by Tom Stoppard
Still undecided he picked up his bomb and looked around and then hobbled downstairs with it, leading with his good foot. In the drawing-room the General was crouching over Marie with his camera to his eye. Marie’s legs were bare and Moon realised that the General had disarranged her clothing. The room ignited for a flashlit instant and the General straightened up and saw Moon and nodded cheerily at him. Moon limped over to the cupboard in the corner and picked up one of the bottles by the neck and limped back to the General who watched him with the same eager curiosity, and Moon hit him on the head with the bottle and kept on until the bottle broke. The bottle burst as violently as plate glass shattering in a train window but it didn’t help. On his way out of the room he tripped over the Risen Christ who lay as though killed in action, one hand outstretched still holding his glass.
Moon went into the kitchen and turned the light off and on again. He lit all the burners on the stove and turned on all the taps. The hot-water geyser went whoopf and shook and settled down to its soft roar of gas-jets. The sound and force of it clutched Moon’s nerves as always but it didn’t explode, as always. When he had gone round the house switching on every light, tap and electric and gas fire, he returned to the drawing-room and switched on the radio and the record-player.
He could hear water rushing around the house and the geyser roaring on the edge of eruption, and the music swelled and fought under the lights. He felt all the power stations throb, strain against their rivets and begin to glow and beat like hearts, compressing matter into energy that escaped at once, pumping through the body of the world which was an infinite permutation of bodies trapped in an octagon of mirrors. He tried to think himself loose from all the rest but the barriers knocked each other over; the key to the equation between himself and the world was now beyond reason, comfort beyond ritual. He had no answers any more, only a bomb which correctly placed might blow a hole for him to fall through.
Moon stood still in the bright vibrating box of the house, too tense to weep, and after some while the combined pressure of all his old multiplying fears reached the very centre of his mind and began to expand outwards, and filled it and still expanded without relief until he couldn’t hold it any more and he pressed the little plunger into the bomb and heard the snap of the safety seal inside. The bomb began to tick very quietly.
When Moon looked around he saw his notebook curling parchmented on the electric fire with one page hanging down against the filament, and he caught the first lick of light that jumped the gap and fed itself into a flame. The notebook burned away into a black replica of itself, reduced to its brittle essence.
THREE
Chronicler of the Time
I
JANUARY 29TH. AWOKE late as is my custom, and since my wife Jane had been up betimes, breakfasted alone on a cup of coffee and two slices of toast prepared by the new girl, Marie. There was no office correspondence today. It is seldom that I receive a letter nowadays, and seldom that I write one. This is a pity for Jane has little with which to occupy herself and I have thought more than once how pleasant it would be if she were to help me with the secretarial chores of my business. She herself is the frequent recipient of letters, although she appears to write very few, preferring to rely on the telephone. It is seldom that I receive a telephone call nowadays.
I spoke briefly with Jane who seemed in somewhat low spirits. The poor girl is often bored, though she is gay by nature and indeed it was her gaiety that I wooed in our halcyon days. I suggested to her that we might do worse than go for a short stroll in the park but the weather being inclement she preferred not to leave the house. She inquired why I had not gone to the library – I usually spend the day at the Library of Historical Studies in Kensington Road, taking with me some cheese sandwiches and working there until late – and I explained to her that since I had a business appointment later on in the afternoon, I intended to devote my free time today to collating my preliminary notes for my book.
Marie had a visitor not long afterwards, an uncle who had lived in England for many years (I forgot to mention that Marie was French – Parisian, I believe). He seemed to cheer Jane up considerably, for which I was grateful, and I suggested that the four of us might play a game I know in which two people act out a proverb or the title of a book, etc., the object being that the two onlookers have to guess what it is. Marie’s uncle seemed quite intrigued by the idea but the two girls shortly took him upstairs to show him round the house.
Meanwhile I retired to my desk to work on my book, ‘The History of the World.’ Today I toyed with one or two openings but at once felt uneasy about committing myself to the narrative before I was in full possession of all the elements that will go into it. When the time comes perhaps Jane will help me with the typing. It will be quite pleasant I feel.
I worked for an hour or so and became quite engrossed, and then, since Jane and Marie and Marie’s uncle seemed to have gone out, lunched alone on a cup of tea and some cheese sandwiches. I decided to go out for a stroll myself, thinking that I might perhaps meet Jane and the others in the Park, though I did not in fact do so, and when I returned home I found that they too had returned in my absence and that Marie’s uncle had left.
My appointment was with the Earl of Malquist, a new acquaintance whom I had met a week before under the following circumstances:
It is my practice, unless the weather is exceptionally wet, to walk to the library in the mornings, taking one of the paths that cross the Park along the wide end of the Serpentine and join Rotten Row. I walk along the Row westwards and on past the Albert Memorial, along the Flower Walk where, even in winter, the shrubbery is very attractive. In the evenings I take a bus back round Hyde Park Corner, but on Saturdays the library closes earlier so I sometimes prefer to retrace my steps of the morning, strolling home through the park in the last light of the day.
Last Saturday evening I was thus engaged when, entering the Park on my way home, I happened to glance to my left and saw a horse and rider approaching me. Loping along beside the horse was a large animal which I took to be a kind of yellow dog. They made such a striking spectacle that I paused to watch them go by, and saw that the rider was an extremely handsome gentleman of some forty years, most dramatically dressed in a black cape lined with silk of the palest blue that matched his cravat, together with a rakishly brimmed topper, a white-frilled shirt-front and very shiny black riding boots. His horse gleamed like coal.
I was so struck by the effect that he was almost opposite me before I noticed that he rode with his right fist gauntleted to hold a hawk, which he released as I watched. The bird climbed steeply and then dropped with remarkable speed towards the lake, and there was a sharp cry in the reeds as it flattened out and winged back with some kind of water-bird held in its talons. The hawk returned to the rider and let him take the dead bird. To my surprise he tossed it to his dog, or rather (as I now realised) to the lion-like animal that had been sedately keeping pace.
I must have made some involuntary comment for he nodded to me very civilly. I dare say that after an exchange of greeting we would have each gone our separate way, had it not been for the arrival at that point of a uniformed park attendant. This man announced himself with the words, ‘Excuse me, sir, is that your dog?’ (he too had not looked very closely at it) and added that it was not permitted to let dogs off the lead in that section of the Park.
The park-keeper then showed his main interest in the matter by asking very pointedly what the animal was eating, to which the gentleman wittily replied, ‘It’s dinner.’ The animal itself, sensing that it was the subject of conversation, looked up with its muzzle covered in blood and feathers. The Park-keeper was rather startled and asked, ‘What kind of dog is that?’ and received the reply that it was a Tibetan Lion Hound, an answer which did not satisfy him. It seemed to me that there was going to be some unpleasantness. By this time the animal had consumed the bird and more out of idle curiosity than with any aggressive intent, I think, it padded towards the
park-keeper. I may say that I was extremely relieved that its curiosity was not directed towards me, for I am frightened of animals and would have been very much more frightened of this one were it not for the horseman’s emboldening calm.
The park-keeper, seeing the animal coming towards him, started to shout. The animal’s owner remonstrated with him but the park-keeper turned and ran, which in the light of events I consider to have been his mistake. For he had hardly taken two steps when the lion jumped onto his back.
I was extremely frightened now, and naturally concerned for the park-keeper, but Lord Malquist (it was, of course, he) gave the animal a command which it obeyed at once, returning to his side.
I could see several people looking on in the distance. The park-keeper had not moved and I suggested to Lord Malquist that the poor fellow might be dead. He replied that the park-keeper had alarmed his hound, which was of a very nervous disposition, and if a pet could not be let off the lead in Hyde Park then where the devil could it be let off the lead? I made no answer to this.
Lord Malquist urged his horse into a walk and began to ask me about myself. The hound and I flanked the horse as we all walked along Rotten Row which was on my way home.
But we had not gone very far before another incident occurred. The hawk once more took to the air (whether it escaped or was released I do not know) and dived down to attack a cat which was sitting just by the Prince of Wales’ Gate. The cat ran across the road and would certainly have been run over had not the falcon or peregrine (it was some kind of a hawk) snatched it up from under the wheels of a bus in a rescue so dramatic that one forgave the bird its motives. However, the cat proved too heavy and from the height of a few feet it was dropped on to the roof of a car which carried it out of sight.
The falcon, no doubt alarmed by the traffic, flew up into the air and back along the way we had come. We followed it as best we could for some distance and finally saw it settle on the roof of a house opposite.
Lord Malquist dismounted some way ahead of me. When I caught up with him he was calling to his bird, crying, ‘Hillo, hoho! Hillo hoho!’ but the hawk, confused or perverse, took no notice. He then called the lion to him and secured it with a leash which he asked me to hold so that he might cross the road to retrieve his hawk. I demurred for I feared that however ingratiating I made myself to the lion, without its owner’s restraining influence it would undoubtedly resent me holding it prisoner. It was already snarling and tugging at the leash. He suggested then that I go after the bird and after he had briefly instructed me in the falconer’s cry, this I did.
The bird was perched up on a corner of the roof of a house set a little way back from the road, directly above a fair-sized crowd whom I assumed had been attracted by the incident. I at once began to call the bird but although it looked at me it did not seem to recognise me, for which I was suddenly grateful as it occurred to me that I would not like it to settle on my wrist and possibly peck me. The other people standing about became most interested, and a policeman among them asked me what I was doing. He was very stern but fortunately I was not required to make a reply, for Lord Malquist, seeing the nature of the problem, had followed me across the road, having tied his horse and lion to the railings.
The policeman seemed very impressed by him but was clearly displeased when Lord Malquist started to call out, ‘Hillo! Hoho! Hillo hoho!’ and the rest of the crowd were also oddly disapproving. It occurred to me then that the people had not, after all, gathered to watch the hawk. There was a solemnity about them that suggested a less frivolous attraction, and this was confirmed at once because a figure in white appeared at one of the windows, presumably attracted by the hullabaloo, and the entire crowd turned to look up at the window while some of them began to take flashlight photographs.
Fortunately the bird had dropped down at the second or third call and Lord Malquist was already re-crossing the road with it in his hand. I started to follow but was delayed by a hysterical lady who berated me for an act of disrespect towards ‘the greatest man in the world.’ It was only when I caught up with the earl on the other side of the road that I learned that this was the very house on which for the past several days the nation’s interest had been concentrated.
However, there was not time to dwell on that for a more serious situation had presented itself: the lion had bitten through its leash and escaped out of sight.
Lord Malquist was much put out by this and asked me to help him look for the animal, but by now the dark was gathering and it seemed unlikely that we would find it. He told me that the animal’s name was Rollo, and we walked about for some time shouting ‘Rollo!’ but without result. Nevertheless we continued the search, walking back along Rotten Row. Once his hopes were falsely raised by a glimpse of some kind of limb in the shrubbery but this proved to belong to a half-naked lady with a stocking tied round her neck. She must have been there for some time.
I was naturally horrified by this discovery and said at once that I would have to be going. Lord Malquist agreed to call off the search, saying that since a lion hound could run at fifty miles an hour and swim like an otter, the thing could be anywhere between Clapham and Kentish Town.
We went back to his horse and I walked alongside as he rode along Rotten Row. He asked me many questions about myself and I felt that I had made a new friend. He intimated as much by asking where he might write to me, and when we parted at the edge of the Serpentine-I to turn left across the Park towards Stanhope Gate, he to ride home by way of Constitution Hill – we did so with the understanding that we would meet again.
The following Monday I received a letter from him inviting me to his house in Queen Anne’s Gate, and it was to there that I made my way today to keep my appointment.
I found that his was a very handsome house, differing from those around it in that it included a coach-gate and stable-yard on one side. I noted that most of the other houses there had been converted to commercial use but the street still retained its air of quiet domesticity.
The door was opened to me by a butler in livery (I was to learn that his name was Birdboot and that he was Lord Malquist’s personal servant and staunch confidant). Birdboot showed me into a magnificent hall with a marble floor and a fine staircase, and thence to the adjacent library where Lord Malquist greeted me.
The library was a handsome room with many books lining the walls. There was a blazing fire and comfortable furniture. Lord Malquist was sitting at his desk when I entered but tea was already laid out with cakes and muffins and soon we were in two very comfortable chairs drawn up to the fire.
Lord Malquist was dressed as exquisitely as he had been at our first encounter, but on this occasion he wore a quilted smoking jacket of embroidered brocade, and Moroccan slippers on his feet.
Our conversation ranged over many topics. I must confess that I contributed very little to it for Lord Malquist, I quickly discovered, was a fluent and witty speaker who needed little encouragement to hold the floor, and a happy experience it was to be his audience. I find it very difficult now to capture the flavour of his conversation, or to recall the actual words he used, or to recollect exactly what he talked about-but be that as it may, it was a delightful experience and I congratulated myself on having made such a friend.
I remember I said I was looking forward to meeting Lady Malquist, who was unfortunately in the town at the time. I gathered that she was a lady with many outside interests and something of an extravert. It seemed that they had no children. I was forward enough to sympathise with Lord Malquist over his present lack of an heir but he told me that he was content to be the last of his line.
The tea things were cleared away by a homely maid, Mrs Trevor, and Lord Malquist soon took me upstairs so that we might continue our conversation while he dressed himself for our outing to one of his clubs.
He conducted me to his dressing-room, which was adjacent to the bedroom and devoted almost entirely to the art of elegance, being lined with capacious cupboards all full of vari
ous clothes and boots. We were upstairs for a full hour and a half during which time Lord Malquist showed me how to tie a cravat (at the expense of over twenty minutes and innumerable discarded cravats), and I was called upon, very willingly, to admire the suit he had chosen for that evening. The coat was a Regency style in deepest blue, with matching breeches which fitted inside a loose calf-length boot that shone with diamond brilliance. Despite the richness of his appearance the effect was restrained, nothing being more ostentatious than the perfectly simple pearl pinned to his lapel.
The butler awaited us downstairs in the hall. He handed Lord Malquist his hat and stick and opened the front door. I was amazed and gratified to see that a coach-and-pair awaited us. It certainly made a fine spectacle – the woodwork was varnished in tones of pink and yellow, the harness was studded with silver and the coachman was caped and hatted in a mustard coloured material. The horses were greys.
In this magnificent style we jogged into Birdcage Walk going towards the river. I expected us to keep within the Park of St James but Lord Malquist said he preferred to ride on the public streets for since his was the last private coach of the town he felt it incumbent upon him to ‘spread it around as much of the town as possible.’ Thus we continued our ride into Parliament Square and turned up Whitehall.
The flags flying at half-mast and the purple-and-white barricades erected for the great funeral procession of the morrow reminded us of the nation’s mourning – the death had occurred on the very day after our adventure with the hawk at that historic house. Lord Malquist talked wittily about greatness and dignity – I wish I could reproduce the light touch he had with words. I recall that he mentioned a certain French king – one of the Louis I believe – who said that ‘nothing’ was the history of the world.