The Doomsday Men

by J. B. Priestley

  “You’re glad we came here?” she asked, rather shyly, as they sat down.

  He told her he was, thanked her gravely for bringing him, and said how strange and beautiful it was, all of it.

  “Yes, and why, why is it so beautiful?” she demanded passionately, surprising him again. “Can’t you see? Because it’s itself, just the world, just sun and air and rock and sand, and no people to spoil it.”

  He sat up, regarding her wonderingly. “Do you really think people spoil the world?”

  “Of course they do. Look at this, and then think of the places where people are, millions of them, your London, and New York, and Los Angeles, all crowded together, screaming and squabbling and thinking dirty little thoughts and all getting ready to murder each other again. And the more there are of them, the worse it is. Long ago, when there were only a few people—and perhaps thousands of places like this—it was all right. But now there are more and more people and ugliness and dirt and horrible things happening, and there isn’t much like this left. That’s what I believe,” and she looked at him defiantly, “and that’s why I don’t mind.”

  “Don’t mind what?” he asked, astonished by this sudden outburst.

  She shook her head, then brought out their food and a thermos filled with hot coffee. Determined to respect her moods until the right moment arrived, for sooner or later to-day he must ask her point-blank what lay behind all this, he ate in silence, and succeeded in setting aside his bewilderment to enjoy their picnic.

  “Have you thought much about that house you’re going to build for yourself in the country?” she suddenly demanded.

  He was delighted that she had remembered. “Yes, of course. But I didn’t think you’d remember.”

  “I’ve tried living in it once or twice,” she told him, rather like a little girl enjoying a solemn fancy. “Only in the summer, of course. I was back here for the winter.” The dimple came and went; an enchanting glimpse.

  “You often come here, I imagine, to this place—don’t you?”

  She nodded. “It’s my favourite ride. Especially lately. I’ve been down here nearly every day lately. By myself, though sometimes a man comes along and talks to me—he’s camping somewhere down there”—she pointed vaguely downwards—“he brought his car up Jubilee Pass, then ran it as far up there as it would go and camps near it. He’s rather odd, with a beard—I think his name’s Mitchell—and he knows a lot about geology and stuff, and tells me all about it. He’s a nice man, though I hope he doesn’t turn up to-day.”

  “So do I,” said Malcolm fervently.

  “You’ve a funny sort of little crinkle near your right eye. I used to notice it when we were playing in that tournament.”

  “Good lord! I never thought you noticed my existence then—let alone little crinkles.” He was genuinely amazed.

  “I noticed everything about you,” she said calmly. “Naturally. Why, I wouldn’t have come out to dinner—and—everything—if I hadn’t already decided I liked you a whole lot. And you’ve never told me how you found out who I was.”

  So he told her about his mournful last day at the Bristol, after she’d gone, and how that blessed old gossip Bellowby-Sayers had shed light in his darkness in the dining-car of the Paris train.

  “It’s hard to believe out here—and up here—that old codgers like Bellowby-Sayers exist, but he did me a marvellously good turn.”

  “Me too—though I didn’t think so this morning, when I heard you were here. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “But you came straight up to see me.”

  “I know. I couldn’t help it. Gosh!—I’m giving myself away,” she cried, not at all mysterious now but a very nice ordinary sort of young woman.

  They had finished eating, and were putting the remains together.

  “Look here, Andrea, I warn you. I’m going to get to the bottom of all this,” he told her sternly.

  For a moment she looked frightened and said nothing but busied herself finishing the clearing up. Had he spoken too soon, he asked himself anxiously, watching her.

  “Malcolm,” she began, looking at him with wide dark eyes.

  What was coming now? “Yes, Andrea?”

  “You can kiss me, if you like.”

  He did like, and, mystery or no mystery, the next ten minutes went flashing by like those blue birds. At the end of them they were disturbed by the sound of a stone clattering down somewhere below, but not very far away.

  “Oh phooey!” cried the dark goddess, annoyed. She peeped over, then whispered. “Yes, I thought so. It’s the man with a beard—Mr. Mitchell. He must have noticed the horses. But perhaps he won’t stay long.”

  “Well, don’t encourage him to,” he told her severely.

  “I will if I want,” she retorted, but then made a little face at him. She was becoming more ordinarily but deliciously human every minute, he decided.

  “Hello, young lady, you’ve got company this time. Well, I’ll just smoke a pipe with you,” said Mr. Mitchell, arriving somewhat breathless. He wore a wreck of a hat, a tattered tropical coat, and torn trousers, and yet contrived to have an air almost of distinction. His face was darkly tanned, as if he had been out in the open like this for years; he wore a short pointed beard, streaked with grey; his hair was nearly white but he had thick dark eyebrows; and he had a fine twinkling eye, which seemed to Malcolm to rest on Andrea with surprising interest and affection. After being introduced to Malcolm, he proceeded to ask that young man several sharp questions about himself that he ought to have resented from a total stranger, even here in the free-and-easy West, but somehow didn’t. He and Andrea appeared to be on the friendliest terms and spent some time chaffing each other, after which Mr. Mitchell, slowly pulling at his pipe, produced some queer specimens of rock from his bulging tattered pocket and explained their significance. After he had been with them about half an hour, Andrea, perhaps in the hope of breaking up the party, said she must take a look at the horses and left the two men together.

  “That’s a fine girl,” Mr. Mitchell remarked, as soon as they were alone. He looked curiously across at Malcolm, as the latter warmly assented.

  “Is she happy, d’you think?”

  This took Malcolm by surprise. “Well—I don’t know really—in a way, I don’t know an awful lot about her——” he stammered.

  “You looked to me,” said Mr. Mitchell coolly, “as if you were deeply interested in each other. All right, you needn’t reply. And please don’t take offence either. I’m genuinely interested too—as I hope you can see.”

  “Yes, I can see that. But why?”

  “Well—she’s a fine girl—and we’ve had several little chats up here. She listens to my geological yarning, and doesn’t tell me I’m an old bore.”

  Malcolm looked hard at him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mitchell. But you started this.” He lowered his voice. “And that won’t do. I mean, there’s more in it than that.”

  “Think so?” He lowered his voice too.

  “I’m sure. You might tell me.”

  The older man took his pipe out of his mouth, slowly blew out a shaft of smoke, stared sombrely into the distance, and said quietly: “She doesn’t know this. But I—well, I knew her mother—long ago—before she married MacMichael—when I was about the same age and in the same state of mind, I guess, as you are now. I’m a mining engineer—or was. Been out of the country for years and years.” He lowered his voice yet again. “One of the reasons why I came here was—well, just to have a look at this—daughter of—somebody I once knew very well. Now listen, young man, that girl isn’t happy—oh!—she’s happy to-day sitting up here with you, I could see the difference in a minute—but she isn’t happy—and you know it.”

  “Yes, I do,” Malcolm admitted.

  The other leaned across and tapped him on t
he arm. “She’ll be back in a moment,” he whispered sharply and with great earnestness. “Don’t you mind me talking like this. You look a fine fellow and you’ve got a good profession. If you feel it’s the real thing between you, marry her, quick as you can, and take her out of this, right away. There’s something wrong here.”

  “I know there is,” said Malcolm. “And I’m here to find out what it is.”

  They could hear her returning now.

  “Good luck to you!” whispered Mitchell, giving him another tap, then scrambling to his feet.

  “The horses say they want to go,” Andrea announced.

  “Did they say they wanted me to go first,” said Mitchell smiling, “because I’m just off.” He looked hard at Andrea, who seemed slightly confused standing there before him. “Good-bye, young woman. And good luck, young man.”

  They watched him slowly descend and saw him turn and wave once, a small friendly figure. “I’m afraid he guessed we didn’t want him,” said Andrea. “And I like him really, though I don’t quite make him out.”

  “I do,” said Malcolm promptly, then went and sat down with his back against the rock.

  “I’ll bet you don’t. What do you mean?”

  He beckoned. “If you’ll come here and be quiet,” he said softly, “I’ll tell you.”

  “Why should I come there? Besides, it’s time to go.”

  “It isn’t, and you ought to come here because then you’d make me very happy, and I’ve brought myself a long, long way, after much misery, and I deserve to be made happy.”

  “Old Mrs. Larrigan warned me against you,” she told him, as she stretched herself by his side and allowed herself to be kept there.

  “Old Maw Larrigan was quite right, because she’s a kind of old witch, one of the gang of witches and wizards here, and she knows I’m going to break the spell.”

  “You’re cheating now. You see, you don’t know anything about Mr. Mitchell—do you?”

  “Yes,” replied Malcolm softly and slowly, “because he told me while you were away. He comes here to have a look at you and to talk to you and see what sort of a girl you are, because he used to know your mother. I think—in fact, I’m pretty sure—he was once in love with her. Yes, that’s what he meant, of course, when he said he’d been in the same state of mind.”

  “My mother,” repeated Andrea, at once astonished and troubled. “She died years ago. I hardly remember her. And Father won’t talk about her. I think he was terribly in love with her—and it was all horrible, I believe, the way she died. I heard my uncle, John it was

  —say something about it once—and it sounded frightening—he can be very frightening.”

  He felt her tremble, and gathered her closer to him and comforted her, so that nothing more was said for several minutes. Then, as she stayed quiet with her head resting against his arm, she asked: “Is that all he said?”

  “No, there was something else.”

  “What was it?”

  “He was very serious, and said that if I felt it was the real thing between us, I must marry you as soon as I could, to take you out of this, right away, because he felt there was something wrong. And I told him that I knew there was something wrong, and that you weren’t happy—he’d said that he knew you weren’t happy, except to-day. He knew you were different to-day as soon as he saw you, happy for once. You are, aren’t you, Andrea?”

  “Yes, I think this is the only happy day I’ve had since I’ve been grown up,” she replied slowly. “Only bits before. There were some bits that week at Beaulieu, especially the last day. But to-day I’ve been really happy—I meant to be—and now you’re spoiling it.” She was almost ready to cry.

  But he continued doggedly, for he felt that it was now or perhaps never: “I told him I knew there was something wrong, something, I meant, that was making you unhappy, and that I was here to find out what it was.”

  She struggled away from him, and looked at him reproachfully. “I thought you were here—because—you cared for me—and wanted to be with me.”

  “It’s because I feel like that, I must know what’s wrong. I knew from the first, from the very first time we played tennis together, that there was something wrong, that you weren’t your real self, that you were wearing a sort of mask, and behind it were very bewildered and unhappy. And then you talked such bitter stuff, about nothing being any good.”

  “But I believe it, can’t you see?” she cried.

  “You can’t believe it,” he told her, almost angrily. Then he caught her to him, fiercely. “Is this no good? Is what I feel about you no good? Don’t you really care anything about me?”

  “You know I do,” she flashed at him. “I shouldn’t be here if I didn’t. Look!” And she kissed him as fiercely as he had pulled her towards him. “Do you think I’d do that to any man? If you want to know, this is the very first time I’ve behaved like this. And do you think I wanted to go off like that at Beaulieu, when you looked so puzzled and miserable, poor darling? I don’t care now, I’ll admit it. I’ve been thinking about you too ever since that time. I’ve talked to you for hours and hours. I’ve written dozens of long letters to you and torn them up. I’ve stared at the miserable little map of England trying to find you. I had the London Times sent up from Los Angeles, just to read the tennis reports to see if you’d been playing. And if it could be any use, if this world was all different, I’d go anywhere with you—now. How can you ask if I care about you?”

  It took him a moment or two to recover from the effects, very mixed, confusing, rich, of this tremendous outburst, which revealed to him at last, in flashing full-length, the deeply feminine, fiery-hearted girl he had thought must exist behind the mask at Beaulieu. She was almost terrifying, yet still delicious, adorable.

  “But then, don’t you see, if that’s how you can feel, that it’s absolutely crazy to talk as if everything were useless, no good, better done with? It doesn’t make sense at all, Andrea.”

  “Yes, it does.” And he noticed, with an odd pang of remembrance how she reverted to the very same quick harsh tone she had used in that restaurant at Beaulieu. “We’ve been happy to-day—yes—and might be happy like this for some time——”

  “But of course. And with a place of our own. And children—don’t you like children?”

  She gave a quick shiver that told him in a flash what he wanted to know, and he guessed at once that here was no girl who would try to avoid motherhood, that there was in her an immense, deep, dark well of maternal feeling he could not even begin to understand. But any sudden gleam of delight and tenderness soon died out of her face, and she looked at him and answered him bleakly.

  “Yes, we could be happy for a time. But it wouldn’t last. You’d fall out of love with me. Or one of us would be ill—suffer pain—perhaps die young—as my mother must have done. We’d be sorry then it had gone on. We’d wish we’d had this day and no more. Even if there were children, there’d be a war or something, to take them away, or they’d grow up to dislike us. There’s always something wrong. People can’t live in peace and happily together—there’s nothing but misery in the end. You remember what I said about this view, how good it was simply because there were no people to spoil it, as they spoil everything, even for themselves. It isn’t that I hate people—I know I’m just one of them myself—they can’t help it—we all can’t help it apparently—it’s just the wrong way we’ve been made. There’s good in us, wanting to love, to look after helpless little things, to enjoy the sun and the mountains and the sea, books and music and painting and fun, but it doesn’t get a chance, because there’s too much bad in us, and though we may try and try, all that happens is that there’s more ugliness and pain and misery and fear and hate. You can’t deny it, Malcolm. Look at what’s happening all over the world. You know more about that than I do, for I don’t care any more; I haven
’t time to waste even reading any more about their armies and navies and bombing planes and spies and executions; but I know everything’s getting worse. Oh!—can’t you see how useless and wicked it all is—just more and more pain and misery? And I love you so much.”

  And she pressed her wet cheek to his, passionately, groped for his hands and squeezed them, staring out at a sunlight she could no longer see. And never in his life before had he felt such a terrible tenderness as he did now, holding her close, and trying in vain to calm his mind, so that he might reason with her, not angrily, but calmly, gently. For now he felt that she was like a child who had been carefully taught a dreadful evil lesson, though there was still about the way she repeated it a certain nobility of her own, for the ugly ways of life, the pain and misery, against which she protested so fiercely, these were not hers, and she had only seen them from afar.

  “You are telling me things you have heard over and over again,” he said to her quietly. “It isn’t really you talking. Deep down I doubt if you believe it.”

  “I do. Really, I do.”

  “No. And whether you do or not, it’s only half the truth. It’s one side, the darker side, of something that has to be two-sided, to have day as well as night. I too hate the way the world’s going—that is, in some directions, and I think we hear more about the wrong tracks than we do about the right ones. We’re not in Paradise, and have no right to expect to be. People fall out of love, children die, there are bestial wars, and everywhere there’s ugliness and pain and misery, just as everywhere the sun goes down and the night comes. But people also fall in love, as we’ve done, and children grow up happily, wars come to an end or are avoided, bits of ugliness disappear—and it’s our job not to whine that these things exist but to help them out of the world, and people have fun together, help each other in need, try to soften pain and drive away misery. Even now, in many ways, people are better than they were, and even if they aren’t, we can’t just sit about and moan that it’s all hopeless. It’s good—it’s grand and glorious—for us to sit here together—as you admit yourself——”