Noble in Reason

by Phyllis Bentley

  PHYLLIS BENTLEY

  Noble in Reason

  Contents

  Chapter 1. Family

  2. School

  3. World

  4. Failure

  5. War

  6. Post-War

  7. Flashpoint

  8. Escape

  9. Victory

  10. VitaÏ Lampada

  11. Age

  1

  Family

  1

  Life has faded and gone down the wind for me, and yet it seems that I am now only at last beginning to understand it. The agonizing fears of my childhood, the stormy resentments of my youth, the wretched failures of my manhood, now reveal themselves to me, in the light of the reason 1 have striven so long to acquire, as explicable in the simple if solemn terms of general human experience. As such, they are no longer a unique misery of my own, an unfair imposition upon Christopher Jarmayne by a malignant Fate, but a typical example of the general human predicament, a small fragment of the common burden shouldered by humanity in its uneven progress towards the light. Moreover, my judgment of the various human beings who played their parts in my story has been modified, not only by these general considerations, but by particular facts about them, unknown to me at the time, which have now emerged from their obscurity—the kind of facts which every person carries buried deep in his personality and imagines (erroneously) to be known and understood by all. So, in writing this record, it is my plan to relate the events of my life as I saw them while I lived them; then to follow each with what I now see to be their real truth. The difference between the two points of view is a tragic commentary on human misunderstanding.

  Take for instance our family household in the solid mid-Victorian semi-detached house named Ashroyd, in Walker Lane on the outskirts of the West Riding textile town of Hudley. As a child I saw it as a jungle of conflicting personalities, in which no path was safe. With Netta on my arm— sometimes a source of tender pleasure, more often of troubled responsibility—I hurried fear-driven through its lurid landscapes, glimpsing here and there delicious vistas of bright flower and gentle stream which sharp sword grass, huge macerating thistles, impenetrable tangles of green proliferating ropy vegetation, and a lurking population of ferocious carnivores, barred off for ever from an anxious little boy.

  My father, Edward Etherton Jarmayne—to our family unit the source of all wealth and power—with his crisp fulvous hair and beard and fierce blue eyes appeared to me like a prowling lion, whom one strove ever to evade, in vain. (I often dreamed in those days of escaping from lions; great maned beasts, terrible in growl and paw.) His gold-rimmed pince-nez, worn slightly askew, and the two vertical frown-lines above, were as much the cause and the symbol of fear to me as the markings of a real lion’s awful face. It was a welcome relief when my father, whose improving short-sight enabled him in middle age to read more easily without glasses than with, removed these pince-nez in order to study his newspaper. His face was kinder so; moreover his quick piercing glance was for a time at least removed from us and our peccadilloes.

  For my father’s passion for cleanliness and order, his zeal for work, his punctilious manners, his strict rules about money, his sense of duty, set standards which no son could hope to reach—certainly no son as dreamy, careless and untidy as I was then. Besides, with a young child there are always certain physical lapses—excretory or vomitory—which depress his spirit and undermine his confidence if too seriously regarded. Even at my present age I can remember well two such occasions—that is, the details are vague, but the feelings of anguish, of despairing guilt and hopeless inferiority which these traumatic incidents induced, are still strong within me today. Indeed last week, just as, in formal dress and amid every circumstance of public solemnity, I rose to reply to a toast in my honour at an important West Riding function, suddenly these scenes flashed into my mind. I saw a weeping, trembling little boy, crouching, once in our old-fashioned mahogany-rimmed bath, once on the floor of my parents’ bedroom, while above me raged a storm of disgust and horror aroused by my failure in cleanliness. “Look at the carpet! Look at the towel!” It was my father who stormed. It was also my father who took the practical steps necessary to remove the hateful traces of my sin. But this was an added source of grief. To compel so majestic a parent to so revolting a task— how disgusting, how unworthy, on my part! I hung my head in abject shame; never, never should I be able to maintain the level of behaviour required by filial duty.

  My father’s speech was quick and sharp, his temper impatient, his disposition touchy. He had a great contempt for all modes of thought other than his own; but this was oddly united with an acute awareness of public opinion. It was thus almost impossible to come through any day without offending one of his numerous predilections or defaulting on one of his standards, and his rebukes for any such trespass were trenchant. “Christopher! Christopher!” Even the remembered sound of my name called thus in my father’s vehement, commanding, and usually disapproving tones, still makes my heart beat faster. My father despised nicknames and endearments, they offended his sense of decency; accordingly we boys always received our full baptismal names from him; it was understood that Netta was an exception only while she was an infant; soon she too was to assume adult nomenclature.

  My father’s fiery complexion made him always too hot in sun or firelight; out walking, he darted across to the shadow (and we were obliged to follow); in the house, with a sudden exclamation he would rush to the window and throw it vehemently up, admitting great gusts of cold West Riding air in which I personally shivered. This affair of the temperature was, however, only one of the personal insults which life continually offered to my father; he was a perfectionist, and some detail was always imperfect, whatever his situation. Of each and all of these defects he complained with accuracy and vehemence. His taste was austere, he hated anything garish or florid; the darker of two available hearthrugs, carpets, suits, curtains, was always the one selected—it would “wear well.” Thus our home in Walker Lane always appeared to me joyless, strict and sombre.

  To pass from the company of my father to that of my mother was to experience a relief, a relaxation of tension, a transfer from a nipping to a balmy climate, exquisitely soothing. My mother, before her marriage Ada Appia—romantic name!— seemed to me the most beautiful and aristocratic of women. Where my father was short, slight and as it seemed always quivering with angry life, my mother was large, slow and apparently passive. Her dark hair was wonderful: immensely long, immensely thick and straight, it seemed—unlike the fierce curls of my father—to offer a mild sheltering dusk to a boy fleeing from the harassing demands of the too glaring, too scrutinizing, too inquisitive daylight. This wonderful chevelure was, it seemed, a source at once of gratification and irritation to my father. My mother dressed it very loosely, in great loops and braids; in a picture it would have looked magnificent, but amid the realities of Walker Lane in the 1890’s its unfashionable excess struck our Victorian contemporaries as alarming. I remember my mother’s hair as always in disorder, for the braids continually uncoiled, the loops descended, from their own heavy weight; scattered hairpins were always being picked up all over the house, arousing in my father sometimes a sudden tenderness, sometimes a flare of wrath. A straight though wide nose, full pale lips continually curved in a half smile, large dark sleepy eyes with a strange grey iris, a warm heavy bosom, a large gentle hand, a soft slow speech, were elements in my mother’s soothing spell.

  My mother loved the sunshine and would sit basking in it, smiling, neglecting the housework which awaited her. She loved rich colours and sometimes decked herself with a bright belt or bow quite unsuited, by the taste of the time, to the rest of her dress. This maddened my father, who snapped out: “Really
, Ada!” and twisted his neat features into a furious frown, in my view altogether excessive and over-vehement for the fault, if it were a fault, committed. My mother was not keenly aware of details. She was often unpunctual and sometimes left buttons undone on her dress; when she dusted a room the ornaments on the mantelpiece—so numerous in that era—were never replaced in the strict alignment thought necessary by my father, who as soon as he entered the room on returning from the mill frowned, crossed to the hearth and with a quick neat hand adjusted the pairs of china cherubs or bronze horses to an exact correspondence. At this my mother laughed gently, and turned her cheek to my father for his kiss, which he gave with warmth. When my father scolded me, or jerked my sailor blouse into place, my mother, surveying me with a calm bland air of affectionate interest, gently stroked back my hair. “Never mind, Chris,” she said. Even while deploring my father’s excess of emotion, I wished for more from my mother on my behalf. But never mind was a favourite phrase of my mother’s; she used it even to my father.

  “Never mind, Edward; what does it matter?” she murmured in her deep slow tones when my father agitated himself over some minor domestic failure, some unpunctual meal or undercooked joint.

  “It does matter!” cried my father. “Really I am surrounded by fools. How can you expect a man to make any headway when he is surrounded by such fools?”

  I burned with fury to hear my mother called a fool, but she continued to smile calmly.

  My mother was easily pleased; whichever seat in a tram or portion of food fell to her lot was right for her; domestic breakages or mistakes never aroused her wrath; she never grumbled about the weather. To me indeed she seemed always happy.

  Thus, in practical difficulties where aid was needed, we all sought my father, whose claim to omnipotence was undisputed; but my mother was my comfort and my joy in my hours of ease. All in me that loved colour, scent, sweet sound, warm touch, happy laughter—all the sensuous side of my nature— turned to her; I loved her, I was passionately on her side.

  My two elder brothers seemed to me to have natures as strongly differentiated as their parents’. The result was a continual clash of these colossi bestriding the nursery, amidst which I anxiously peeped about to find myself—not perhaps a dishonourable grave as in Cassius’ line, but some temporary oasis of peace and safety.

  John, the eldest—he was baptised John Etherton but grew crimson with vexation if anyone referred to his second name— was short, broad-shouldered, sturdy. His hair was in colour fairish like my father’s, but in texture thick and straight like my mother’s; his sanguine complexion, snub nose and large mouth gave him an appearance which I then thought plebeian. His speech was rough and more Yorkshire in accent than that of any other member of our family, and as a boy he was careless and slovenly in dress. He was rough, too, in manner, and abounded in those blunt home-truths for which our county is so famous. He had a loud cheerful laugh when some obvious joke pleased him—but such a joke was always, it seemed to me, at somebody else’s expense.

  Henry on the other hand was tall and slender and handsome, with crisp dark chestnut hair, an aquiline profile, and long fine hands and feet. Proud, hot-tempered, intelligent, disdainful, obstinate, very sure of himself within his own limits, which, however, were narrower than he thought, he was always polite to everyone, irrespective of their status or age. He spoke with precision from a large vocabulary; in moments of scorn and rage—such moments were frequent with Henry—his nostrils quivered and his language became more and more formal as his anger mounted. He detested anything coarse or gross.

  Thus, again, between John and Henry I was always in trouble. If only they had been alike, I often mourned, how much easier to avoid their displeasure! As it was, if one of them approved some nursery incident, the other was in a fury; I staggered between the two of them, too young and weak to set up a line for myself.

  Netta as a child was just a round, cosy bundle of love and sweetness; much younger than the rest of us, she remained for years our baby sister. The part suited her. Extremely fair, with a dimpled beaming face and a delightful little snub nose, she was quicker in speech than thought and required a good deal of explanation before she understood anything new. This we were all eager to give her; a familiar picture in my mind from those times is that of John squatting on his heels in front of her, explaining in muddled repetitive terms why, for example, she must not drop a doll inside the tall wire fireguard which surrounded the nursery hearth. Then Henry, exclaiming, “How can you expect the child to understand such a farrago of nonsense?” picked up Netta and set her in her high chair and delivered an admirably phrased harangue on the same theme. On both Netta turned the same sunny uncomprehending smile and the same charming inconsequent babble; it was clear to me that she did not listen to them, but instead just gazed at her brothers with admiring love. She beat one charming little hand quickly on the side of her chair or stretched out a finger to touch John’s nose or Henry’s buttons, laughing gleefully and calling out their names the while. John playfully bit her finger and growled, Henry took her hand in his own with gentle firmness. I stood by, a weedy insignificant little boy in a crumpled sailor suit, neither handsome like Henry nor strong like John; my dingy fair hair falling over one eye; my large full mouth slightly open; my big nose slightly askew; my long face pale and harassed, my grey eyes peering out from behind my convex glasses in an expression of timid vexation—for I believed that I understood my little sister better than anyone else; if they would only leave her to me all would be well.

  For the happiest times of my childhood were the afternoons when my mother and myself and Netta were alone in the nursery, my father being at the mill and my brothers at school. My mother spent long hours, it seemed to me, playing with Netta, holding her in the air, gently tossing her, crooning to her in soft animal tones. 1 leant against my mother’s knee and shared these ancient games, these half-forgotten songs. Baby, Baby, Baby Bunting, Baby Netta went a-hunting. . . . My mother took my finger and drew it softly down Netta’s warm cheek, or encouraged me to clap Netta’s little hands in mine, or to dangle in front of her the rattle or the beads or the doll which were the plaything of the moment. When Netta learned to crawl I sat on the floor with her, when she tried to walk I helped her to stand; I taught her presently to count, to put a button through its hole, to tie a bow. As she grew older I read to her and told her tales, in order to catch her attention introduced into these by name her well-loved dolls. Netta listened with pleased surprise, her mild grey eyes wide, her rosebud mouth slightly opened, silent for once. The fire glowed; the afternoon light faded to a gentle dusk; the sky outside turned a deep rich blue in which a silver star miraculously twinkled. My mother, silent and half smiling, as usual, rocked her chair with quiet comforting regularity. Everything was beautiful, everything was kind; there was a feeling of relaxation, of ease, of time to play; we all felt safe and happy together. Then the mill buzzer sounded, the school bell rang, we hastily tidied away our cherished games and built up the fire to a black smoking dreariness; the front door opened, there was bustle and noise and disagreement; my father and my brothers had entered the house. At once I became the puny, the unmusical, the inefficient, the disregarded; my father or John or Henry snatched Netta away from my care.

  “I’m a pony, I’m a pony!” cried Netta, springing about the nursery and tossing her mane, for I had read her a story about a pony that afternoon.

  “Oh, so you’re a horse today,” said my father genially.

  “I’m not a horse, I’m a pony,” objected Netta.

  “It’s the same thing,” said John.

  Netta’s lower lip trembled.

  “I don’t want to be a horse, I’m a pony,” she wailed.

  Then John and Henry confused her with explanations, while I stood by, throbbing with anxious love. How stupid, I thought, preening myself on my perception, not to understand the utterly different meaning, in a child’s mind, of the words pony and horse.

  This daily in
terval between the return of my father and brothers and the bedtime of Netta, always a disappointing time for me, was stretched to a protracted ordeal on holidays or half-holidays when they were at home.

  I remember for instance one wintry afternoon, the events of which, though slight enough, seemed to epitomise all my childhood’s difficulties and discontents. I suppose the date would be in the early 1900’s. It was Saturday, and the whole family was in the house. We young Jarmaynes were in the upstairs nursery together. Outside, snow fell with quiet insistence. John on the floor by the window was busy reassembling the interior of a handsome steamboat, a recent Christmas present. Henry at the table was ruling lines across a piece of paper to make musical clefs. I was reading Tanglewood Tales, while Netta played on the hearthrug with her dolls. It was a moment of unusual peace and harmony.

  Then Netta, tiring of her play, ran over to me and began to clamber up my knees. (“I’m climbing a wall, Chris, I’m climbing a high wall.” “Ever such a high wall,” I agreed sympathetically.) I took her by the waist and helped her up, stuffing my book behind me so that she should not tread on it as she trampled over my lap. She stretched up towards Sambo on the mantelpiece but could not reach him; I lifted her up towards him and she balanced herself on the stuffed arm of my chair. Suddenly there was a sharp scream and Netta fell backwards into my arms, followed by a metal object—she had dragged Sambo off the mantelpiece.

  Sambo was a money-box. The head and shoulders of a negro clad in a red coat, he was hollow within. One upper arm was moulded to his body, but the other arm, bent, offered a flat palm which would hold a penny. The theory was that one placed a coin on his hand and pressed a lever in his rear; Sambo then raised his hand to his mouth and the coin passed through his large smile and fell within. Sambo was not much used for his proper purpose, except reluctantly under parental direction by me—John had no coins to spare from our meagre pocket-money, Henry’s proud reserve scorned so public a management of his finances. But as a paperweight, buttress, support and so on Sambo, on account of his substantial weight, was often in demand in our activities. A red mark and an abrasion appeared on Netta’s smooth temple now as Sambo struck her a glancing blow and fell with a clang to the floor, and poor Netta, both frightened and hurt, screamed again and tossed herself wildly in my lap. Henry and John both ran to her.