by (epub)
“Come on!” says the constable, but Julian is still dazed. He sits on the pavement, the gun still in his hand.
“Come on! Get up!”
And Julian looks quickly down the street, and to the policeman: “He’s gone—isn’t he? I didn’t want to kill him. You know, officer, it is my Brother. I couldn’t help it.”
And those words have an audience, and they all stand around, greasy moustached Italians, and a man in a top-hat, and a lady in a décolletée evening-gown, and a child; and they stare at him—what a show! Just imagine.
“I haven’t killed him,” says Julian. “I really didn’t want to. . . .”
And there’s another policeman, and the first and the second policeman whisper, whisper, say something. To each other. And Policeman Number One disappears nodding his head.
Julian fumbles about for his handkerchief, but the policeman kindly bends down and takes it out of his pocket and wipes trickling blood and perspiration from Spencer’s forehead.
“Oh, never mind,” says Julian, pushing the handkerchief away. “It’s all right—help me up, please.”
Julian stands shakily on his feet, steadying himself by gripping the lamp-post—a pitiful sight. There are some more people, and they all look at him with sensation-starved, wide-open eyes.
Julian seems to realise, like thunder and lightning, the whole situation. And he sees those faces. “Why are you staring at me?” he shouts. “What are you all staring at me for? Interesting, eh? Who doesn’t care to see a good murderer?” And, drawing himself up majestically: “Yes, I am a murderer—with these two hands I killed my brother. Good, eh? Despise me?” And turning to the evening-gowned woman: “I’ll tell you, lady, it takes some strength, guts and conviction and nerve and backbone to kill. You might be married to a man you hate—how you despise him, loathe the sight of him—he makes you sick when he makes love to you—but you? You wouldn’t dare to touch him. You just prefer to suffer, life-long suffering, and feel heroic when he beats you up!”
The woman feels very uneasy, and the man in a top-hat whispers to her in a Mayfair voice: “Mad! The fellow’s mad. . . .”
“Did you say ‘mad’?” asks Julian, lowering his voice threateningly.
The constable pats him on the shoulder. “Never mind, it’s all right, keep quiet.”
Julian pushes the policeman away: “Did you say mad?” And triumphantly bursting out: “Yes—I am mad—and I’m proud of it. Gloriously mad! You are so sane, you, all of you—tepidly sane—eating, drinking, sleeping, drinking, eating, and once a week, watery passion—what you think is sin, but jolly good, and ooh, so naughty!”
“Offensive chap!” says the top-hatted man. “Why don’t you take him away, officer?”
“Why don’t you take yourself away?” shouts Julian. “It’s very late. Just think, to-morrow morning—the City. Your work and daily toil.”
“Amusing fellow—damn funny—hate to leave—but if we’re going to have supper with the Chepstows we should . . .”
“Yes, you’d better go,” says Julian. “You might miss a very jolly evening—a lot of whisky and the sight of many pretty girls—an hour of your precious life. . . .”
“Come on, Jack,” says the woman, “I think it’s outrageous, the Government. . . .”
And they both walk off.
Julian turns to the officer, and smilingly he says: “I’m sure you must think me an awful fellow, but you know, officer, sometimes it gets one. One laughs, and sneers, feels very superior to this bunch of useless people. It’s only at times I feel like this. It’s only envy. It is a curse to be a little different from them all. Talent, great talent, genius—what is it? Words. It’s only bloody sweat and agony—yes—how much I envy them their lives—their little passions—their little foods and drinks—their little lives and deaths. Why does God always choose the weak ones—men with some ailment, poor and humble, just worry-loaded creatures—to stand up for him? To show the world what happiness and beauty mean?” And, with a deep sigh: “Oh, never mind, let’s stop that bloody talk—it’s over. . . . All is over—how lovely; to retire and disappear into silent darkness and be alone for many ages, centuries to come.”
The Black Maria arrives, and two more men in uniform.
“Come on,” says the constable.
“Already?” says Julian bitterly, “though there are so many things to do, so many things to live and love? And just because I killed my Brother. Officer, he was no good to me.” And lowering his voice: “He didn’t know better—he didn’t know. God, hold your hands over that ugly body of my Brother!” He strokes his forehead. “I remember . . . many years ago I committed a crime . . . and now I am arrested. Probably sentenced to death.”
“Oh no, you are not,” says the constable, “it will be all right. Come along!”
And they gently put their hands on his wrists, trying to drag him away from the lamp-post towards the black windowless car. They start walking, but suddenly Julian stops. He strokes his forehead again: “There was an old woman—and when I ran my Brother was after me. How could I help it? I ran into her—vegetables and apples all spilled on the pavement. I want to pick them up, officer, and apologise.”
But the woman has picked them up herself as she is one of the crowd who watch the scene.
Julian recognises her, and he stretches out his hand to her. “I am sorry, Mother.”
“It’s not your fault, Mister,” says the woman, and grabs his hand.
“You go home now,” he says, “you go home to your family, take all your little vegetables and cut them up, and make delicious soup. And after dinner tell them you met a man quite by”—laughing—“quite by accident, who was very tired and who had just killed his brother, and was so tired—tired of everything, tired of himself and the whole of his story.”
The woman turns away, obviously overcome. But she doesn’t let go of his hand: “God bless you,” she says, and kisses his hand.
“Let’s go,” says Julian, quite abruptly. “It’s getting very dark before my eyes, so dark I can hardly see.”
“Mr. Spencer!” somebody shouts from the crowd, and it turns out to be Bellometti, the butcher, a large parcel under his arm: probably liver, kidneys, and tripe—food for the Brother—not knowing the story.
Julian looks at him with dead eyes.
The constable: “Come on!”
And Julian: “Bellometti. You would come to the end of Julian Spencer—a customer who never paid.” And quickly he puts his hand into his pocket and brings out a crumpled-up pound note. “Seventeen shillings and sixpence—that’s what I owe you from last week.”
“Thank you,” says Bellometti, rather flustered, but takes the pound note anyway. And he fumbles for the change.
“No,” says Julian. “You keep the rest. It’s very little to console you. There won’t be any liver, tripe, or kidneys”—and lowering his voice—“you know my Brother died. Now don’t go home, and don’t be sad—just take the money and buy many bottles of wine, good wine. . . . Perhaps you’ll raise your glass to Julian Spencer! A customer who paid at last. His Brother died—God bless his soul!”
“Huh,” says Bellometti, and then quickly, “Of course, of course, Mr. Spencer.”
And Julian, to the two policemen: “Take me away.”
He is helped into the Black Maria and off she goes. And Bellometti and the bystanders stand in the street. Bellometti turns round, and pointing at the disappearing car, he exclaims: “Julian Spencer! I always knew de great man! Genius! Genius, I said. And that’s de reason”—tapping his head—“you know. Buona sera!”
And Bellometti, butcher, is gone.
Quiet. Quiet. This is a lovely tune. Somebody is playing the piano. Of course, you’ve heard this tune, but it’s a long time ago. Huh! What cold and grey strong light. Almost hurts your eyes. And what an unpleasant realistic sight. No—yes—it’s the hall of a lunatic asylum. And there are doors, and they are all shut. And very useful lamps, but they are not lit, as it is
morning any day of the week, in any month, year 1934.
There are voices. Two doctors are talking. One is American—at least he looks like it. Single-breasted suit, silver-handled cane, “Arrow” collar, and gay striped tie, a little felt hat, Knox, the hatter, Fifth Avenue between Fifty-sixth and Fifty-seventh Street, New York City.
“Now,” says the Englishman, Warden of the Asylum, “the most interesting case we have. I told you about it—remember? Spencer, composer.” And he ends up with a Latin expression you couldn’t even spell.
The American says: “Sure,” and lights a cigar.
The Warden opens the door. “Mr. Spencer,” he says, “a friend of mine . . . Dr. Barach from New York. . . .”
Night. Soho. Only a speck of moon showing behind crooked roofs and chimneys.
And a man without hat or coat staggers happily along—it might be Barclay’s, or Worthington, or Meux, or anything alcoholic. Anyhow, he’s feeling fine. And he walks past the houses, and he stops to light a cigar.
“A match,” he says, “is what . . . what . . . what I need,” and he fumbles about in his pockets and finally discovers one. He lights it, and leans exhaustedly against a railing on the steps leading to a closed basement. For Sale, it says on all the windows, and that’s all one can see, as it is so very dark, only here and there a light swings in the wind. Oop! A good-sized hiccup. . . . There was I, waiting at the church—oop! Waiting at the—oop! church!” And to himself, “John, you’d better go home . . . oop! at the church. . . .” He turns round and quite suddenly—it shows in the man’s face—his expression—his eyes—eyes filled with horror—there is something creeping up the stairs of the dark, closed basement. This very moment. This very street. Right here in Soho.
“Jesus!” shouts the man.
Julian swings round on his stool, and he starts playing a tune with one finger.
The session with the doctors has lasted quite some time, as the lights are turned on now. Silhouettes of trees against a clear night sky before the window.
The American is speechless. So much so that he doesn’t even light the cigar in his hand.
And the Warden, rather pleadingly: “Now wait, Mr. Spencer. You yourself said a minute ago that it isn’t possible to produce—I mean to say, a monster——”
Julian interrupts him quickly: “It’s my Brother, it’s no monster—it’s my Brother, I know it, I know it’s my Brother.”
The American doctor says to his colleague: “We’d better go now.”
And as the patient starts to play something very beautiful on the piano, they leave the room on tiptoe.
A nurse enters, starts clearing up the table in the corner, making the bed.
Julian stops. And jumps up. “There are some things between Heaven and Earth, between Heaven and Hell nobody knows—oh, they’re gone—thank God! What’s the time, Nurse?”
“I’ll bring you your dinner in a minute,” says the Nurse.
Julian sits down again and plays.
The Nurse listens for a while, standing behind his chair.
Julian leans his head against her arm, and says, while he plays: “If they would only believe me. Nurse—you know—the whole of my story is true—why should I make up stories? Life is grim enough.”
“Quite,” says the Nurse, and “I’ll bring you your dinner.”
When she is gone Julian gets up, walks over to the window, opens it, and through the iron bars, and through the branches, he looks down into the park. And across the high white shimmering walls there’s a street, a wide street. Taxi-cabs. And people walking slowly in the lovely spring evening. There’s a tram stop. But it’s all very far: just lights here and there, and lots of little moving lamps.
He sits down on the window-seat and leisurely smokes a cigarette. Very calm. Very tired. And to himself: “What a lovely night—a night which never ends. People walk about in the streets, in the park, and in their little gardens. How gay life can be! Strange that I once was one of them. The little house in Greek Street. Brighton. The concert. Dreams and hopes. And Viva. Yes, it’s all so far from me.” And to the nurse who has just put the tray with his dinner on the table: “You know, sometimes I wonder why it had to come like this. Life is a grand show if one is not miscast—hideous makeup, hideous part I had.”
“Your dinner is ready,” says the nurse again.
“Look, Nurse, isn’t that beautiful? It’s like a dream—a dream of a city. Dream of Life. Mine was a nightmare.” But suddenly: “Can you see—there—that woman over there—doesn’t she look—no, it is—that’s her—that’s Viva! Viva!” he shouts.
“But, Mr. Spencer,” says the Nurse, “you are mistaken. She can’t hear you. She’s much too far——”
“No, no!” says Julian, “that’s her. Strange. Now she’s running—why should she run? Of course, she’s running across the square—can’t you see?”
“Where?” asks the Nurse, trying to drag him from the window.
And Julian, nervously, pointing: “She’s running towards the gate, she’s shouting something—look, look—my God! It’s him—Nurse! He’s after her—he’s attacking her!”
“Who! What? But Mr. Spencer—listen——”
“No! It’s my Brother!” And, ecstatically: “It’s the Brother—I must rush down—can’t you hear her? The Beast——”
And a voice, far away: “Julian!”
“Viva! He’s coming, he’s coming! Can’t you hear him? He’s coming!”
And the Nurse: “Help! Help!”
Outside the door a shuffle of feet. Indistinct words and noises.
Julian rushes to the door.
And the nurse, frantically: “Help! Help!”
And Julian, with wide-open eyes and a commanding gesture: “Open the door! He’s coming! He’s coming to fetch me! Open the door! It’s the end, anyway. End of my story. End of my life! Open the door!”
And from outside a voice, strong, deep and dark: “Julian! My Brother Julian!”
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
G. S. Marlowe was the pseudonym of Gabriel Beer-Hofmann, about whom not much is known. He was born in 1901, the son of Viennese Jews, and was active in London in the 1920s and ’30s as a theatre director, screenwriter, and author. Records indicate he also travelled to America at least three times between 1926 and 1934, and he may have been involved in screenwriting in Hollywood. In 1934, he married Sybil Ryall at Westminster St. Margaret in London, and in 1939 he legally changed his name to Gabriel Sebastian Marlowe. His sole literary success was I Am Your Brother (1935), which garnered positive (if bemused) critical reviews and attracted a cult following. According to his friend Julian Maclaren-Ross, Marlowe left England for Norway in 1940, and it was long presumed that he perished there during the Second World War, a rumor he apparently never bothered to contradict. However, more recent evidence indicates that he lived the remainder of his life quietly in England and died in 1971 at St. Albans, Herefordshire.