Dusty Answer

by Rosamond Lehmann

‘Michael Peter,’ emphasized Julian mockingly. ‘Mariella had the highest motives; but I fear she has done for him. Michael alone or Peter alone he might have stood up against – but the combination! I tremble for his adolescence. However he ought to have a spurious charm, at any rate until he leaves the university. The only hope is that he himself may find the double burden excessive, and cancel himself out to a healthy James or Henry. We could do with a Henry or so in our family. Perhaps after all we should commend your farsightedness, Mariella?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said in her little cheerful voice. ‘I think Michael Peter is a very nice name. And he’s quite a nice boy, isn’t he?’

  He was running up and down the lawn with the puppy in pursuit, pawing at him, nipping his calves, tripping him up. At first he bore it equably, but after a while stopped in distress, pushing at the dog with impotent delicate hands, nervously exclaiming and as if expostulating with him in a language of his own, but not once looking towards any of them for assistance. The puppy crouched before him, and all at once let out a sharp yelp of excitement. He put his hands up to his ears. His lip shook.

  ‘Damn that puppy!’ said Julian furiously. He strode over to his nephew and lifted him in his arms.

  ‘The boy’s tired, Mariella, and you know it, and there you sit, calmly, calmly, – and let that damn fool noisy puppy bully him and pester him and smash his nerves …’

  He was white. He stared, with naked antagonism at Mariella, and the air seemed to quiver and grow taut between them. She got up swiftly to catch the puppy and touched her son’s head in passing.

  ‘Poor Peter-boy,’ she said quietly. ‘Silly boy! It’s all right.’

  ‘I must go,’ murmured Judith.

  It was unbearable. She must slip away and hide from the shame and shock of her own perception of the suppressed hysteria.

  ‘Must you go?’ Mariella smiled at her with a sort of sweet blankness. ‘Well – you must come again soon. Come often.’

  ‘I’ll see you to the door,’ said Julian. ‘I’m taking the boy in.’

  Without another word or look Mariella went away; and he marched off into the house, carrying the child; and Judith followed him, sick at heart.

  Everything had gone wrong. Martin and Roddy had not returned and she dared not seek them to say good night. Alas, they would not care whether she did so or not since they had not been sufficiently interested in her to stay beside her. Even Martin did not want her, preferred Roddy. She had hoped to gain assurance enough to look at Roddy, once, calmly, and see him as he was; but in the few glances they had exchanged she had seen nothing but an unreality so poignant, so burning that it blurred her whole mind and forced her eyes to escape, helpless. Tonight when she was in bed they would all come before her, haunting and tormenting, trebly indifferent and unpossessed now that this longed-for meeting was accomplished, a bitter and fruitless fact. Imagination at least had been fecund, it had fed itself: – but the reality was as sterile as stone. What might she have done, she wondered, that she had not done, how should she have looked in order to please them? Was it her clothes or her looks or her idiotic seriousness about College that had condemned her to them? Bleakly pondering, she followed Julian into the sitting room.

  He sat down at the piano with the boy on his knee, and began softly playing. Judith stood beside him.

  After a little the child flung his head back against Julian’s shoulder, raptly listening. When he did this Julian’s face smoothed itself out and all but smiled. He continued to play, then stopped and said:

  ‘Sit down. You needn’t go yet,’ – and continued his quiet music.

  To free his arms she gently took the child from him and set him on her own lap, where he sat motionless and as if unconscious of the change.

  Gradually as she watched the crooked fingers sliding along the keys from chord to chord, and saw around her the familiar room, the past stole over her. He was the boy Julian and she the half-dreaming privileged listener; and as if there had been no gap in their knowledge of each other they sat side by side in unselfconscious intimacy. What had there been to fear? She saw now that she would always be able to pick him up just where she had left him, and find him unchanged to her; she could say anything to him without danger of mockery or rebuff. But he had always been the easiest: the sense of blood-relationship was tempered in him by his critical intelligence; and he was always prepared at least to sharpen his wits against the stranger, if not to befriend him.

  He paused and she said:

  ‘Nothing has changed here. I remember every single thing in the room and it’s all the same, – even to the inkstains on those boards. It’s like a dream to be back here talking to you – one of those dreams of remembered places where everything is so familiar it seems ominous. I’ve often had a dream like this –’

  She stopped, wishing her last words unsaid; but he took her remark to be general and nodded, and leaned forward to look at Peter, lying wan and sleepy in her lap. He was very tired; but not fretful: only silent and languid. Julian touched his cheek.

  ‘And is Peter part of the dream too?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Yes. Isn’t he?’

  He was the passive, waiting core of the ominousness, the unexpected thing you shrank from yet knew you had to come back to find. In the dream, it was quite natural to sit there with Julian, holding Charlie’s child.

  ‘Isn’t it strange,’ he said musingly, ‘that this is the only proof – the only proof that Charlie ever lived? A child! Not another whisper from him … I haven’t even a letter. I suppose she has.’ An utter misery showed for a moment in his face, and he paused before adding: ‘And no portrait. Do you remember him?’

  ‘Of course.’ Her throat ached with tears. ‘He was the most beautiful person –’

  ‘Yes he was. A spring of beauty. He didn’t care about that, you know, in spite of what people said. His physical brilliance somehow obscured his character, I think, made it difficult to judge. But he had a very simple heart.’

  Was it true? Who had ever known Charlie’s heart? Was not Julian speaking as it were in epitaphs, as if his brother had become unreal to him, – a symbol for grief, – the individual ghost forgotten? Perhaps Mariella alone of all people had known his heart – strange thought! – and still had him quick within her; but she would never tell.

  ‘It’s not often I speak of him to anyone,’ said Julian; and his usually narrow swift-glancing eyes suddenly opened wide and held hers as if he had some unendurable thought. They were pits of misery. What was he remembering?

  After a long silence he took the boy on his lap again and said softly:

  ‘Peter shall play.’

  Peter put out both his hands, and carefully, delicately dropped them on the keys, listening and smiling.

  ‘Is he musical?’

  Julian nodded.

  ‘Oh yes. He’s that – more or less. I seem to detect all the symptoms.’

  He looked down at the leaning head on his shoulder with a sort of harsh tenderness; and after a while he spoke again as if out of a deep musing.

  ‘What, one asks oneself, is she going to do about him?’

  ‘Mariella?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well – it’s more or less mechanical, with a boy, isn’t it? School and university, – and in his case, musical instruments?’

  ‘How wretched he’s going to be,’ he said fiercely. ‘Can’t you see?’

  ‘She wouldn’t let him be wretched,’ she said, startled.

  ‘She? – she won’t know it! And if she did, she’d be helpless.’

  ‘Well, he’s got you.’

  ‘Me!’ He gave his bark of laughter.

  ‘I mean – you like him,’ she ventured timidly.

  ‘I can’t stand brats. And they can’t stand me.’

  ‘I’m not talking about bra
ts. I’m talking about Peter. I thought you liked him.’

  He laughed.

  ‘You look so shocked. Do you like brats then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hmm – Well, I dare say Mariella says the same. In fact, I’ve heard her. She’s very correct, poor darling, in all her little contributions­.’ He looked at the clock. ‘It’s time I took him up. Wait for me.’

  When he came back he laughed again.

  ‘You still look shocked. I’m not a nice man, am I?’

  ‘I’m not thinking about you.’

  After a pause he said:

  ‘It’s all right, Judy. You’re right. I do like him. But because I’m bound to feel, must I refuse to think?’

  ‘Think what?’

  ‘That he ought never to have been born.’

  ‘Oh!’ she blushed, horrified.

  He flung at her.

  ‘What do you wish for the people you love? Life?’

  ‘Of course. Don’t you?’ She was confused, out of her depth.

  ‘No – God, no!’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Unconsciousness. Heavenly, heavenly annihilation.’

  ‘Then why don’t you kill him?’ She was shocked at the sound of her own words.

  ‘Because I don’t love him enough.’ He laughed. ‘Luckily I don’t love anyone enough – never shall. Not even myself.’ He turned to the window and said, speaking low, with strained composure: ‘Sometimes – in moments of clear vision – I see it all, the whole futile sickening farce. But it gets obscured. So my friends are safe. Besides, I’m so damned emotional: if they implored me to save them I shouldn’t have the heart to argue how much wiser they’d be to die.’

  She wondered with alarm if he were mad and sat silent, waiting in vain for an intelligent counter-argument to present itself. Finally she stammered:

  ‘But it’s not a futile sickening farce to normal people.’

  ‘Oh, normal people! they’re the whole trouble. They don’t think. They don’t see that you can’t miss anything of which you’ve never been conscious. All the things for which they value life – their food, their loves and lusts and little schemes and athletic exercises, all the little excitements – what are they but a desperate questioning: “What shall I do to be happy, to fill up the emptiness, leaven the dreariness? How can I best cheat myself and God?” And, strange to say, they don’t think what a lot of trouble would have been saved if they’d never been – never had to go hunting for their pleasures or flying from their pains. A trivial agitation that should never have begun; and back into nothing again. How silly! … As you may have guessed, I am not altogether convinced of the One Increasing Purpose. I have the misfortune to be doubtful of the objective value of life, and especially of its pains. Neither do my own griefs either interest or purify me. So you see –’

  He turned from the window and smiled at her.

  ‘Yes, even I have my compensations: music, food, beautiful people, conversation – or should I say monologue? – especially this sort of bogus philosophy to which you have been so patiently listening. Do you agree with me, by the way?’

  ‘No. Do you?’

  He laughed and shrugged.

  ‘Still,’ she added, ‘it’s a point of view. I’ll think about it. I can’t think quickly. But oh! –’ She stopped.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m so thankful I’ve been born.’ She blushed. ‘Even if I knew you were right I wouldn’t feel it.’

  ‘Ah, you’ve never bored yourself. Perhaps you never will. I hope and believe it’s unlikely.’

  She looked at him with distress. Poor Julian! He had to be theatrical, but his unhappiness was sincere enough. His jesting was so humourless, so affected that it crushed the spirit; and all his talking seemed less a normal exercise than a forced hysterical activity assumed to ease sharp wretchedness. It was not fair to judge and dislike him: he was a sick man.

  He sat down again at the piano, and she rose on an impulse and went and stood beside him.

  ‘Some chaps dance,’ he said. They haven’t stopped dancing since they’ve been back. I play –’ He plunged into a medley of ragtime – ‘and play – and play – and play. Syncopation – gets you – right on the nerves – like cocaine – No wonder it’s popular.’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Intellectually,’ he said, ‘I adore it. It’s so clever.’

  He played on loudly, rapidly, with pyrotechnical brilliance, then stopped. ‘My passions, however, are too debile to be stirred.’

  He flung round on the piano stool and dropped his face into his hands, rubbing his eyes wearily.

  ‘Julian – I wish you weren’t – I wish you could –’

  He looked up, startled, saw her expression, looked quickly away again and gave an embarrassed laugh like a boy.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You needn’t take any notice of me. I’m being a bore. I’m sorry.’ The last words were faintly husky.

  ‘Oh, you’re not a bore, you’re not! Only – don’t be so miserable.’

  In the awkward silence that followed she said:

  ‘I must go.’

  ‘No, you’re not to go,’ he said gently. ‘Stay and talk to me.’ He paused. The trouble is, I can’t sleep, you know, and it makes me a bit jumpy. I don’t like my thoughts, and they will they will be thought about. But I shall get better in time.’

  ‘Poor Julian!’

  He allowed his face to relax, and his manner was suddenly quiet and simple, almost happy: the unexpected sympathy had made him cheerful.

  ‘You mustn’t go, Judith, you must stay to supper.’

  ‘I can’t. What will Mariella say?’

  ‘Mariella doesn’t say. Whether she thinks is the problem, – or even feels. Is she a very remarkable person? Or is it simply arrested development?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Not?’

  She smiled to herself, struck with a fancy.

  ‘Perhaps she’s bewitched, Julian.’

  As she said it she grew suddenly thoughtful; for it had flashed upon her that perhaps that was the explanation of Roddy; perhaps he was the same, and in that case it was not use – he would never …

  ‘Bewitched. I never thought of that.’ He mused, pleased with the idea. ‘You know it must mean something, that nobody’s ever suggested giving her a petit nom, or curtailing the mouthful; she’s always been Mariella.’

  He began humming a little tune in his contentment. Quickly she said:

  ‘Just to go back to Peter. You don’t mean it, do you? Why should he be wretched? Think of the things you can teach him. You know you’ll love that.’

  He looked a trifle dashed; but after a moment his face cleared again, and his eyes smiled kindly at her.

  ‘Don’t worry. At all events, I’ll see he’s not ill-treated – except in my own way. That is, if she’ll let me. She will. She’s very good-tempered, I must say. She’s never allowed me to quarrel with her. She well might have.’

  He looked like brooding again; but seeing her gazing at him anxiously, added:

  ‘It’s odd how natural it seems to be talking to you alone like this. You haven’t changed a bit. I always remember you listening so solemnly and staring at me. I’m so glad I’ve found you again. I could always talk to you.’

  ‘At me,’ she corrected.

  He made a face at her, but looked cheerful. She had always known how near the edge to venture without upsetting him. He hummed his little tune again, then played it on the piano.

  ‘I think I made that up … It’s rather a nice little tune. Perhaps I’ll take up my music seriously again.’

  ‘Oh, you must, Julian. It is so well worth it: such a special talent.’

  He looked at her with sudden attention.

  ‘Ho
w old are you Judith?’

  ‘Seventeen. Nearly eighteen.’

  He studied her.

  ‘You must put your hair up.’

  ‘Must I?’

  ‘Yes, because then you’ll be beautiful.’

  She was still speechless when Mariella, Martin, two Great Danes and the puppy came in.

  ‘Hullo!’ said Mariella. ‘Still here?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. But I’m just going.’

  ‘She’s not. She’s staying to supper,’ said Julian.

  ‘Oh good,’ said Martin surprisingly; and his shy red face smiled at her.

  ‘Of course you must,’ said Mariella cheerfully. ‘We’re just going to eat now. Where’s Roddy?’

  ‘He stayed down at the boat house. He said he’d come soon.’

  ‘He’d better,’ said Julian, and turning to Judith explained politely: ‘What with poor Martin having to build himself up so, experience has proved it’s wiser to be punctual.’

  ‘I’ll go and fetch him,’ said Judith, to her own surprise.

  She left them amicably wrestling, and escaped light-heartedly into the garden. The cool air refreshed her brain, shaken and excited from its contact with Julian; and she walked slowly to the boat house by the shrubbery path, sniffing as she went at wild cherry, japonica, almond and plum. It was joy to look for and recognize afresh the beauties of the garden; its unforgotten corners, – places of childish enchantment. Somewhere near, under the laurel, was the rabbit’s grave. She remembered that evening, how she had been shaken with revelation. This was just such another mysterious and poignant fall of the light: anything might happen. Her senses were so overstrung that the slightest physical impression hit her sharply, with a shock.

  There on the raft was the curious young man Roddy. He raised his head from the examination of an old red-painted canoe, and smiled when he saw her.

  ‘I’m sent to say supper’s ready.’

  ‘Thank you very much. I’ll come.’

  ‘I’m staying to supper.’ She smiled radiantly at him, sure of herself and full of an immense amusement.

  ‘I’m delighted.’

  His golden-brown eyes sent her their clear and shallow light.