gallery.

  “Won’t you come up?” shouts Sir Desmond down again.

  “I’m afraid,” says Julian.

  “You needn’t be afraid,” shouts Sir Desmond, “it’s all very simple, Mr. Spencer. One reaches the top. The other stays at the bottom.” And adds in explanation: “Sometimes it takes a whole lifetime. But you stay where you are. I shall kindly advance towards you, as I know the way.”

  Another butler appears with a tray bearing twenty glasses of sherry. He walks slowly towards Julian with bent head. His feet seem to be of wire. That explains his gnat-like way of walking.

  Julian reaches for a glass, drinks down the sherry hastily, and as the butler doesn’t move, he puts the glass down on the tray again and takes another one, and so four or five altogether.

  The butler doesn’t seem in the least surprised.

  As Julian puts down the last glass, he giggles like a drunkard: giggles, and giggles again, and gradually works himself up into hysterically loud laughter; and suddenly the butler’s head flies up, and he, too, bursts into quite short but very booming laughter, only to fall back again into deep silence, bent head, mosquito-like way of walking, and all.

  Another huge door is opened, another butler appears: “Dinner is served!”

  Julian quickly looks around for Sir Desmond. He sees him sitting already, all by himself, at a long dinner table. There are probably twenty more people to come. Maybe they are late, or the butler made a mistake or some strange disease suddenly flew over the dark city of London, and made their absence unavoidable.

  So Julian sits down opposite Sir Desmond, who doesn’t seem to pay any attention to Julian. He is deeply interested in a plate of soup, which he is stirring with his spoon, fishing all sorts of strange things out of the creamy liquid. Sometimes he laughs, because he rescues a pair of spectacles—the kind Mrs. Spencer used to wear—from drowning.

  “Ha-ha!” he says, “that’s very good soup. Look at this, Mr. Spencer!” And he grabs with two fingers a good-sized fish-hook out of the soup. “It was all in the stomach of the fish the soup was made from! Extraordinary! What a catfish swallows during his lifetime!”

  Julian drops his spoon and looks with wide-opened eyes, speechless, at Sir Desmond Castle, the musical fisherman. “It’s Catfish?” he says, “you mean to say, Sir Desmond, it’s made from little catfishes, this soup? Excuse my impertinent questions.”

  “Not at all, not at all,” says Sir Desmond. “Of course, you have never been here before. I understand.” At this moment the butler, who has been standing behind Sir Desmond’s chair, shouts: “Lady Castle!”

  A very tall young woman, of strange, sad beauty, appears at the door, and when Julian wants to get up Sir Desmond shouts: “Never mind, Mr. Spencer, it’s quite informal! Some sort of ‘Sir Desmond and Lady Castle At Home’ party!”

  Lady Castle, without saying a word, sits down next to Julian, and the butler shoves her chair so close to Julian Spencer, Esquire, that he can hardly move or eat.

  Sir Desmond leans back, like a painter scrutinising his work. He says thoughtfully: “That’s very good. It looks and sounds exceedingly good. Much more A-Minor than I thought. Allegro moderato, those two. But it might be adagio sostenuto shortly.”

  All thi
s is said more or less to himself, in a very subdued voice. But suddenly, sharply: “Lamenta, this is Julian Spencer. He is going to play for us after we have finished dinner.”

  Lamenta nods her head, without looking up from her plate. They are having a course of boiled thin asparagus with a thick yellowish sauce.

  Sir Desmond continues: “He writes songs. And a Symphony: ‘Dream of London.’ Mr. Spencer is a genius.”

  He raises his glass and, with a slight bow towards Julian, adds: “To the genius! We have all struggled. Life is very hard. One has to wear smoked glasses to see the brighter side. We—you—the genius—we don’t love our work, but we are sentenced to it. We can’t help it. We hate it. Talent? It’s torture. But we love torture. Don’t we, Lamenta? And we love our wounds, don’t we, Lamenta?”

  Julian hasn’t looked up from his plate: only when the hidden orchestra starts playing “Some Day I’ll Find You,” he looks up.

  “That is a very good song,” says Sir Desmond, “and I’m very satisfied with the way Ritornelli plays it.”

  “Ritornelli?” says Julian.

  “Why do you ask?” says Sir Desmond. “Of course, Ritornelli is playing it, because I engaged him to play ‘Old Songs and New’ for us while we have our meals. Didn’t we, Lamenta? You will ask me, Mr. Spencer, in a minute, how it is possible that Ritornelli plays at the Palace Pier Theatre in Brighton, and here at dinnertime, too. You’ll probably tell me it isn’t possible for a man to be in two places at the same time. Whereupon my answer will be that you know very little. Everything is possible, isn’t it, Lamenta? But we know very little about these sort of things. You might say that I, Sir Desmond, really don’t exist, or that you are really not at his house but at home, maybe asleep, or that you are dreaming, and that everything, even your—ha-ha!—‘Dream of London’ Symphony—that it is all only in your imagination. You might be right, maybe I really don’t exist at all. As a matter of fact”—and he gets up slowly—“I think—I—really—don’t exist.”

  Sir Desmond Castle leaves the dining-room slowly, and closes the door quietly behind him.

  Julian, who has been very nervous all this time, turns towards Lamenta: “I’m sorry—I’m awfully sorry, but—I really don’t understand—it’s all very strange—I——” He pulls himself together. “Lady Castle—maybe you can explain to me—Sir Desmond obviously didn’t feel well. I really don’t know how one behaves in cases like this—it’s very strange.”

  Lady Castle raises her head and looks at him with a very strange and sad smile, but doesn’t say a word.

  Julian hastily drinks a glass of champagne. “It was my fault—I mean, if you would say something—I—I—really don’t know, but I think you would understand—it’s this silence—if—if—somebody would speak, or just say something—I mean this silence is killing—Lady Castle, I implore you—just say something—don’t you see? This whole evening—it’s torture. I’m told Ritornelli is here, and I know he is in Brighton, accompanying my—oh, he is accompanying Viva Naldi—the star of the troupe—I mean!” Julian jumps up from his chair, and thumping with his fists on the table: “That’s all insanity—that’s abnormal!” And, turning towards the footmen who haven’t moved during the whole scene of despair: “Why doesn’t anybody say something here? I don’t want anything. I only came here because I was invited, because I thought something might come of this invitation—all these pictures, full-dress, black tie, two minutes late, smoked glasses, Ritornelli, being called Sullivan Kraut—that’s only to make me crazy so that I can’t think, work, make money!” And almost attacking the butler standing next to him: “I am poor! I haven’t a shilling to my name! All I want is money—to feed something which sits on my head all the time sucking out my brains—because it was told I was its brother!” And almost shouting: “If you, Lady Castle—or maybe your name is Catfish by now—if you really exist—why don’t you say something?”

  At this moment the butler leans down to Julian and says quietly: “Her Ladyship can’t speak; her Ladyship is dumb. Excuse me, sir.”

  After this grave and very explanatory remark Lamenta looks at him. Oh, she is so beautiful! And nods her head.

  “I am so sorry,” says Julian. “I should have been told. I hope, Lady Castle, you forgive me? It’s all so very new to me.” And smilingly, he adds: “I never drank champagne in my life. I am very poor, but you probably don’t know the meaning of that word.”

  Lamenta puts her hand on his and she nods her head with intensity.

  The butler and footmen disappear.

  “It must be very sad,” continues Julian, “not to be able to speak, to make oneself understood.”

  And again she nods her head, and correcting his statement, Julian adds: “On second thoughts, I really don’t think it’s so sad. The things we talk so much about we really don’t know at all. Take the wind, for instance. Nobody has ever seen the wind. And when we are close together with the woman we love, there again we don’t talk. It would spoil everything.”

  Lamenta nods her head again.

  “It’s only confusion. Words—words are confusion. Barriers we put up so that our feelings—the real meaning of things—jump and tumble together.” And suddenly, quite intensely, he leans forward, quite close to her face, and says: “I’ve known you for a long time, Lamenta. I have loved you all my life. I never thought we should meet again.” And leaning back in his chair, a very peaceful expression lights up his face, and he says, playing with his empty glass: “I’m really very happy—nothing matters much—I’m very happy.”

  This is another room and it is only dimly lit. There are no electric bulbs or elaborate crystal chandeliers, but only huge candles. And the fireplace with burning logs throws light and shadows over pictures, marble statues and costly old tapestries. And over an open piano and an enormous couch with big, elaborate, voluptuous, silk cushions.

  And as they enter—Julian and Lamenta, wife of Sir Desmond Castle—the door is closed, and they are alone.

  Spencer in his full dress and black tie walks up and down the room restlessly, and his shadow wanders with him, just as restless as its lord and master.

  Lamenta sits down on the couch, and there are just burning candles, shadows, and restless silence.

  Suddenly Julian stops: “Don’t you believe it, Lady Castle. Don’t you believe anything I said. I’m not poor, I’m rich! Millions of pounds to my name. No doubt you’ll be very surprised to know I am the richest man who ever lived. I can buy everything, and nobody ever asks me for money. I own land nobody has ever seen—mountains, rivers, forests, castles. Millions of castles I build with my own hands. Thousands of servants, slaves I brought from all countries—black ones, and some with long yellow faces, black hair and thin-fingered hands. I own all the orchestras, all the theatres, and I give millions away every day of the year, and so in the past, and so in the future. Lamenta! Look at me! Look at the only great Master of the Seven Big Seas!”

  He sits down at the piano and three big open chords sound out, but he jumps up again. “No! Lamenta, you must see for yourself, wrap this round”—he picks up a piece of tapestry from the couch—“and let us go! It’s a long journey. It’s a very steep road—so steep—and the air is so clear you can hardly breathe. It’s the highest mountain we shall climb—climb together! Now, to-night, Lamenta.”

  They walk through the hall and they pass the sleeping butler with open mouth, sitting at the door, and they open the front door and they stand in the drive, and they walk down the street. And it’s dark night and snowing heavily. And they walk past houses, past the park with many bare trees.

  Street lanterns on the pavement give light, and in the distance it says, hard against the sky: GUINNESS IS GOOD FOR YOU, GUINNESS GIVES YOU STRENGTH.

  But it’s snowing so hard one can hardly read it.

  And there are no more houses.

  But a field covered with snow. As bare and gruesome to the eye as only fields covered with snow at night can be.

  A small
piece of the moon disappears, only to be seen at times again, as dark clouds chase over it.

  And they walk on, and there is not a sound, or maybe just the sound of falling snowflakes. This field never ends and it suddenly gets light—that certain curious and hopeless four o’clock in the morning light.

  And they stand before a mountain. A huge mountain of frightening altitude, and they have to bend back their heads to see the top. And clouds crown the top, and then only one cloud, and only one road which turns and twists around this mountain, and only a house here and there on the steep precipice. And right down there another house, and sudden strange voices.

  And Julian Spencer has to drag Lamenta through a small door into this house. And there are two men standing there—men in white coats, physicians. And in this huge room there is a tiny, tiny bed. And a woman who resembles Mrs. Spencer very much lies there, dead and diseased, with closed hands. And Julian tries to convey that he has no money; not in words, just gestures. He shows that this is his mother, and he wants to come near her bed. And the doctor, with one hard hand, says: No, he can’t have the corpse of his mother.

  And Julian sweeps through this room, Lamenta tight in his arms, and he looks at her quickly, as if to say: “You see!”

  And through the other huge door he pulls her out on to the open road, and it’s a steep road, and there is another house, and this is some sort of restaurant. A place where people feed three times a day, and pay for their bodies’ delight and physical satisfaction. And the waiter comes towards them and Julian points at a bill: Soup, Joint, Potatoes, and Veg. Not to forget Bread, Butter and Coffee. And it’s only—the whole thing—one shilling and twopence. And Julian shows that he can’t pay, and the waiter, without saying a word, starts arguing, fighting: and Lamenta covers her eyes with one hand. And people pass through the other door and they all seem to laugh, although there is not a sound.

  He drags her out through this other door, and up the steep road again. And in the strange twilight they enter another house, and there an orchestra is playing—at least the players fumble about with their instruments violently and a man is conducting this silent band. And Julian jumps at the conductor and tries to show him that this is all wrong, but the conductor makes a strange face—some sort of a sneer—and he points at the audience, hundreds of people, who silently clap their hands. So they are right, not you, Mr. Spencer.