My Last Duchess

by Iain Crichton Smith

  “I was merely trying to show that Wilkinson, who wants a room for showing films and doing plays, knows damn all about the cinema, or for that matter anything else.”

  “I see. And you do.”

  “Yes. I do know about silent films.”

  She went over to the window and looked out. The snow was gently falling, and she could see it vaguely against the darkness.

  “Mark,” she said without turning round, “you don’t know anything about yourself, do you?”

  “As much as you know about yourself perhaps. As much as anyone knows about himself.”

  He didn’t turn round to see her standing there. “You made fun of Wilkinson with his Christmas tree and his talk about his days in Greece and Italy. You’re always watching people, aren’t you, studying them?”

  “Not any more than anybody else.”

  “And that book of yours? Is it really any good?”

  “I haven’t finished it yet. It may be good when I finish it. It’s difficult to finish it.”

  She spoke, still looking out of the window. “When I married you I thought you would be different from what you are. I thought of you as clever and witty. Actually you aren’t like that at all, are you? I mean, you don’t really know what you want. You’re always on about truth and you can’t see the truth about yourself. I quite like Wilkinson, and his wife if you must know. I think they are very nice people. I think they’re very considerate people. And Mrs. Carmichael is the same.”

  “If you say so.”

  She came back from the window and sat on the edge of the chair. “What is it you want?” she asked.

  “I am dissatisfied with what we are given,” he said after a long pause. “Perhaps I am like that cousin of yours who can’t stay in any school.”

  “And yet,” she said, “you are now forty-two years old.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know when I met you first I thought you were very interesting. You seemed very enthusiastic. I have met more people than you have and yet I was quite struck by you even in the beginning. You seemed sure of what you were doing and that it was valuable. That is important, you know. And yet you’re so unsettled now.”

  “All I want is to go and see these people Hunter is working among. He said he would let me know and now he has let me know. I want to go with him. Perhaps after I’ve done so I’ll be satisfied.”

  “That’s what you think but then after that there’ll be something else. You keep on talking about that man Mrs. Carmichael and I visit. But I’d never done anything for anyone in my life. That’s why I wanted to help. You don’t want to help anyone. You only want to get a thrill. That’s why you want to go with that friend of yours. And something could happen to you. Have you thought of that?”

  “Nothing will happen to me. I’m not a child, you know. As you say yourself. I’m forty-two years old. After all, I did ask him, and it would look odd if I turned him down now.”

  “All right, I’ll come with you then.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s nothing to do with you. You have your hermit. You and Mrs. Carmichael. Anyway he didn’t ask you. I’d prefer you not to come.”

  “I see.”

  “I don’t think you see at all. I merely want to go and see for myself something everybody is talking about. It’s not a terrible thing, is it? I wouldn’t say it was even odd. Hunter himself works among them. People don’t think that odd, do they?”

  She don’t answer. He touched her cheek with his hand and she moved it away.

  “What I said to Wilkinson,” he said, “was perfectly right. We are privileged. I teach my literature but it doesn’t mean anything any more. Can’t you see that? It didn’t mean anything to you.”

  “You don’t know what you are doing,” she said. “I mean that, I don’t think you know what you are doing. You touch me as if I were a toy which you forget about most of the time.”

  “I love you.”

  “I am here, that is all you can say about that.” Something stirred within him for a moment and then subsided. It was like a fish rising to a hook and then moving away again.

  “No,” he said, “I do love you. I love to see you painting. I love to walk beside you. It’s just that half the time I wonder that you should have married me. It is so strange.”

  “Why should it be strange? People are marrying all the time. It is not unusual.”

  No, it was not unusual, and yet it was strange, that two people born out of two different wombs should, after growing up, after having their experiences in the playgrounds of childhood and then in the testing places of adulthood, have come together in a particular place at a particular time. It was more than strange, it was miraculous. It was the world’s most marvellous thing. Headed towards each other all those years like rockets, in ignorance of what was to come, to meet at last in the one area of the sky or earth. It was so strange it was incredible.

  Suddenly he said, “I’m doing it for you.”

  She looked at him in amazement and then said, “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t understand myself, but I’m doing it for you.”

  “You mean going there?”

  “Yes.”

  She stood up as if she had made a decision. “Come on. Let’s go and see if the snow has stopped.”

  They went outside and it had stopped. The sky was bright with stars which glittered feverishly.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” she said. “Let’s go out.”

  “It’s cold,” he said. “Surely you don’t want to go out there now.”

  “Yes, I do. I do. I want to walk under the stars.”

  “But you would slide all over the place. It’s quite slippery. And anyway where would you go?”

  “Let’s go to the tower and look across the harbour. It will be beautiful from there.”

  “No, it’s too cold and anyway you would catch a cold. You’ve been sitting by the fire all night.”

  “I like the snow. We used to ski when I was in school. I remember it very well. I wasn’t much good but I liked it.”

  As they stood in the doorway he saw the mounds of snow like clouds, like waves, and the houses weighted with it, like houses one might see on Christmas cards.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said, coming inside. “It just came into my head. After all, one isn’t in school now. We used to wear mauve uniforms, you know.” She laughed suddenly. “Imagine me in a mauve uniform.”

  “What happens to the birds?” she said. “Do they simply get up and go when they feel they need the warmth?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Just like that?” she said. “Though I don’t suppose it’s so odd really.”

  “They are said to navigate by the stars,” said Mark. “At one time they couldn’t make it out. Now they know they navigate by the stars.”

  “All right,” she said, “go there tomorrow.”

  Her mood appeared suddenly to have changed. She kissed him suddenly and they wrestled playfully on the sofa. She pushed him away and then looked round the room.

  “I was once in a hotel room at night,” she said, “and I did this painting on a piece of paper resting it on the telephone directory. There was a white telephone beside me and I thought someone would ring me up but no-one did. I could have rung my father or my mother or my uncle but I didn’t. I’ve got relations, that’s one thing about me. Quite a lot really.” She pulled his face towards her and then kissed him again.

  “Let’s go to bed,” she said. In a playful mood, she said goodnight to the chair on which she was sitting, and to the chair on which Mark was sitting, and to the sofa. As he switched the light off the pale glare of the snow entered the room.

  9

  Actually the visit to the Wilkinsons had not been uninteresting. When they got there Wilkinson had been fixing a Christmas tree and seemed quite happy among the coloured bulbs. They all sat down eventually in the lounge whose walls were lined with books, most of w
hich Mark was sure Wilkinson had never read. Mrs. Wilkinson sat in the chair knitting a shapeless blue woollen thing and it turned out that she was in fact expecting her fifth child, and this was why she was, in comparison with Lorna, so Virgin Maryish and calm and placid, only rising from her place in order to bring in sandwiches and coffee.

  Lorna and Wilkinson got on very well, the latter talking about his war experiences in Greece and Italy and France and Germany.

  “Actually,” said his wife, “he still attends those war reunions. The other night he came back at three in the morning. He was singing one of those songs that Vera Lynn used to sing. I hope the neighbours didn’t hear.”

  “I’m sure they didn’t,” said Wilkinson. “As a matter of fact I was watching TV the other night and they were showing this War reunion which Mountbatten had with his Burma troops. Vera Lynn was singing and there were two sisters there also doing an act. I thought they looked very old. It made me realise how old I was getting myself.”

  “Fifty,” said his wife smiling.

  “For people like us of course,” said Wilkinson with his usual enthusiasm, “the war was the only means we had of seeing the world though I suppose it’s a terrible thing to say. I once saw the Acropolis by moonlight. There’s a man, I think his name is Bowler, who wrote a book about Greece which I read. I don’t know if you know him, Mark. He also wrote a book about South America. It’s called Days in the Saddle.”

  The finest of The Readers’ Digest, said Mark under his breath. “No,” he said aloud, “I haven’t read it.”

  “I think you’ve done quite a bit of travelling yourself,” said Wilkinson to Lorna who had been watching Mrs. Wilkinson knitting.

  “Yes, yes I have. Not that I learned much. People like me never notice anything.”

  “Oh I wouldn’t say that,” said Mark. “I think she writes the most interesting letters. She notices a lot.”

  “The places get all jumbled up in one’s mind,” said Lorna. “Lots of people travel and notice nothing.”

  “That’s quite true,” said Wilkinson. “I visited Italy myself. I didn’t like the people much. I much preferred the Greeks. I didn’t like the Egyptians either.”

  “The loneliest I ever felt in my life was in South Africa,” said Lorna. “All these veldts or whatever they call them. The sky goes on forever. I had the most intense feeling that I wanted to be with people. I’m afraid I can’t stand much loneliness. That’s why I like it here. The people are very nice and friendly.”

  “Quite,” said Mark. “Mind you, small towns have their drawbacks.”

  “Naturally,” said Wilkinson. “One doesn’t see much of the world.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of that so much,” said Mark. “I was thinking of the local newspaper. I mean, everything is so good. The whist drive, the prize giving, the local concert, they’re all good. And yet when one actually goes they’re stupendous bores.”

  “Well,” said Wilkinson, “people don’t want to be unpleasant, do they?”

  “I suppose so.” Mark leaned forward in his chair and said: “There is one thing I meant to ask you all in connection with that. Some time ago a man whom I was friendly with died. Before he died he’d been writing a novel, and he had never done any writing before in his life. You know the kind of person? He thinks that writing is something anyone can do, and during his working life he despises it. After all, everyone uses words. He would never dream of trying to write a symphony. In any case, this man was dying and he knew he was dying. He also knew of course that I read rather a lot. So one night he brought out this sheaf of paper and said to me: ‘Would you care to read what I’ve been writing? Naturally it isn’t as good as what you normally read.’ I took the sheaf of papers and there was the kind of embarrassed silence you get in situations like that. I didn’t take long to realise that the novel was sheer rubbish, the kind of thing you might get from a schoolboy of fifteen. So I was in rather a difficult situation. There was no doubt that the man knew he was dying. There was also no doubt that he wanted me to say that the book was a good one.” He stopped and looked around him. “Well, what should I have said?”

  “That is a pretty problem,” said Wilkinson. “I myself taking everything into account would have said that it was a good book, whether I believed it or not. I had rather an interesting case when I was in Greece. I had suspicions that this private’s wife was deceiving him. You know that in those days we censored all the letters? In any case, one day this letter came to him and I had a strong suspicion that she was telling him that she was leaving him. So I held the letter back. Actually we were going over the top the following day. When I read the letter it confirmed what I had thought. You remember, Norma,” he said to his wife, “I told you about it? In any case, the private was killed in action. Technically perhaps I had done something wrong but how could you expect a man to go into action knowing that his wife had left him?”

  “You didn’t give him the chance of knowing the truth?” said Mark.

  “No, and I believe I did right. I think there are certain things we ought not to know, even about ourselves. He would have got to know about it eventually but I didn’t want him to face a battle with that on his mind.”

  “I think you were quite right dear,” said his wife, knitting placidly. “I don’t see what else you could have done.”

  “And what about you, Mrs. Simmons,” said Wilkinson, while Mark was thinking that it was typical of him that he should have reduced the substance of his question to a triviality.

  “I don’t know,” said Lorna slowly. “It’s difficult. On the one hand, I suppose artistic standards must be kept high. On the other hand, perhaps a human being is more important than a work of art. That is really what you are saying, isn’t it, Mark.” She was thinking that Mark seemed incapable of small talk, that he was always getting people involved in argument. Through the open door of the lounge she could see the Christmas tree with its coloured bulbs and felt more at home than she did in her own house. Mark hated Christmas trees.

  “I suppose it is,” said Mark. “I suppose what I’m really saying is that in small towns the truth is hidden away in the attic, that no-one will admit to what he is. I remember I had an argument rather like this once with some visitors who were taking Bed and Breakfast in my lodgings and they took it very badly. They were English people. As a matter of fact it emerged that one of them was a physicist, quite a clever man in his own field but, I should imagine, rather stupid outside it.”

  “What would you have liked yourself?” said Wilkinson, pouring some whisky into glasses. “Would you have liked to be told?”

  “I think so,” said Mark. “Yes, I think so.”

  There was a silence and then Mrs. Wilkinson got up and said, “After that I think we should have some tea.” Lorna was looking at Mark in a rather grim way, as if she hoped that he would move on to something less explosive, but he did not seem to be thinking about her. His face was pale and intent and, she thought, rather thin. Why couldn’t he be like Wilkinson, she wondered. Why couldn’t he be relaxed, spending an evening working at a Christmas tree? But no, that seemed to be impossible for him. He was always confronting these insoluble questions, a man out in a white storm.

  “I find that golf cures me of asking these kinds of questions,” said Wilkinson, “The wind on your face, you know. There’s nothing better to give you a sense of proportion.”

  Mark turned away and began to examine the titles of the books on the shelves. He always crosses his knees, thought Lorna, and he always looks very tense.

  “As a matter of fact,” said Mark, “there’s a friend of mine in Glasgow who does some work with juvenile delinquents. I’m going to see him fairly soon.”

  “Oh, isn’t that dangerous?” said Mrs. Wilkinson who had just come in. “They attack people with knives, don’t they?”

  “Not always,” said Mark shortly.

  Lorna was furious. She had been told nothing about this by Mark and if she had been at home she would
have started a quarrel. But she didn’t say anything at that time.

  “I think,” said Wilkinson, passing the tea, “we are very lucky to be where we are. One or two?” he said to Lorna.

  “Two, please, or even three.”

  “None for me, thanks,” said Mark. “I don’t take sugar.” He was thinking how much prettier Lorna was than Mrs. Wilkinson. Don’t let her ever grow like Mrs. Wilkinson, he muttered under his breath. Don’t let her ever become plump and nice and happy and relaxed. Let her always retain that curious Red Indian look of hers. Let her never learn to play bingo. But he knew that she would be trapped like everybody else. He knew that she wasn’t as strong in loneliness as he was. As he thought of her becoming like Mrs. Wilkinson he felt a pain that pierced him deep in the heart, a pain such as he had never felt in his life before. To think of her sitting in a chair knitting woollens, or at a table in a restaurant wearing a pale bracelet over a brown jumper of fine wool, made him ache with fear. Oh God, he thought, let her be more vital than that, let her rather dabble with her paints forever in dirty denims.

  Lorna was now talking to Wilkinson about her painting. Her face glowed and she became wholly alive.

  “Of course he wouldn’t sit for me,” she said, “he sits by himself in that dirty room. I have to try and remember what he looks like. I have to get the exact unshaven look into his face.”

  “There’s a painting by Van Gogh a little like that,” said Wilkinson. “He was the man who cut off his ear or somebody else’s ear, I can never remember,” he said to his wife. “He looked very unshaven in that painting. And then of course there’s Gauguin. He was the one who went off to the South Seas. Just like Robert Louis Stevenson.”

  They talked about painting for a while and then got on to the silent film, a subject which was introduced rather maliciously by Mark in order to find out how much Wilkinson knew.

  “I remember seeing them a long time ago,” he said. “I remember matinees. Of course we were very poor in those days. I always associate them with poverty.”

  “You could learn a lot from the silent films for your painting,” said Mark to Lorna. “You want a more imagistic technique. Her paintings are rather moral,” he told the Wilkinsons.