by Angus Wilson
Seen upside down it’s more like a cat’s than a satyr’s thought Edwin.
Elizabeth only scowled ‘This isn’t an outdoor game’ she said ‘I’m just messing around. Come down to the stream with me, Mummie’ she called.
‘May I come too?’ said Mrs Rackham. Elizabeth gave no answer, but Monica looked pleased and held out her hand to assist her mother from the ground. The family likeness showed clearly as they walked away – three generations – hand in hand.
‘It’s the most lovely stream, Mummie’ said Elizabeth, squeezing Monica’s arm. ‘I wish we had it all for our own.’
‘Yes’ said Monica ‘I would plant Japanese irises here – the dark purple kind with the spear-like leaves to contrast with the yellow flags. It’s funny how profuse Nature is with yellow, now if I had made the Universe I should have had much more contrast of colour and more subtlety too with wild flowers. I wonder if fritillary would grow here, the place could do with something a bit more strange.’
‘But Mummie, it would be awful to change it when it’s so beautiful.’
‘I don’t think so, darling’ said Monica ‘I don’t know, of course, but I’ve always thought that was a false sort of romanticism. I don’t believe you really become aware of the beauty of a scene until you see how it could be made more beautiful. What do you think, Mother?’
Mrs Rackham smiled. ‘I think I just see the stream and the meadows behind’ she said ‘and then I feel a great sense of peace and solitude.’
‘Oh yes, that of course’ cried her daughter ‘but there’s something else too. You have to look at it properly surely to see the patterns of shape and colour and that’s when you see what’s needed to complete them.’ She thought for a moment, then added ‘Yes, I’m sure you have to do that, otherwise it’s all a blur and you don’t really see anything.’
‘Look, Mummie, those holes’ cried Elizabeth ‘I think there must be badgers. If you were here at night you would see them come down to drink.’
‘I should like that’ said Monica ‘When there was no moon – at dusk or dawn – with black water and those nightmare deformed willow-trees and then lumbering grey shapes coming down to drink. But not by moonlight, that would be too expected.’
‘We’ve been imagining the badgers drinking in the stream’ said Elizabeth to her father when they returned.
‘Is that one of Brock’s nightly prowls?’ asked Edwin.
‘No, darling,’ replied Monica ‘not Brock and not nightly prowls. Just badgers drinking. There were rabbits, too, but they weren’t wearing sky blue shorts, they were just brown rabbits with white tails.’ Then seeing her husband’s hurt expression, she put her hand on his arm ‘Never mind, darling’, she said ‘You like imagining in that whimsical way, I don’t; but I think it’s only because I don’t know how to.’
Edwin smiled ‘How about that gin you were talking about?’ he asked.
‘It’s in the shaker, darling, with some French. You do the shaking, you’re so professional.’
Indeed with his boyish face and long black hair, dressed in a saxe blue Aertex shirt and navy blue Daks Edwin looked very much like some barman from a smart bar in Cannes or like some cabaret turn. He seemed almost to be guying the part as he waved the shaker to and fro, dancing up and down, and singing grotesquely ‘Hold that Tiger’.
‘Idiot’ cried Monica, and, relenting further, she turned to Sven ‘Do respectable fathers of families ever behave so absurdly in Sweden?’
‘I do not imagine Mr Newman a father of a family, I imagine him to have continual youth.’
Monica turned away sharply ‘At eighteen, of course, one can imagine so many ridiculous things’ she said.
But Edwin ended his dance with a mock bow.
‘The spirit of youth is infectious’ he declared. Sven lay back and laughed with delight, showing his regular, white teeth.
It was while they were eating their lunch that Edwin got on to his hobby horse.
‘There’s supposed to be a Saxon camp across on that hill over there’ he said, pointing to the East. ‘If my theory is right it may well be an example of a Saxon settlement existing alongside a British one.’
He was so used to a completely silent audience that he was quite startled when Sven said ‘Can that really be?’
‘I believe so, but it’s a view which is only gradually gaining ground’ said Edwin and he looked across at Sven who sat clasping his legs, with his knees up to his chin, staring seriously before him. It’s like talking to Pan, he thought, and he went on hurriedly ‘Of course the whole of this Thames Valley area is very important from the point of view of Saxon migrations. It’s almost certain that a great part of the inhabitants of Wessex came from the East and crossed the river near here at Dorchester.’
‘But that is most interesting’ said Sven. ‘Do you really think so?’ asked Elizabeth and then turning away contemptuously she added ‘I don’t believe you know anything about it.’
‘That is true’ said the boy ‘but your father makes the story so alive.’
‘If you’re really interested we might go to the edge of the wood and see the hill from a closer vantage point,’ suggested Edwin.
Sven was on his feet immediately ‘I should like that so much’ he exclaimed.
‘Are you coming, Richard?’ asked his father, but Richard was deep in a first reading of The Possessed and merely shook his head.
Mr Newman bounded lightly across the treetrunks that lay in the path, his sandals thumping against his heels.
‘Of course when I say the Saxons and British dwelt side by side, I don’t deny that there were cases of horrible violence’ they could hear him saying, and Sven’s answering voice replying ‘But violence, I think, is often so beautiful.’
‘How happy Edwin seems’ said Mrs Rackham to her daughter ‘That boy’s quite right, he has got the spirit of “continual youth” as he called it.’
Monica made no answer ‘I’m going down to the stream again’ she said.
‘I’ve never seen him look so young and gay’ went on Mrs Rackham.
‘How funny’ said her daughter, as she walked away ‘I was just thinking how absurd he looked, like a scoutmaster or something.’
If I was one of those Virginia Woolf mothers, thought Mrs Rackham, I should have been told what all this means long ago. It’s much better as it is, however, she decided. Fond as I am of Monica, I wouldn’t be able to help, whatever may be wrong. She has no power of resignation, no ability to seek refuge, she insists on fighting, on living even when life is unpleasant. Edwin, too, has that same total absorption in the affair of the moment. They want to wring every drop out of life. She smiled as she thought how they must despise her for living so much in books. A secondhand life they would probably call it. I prefer to have my people pre-digested, she decided, it’s easier, yes and wiser. Today’s undercurrents, for instance, how wearying! … and life was so short. She turned to her book, then laughed out loud as it came to her how little even she profited from her reading. Let me remember Miss Woodhouse’s folly in interfering in the affairs of others she said, and began her twenty-third reading of Emma.
Monica took the lime green coat she was carrying over her arm and placed it on a large white stone by the edge of the stream. Then she sat down and rippled her fingers through the water. Every now and again she dabbed her forehead or smoothed her eyelids with her wet fingers. The afternoon had become intensely hot, there seemed to be no breath of air anywhere. Overhead, mosquitoes and midges hummed so that she was forced to pluck some wild mint from the stream to attempt to drive them away. The mint grew so shallowly that the whole plant came away suddenly as she touched it, and mud from the roots splashed over her white dress. Everything seemed discordant to her – the yellow green of her coat against the emerald grass, the crimson ribbons of the large straw hat which lay at her side against a clump of pink campion. Suddenly she saw a creature slithering up the trunk of an old tree, a creature brown-grey like the tree itself – it was
a tree-creeper, but for a moment the little bird seemed to her like a rat. The rusty bullocks further up the stream stamped and swished their tails as they tried to drive the horseflies from their dung-caked flanks. There were always creatures like that who lived upon dirt, who nosed it out and unearthed it, however deeply it was hidden, however long, yes, even though all trace of it seemed vanished for twenty years, she thought. A shallow, vain, egocentric creature like that, with those untrustworthy, mocking cat’s eyes. Twenty years ago, when they were first married and Edwin had told her, she had been so anxious to help. There had been incidents, it was true, but they had been so unimportant and they had become closer through fighting them together. But now after twenty years she felt she could do nothing; her pride was too hurt. All this fortnight, since the holiday began, she had been telling herself it could not be true and yet she knew she was not mistaken, today especially she felt sure of it. What could have altered things to make it possible? she reflected. It was true that she had been a bit uncertain in her feelings herself this year, but Edwin had understood so well that it was change of life that was coming to her early. Change of life had such strange results, that must be it – she seized on the idea eagerly – it was all fancy. How horrible that anything purely physical could make one believe such things and how cruel to Edwin that she had indulged them. How cruelly she had behaved, even if it was true, and somehow she felt again that it was. She had withdrawn her sympathy at the very moment Edwin needed it most: it was easy enough to realize that with one’s mind, she thought, but the emotional revulsion was so great after twenty years’ forgetfulness that she might only overcome it when events had moved beyond her reach. Whatever happens, she thought, I shall be so much to blame; and to Elizabeth who came running towards her along the bank of the stream she said aloud,
‘If anything should go wrong, darling, in our lives, always remember I am to blame. I hadn’t the courage to do as I should.’
The moment she had said it she could have bitten her tongue out. The child was already too inclined to histrionics in this new phase of schoolgirl religious enthusiasm through which she was passing. Monica’s fears were quite justified, Elizabeth rose at once to the situation, though she had no idea of the meaning of her mother’s words.
‘Brave Mummie’ she said, putting her hand on Monica’s arm.
Monica spoke almost harshly ‘No, darling, not brave Mummie. Self-dramatizing Mummie, if you like, Mummie who’s got the heroine’s part quite pat at rehearsals and in the wings, but who always fluffs her words when it comes to the night. Anything you like, my dear, but not brave Mummie.’
Mummie’s so strange and sarcastic sometimes, thought Elizabeth, anyone but me might think she was bitter, but I know her better. I know how brave and true and kind she is. I understand Daddy too, how much he needs my love. Richard never thinks about anything but his old books, so I have to help both of them. It’s a kind of secret I have with myself – and God, she thought quickly. God loves and knows them all, even Grannie though she laughs at him. It’s true what Miss Anstruther says – life’s ever so exciting for anyone who’s found Him; always something new and worthwhile to do, not just silly messing around with boys like Penelope Black and all those drips. That’s what Sven wants, a lot of silly girls swooning about over him, like soppy Sinatra. That’s what he would like from me, for all he keeps on saying I’m only a kid, but there’s no time for waste of time, Miss Anstruther says. I wish Sven hadn’t come here, it’s all been beastly since he did. It’s ever since he came that Mummy’s been snappy and Daddy keeps on showing off, not that it’s for Sven, he wouldn’t want to show off for a little pipsqueak like him. I oughtn’t to talk like that about him, I must learn to love him. Love everyone, pray for them and set a good example that’s all we can do. I can help all of them even Sven if I show how Christ wants us to live. People don’t say so, but they’re watching us Christians all the time, Miss Anstruther says. Ye are the salt of the Earth. A City that is set on a hill cannot be hid.
Monica’s voice suddenly broke into her daughter’s thoughts.
‘Look, darling! On that larch tree there. See? A jay.’ There, indeed very close at hand sat a jay preening its rose feathers, its pastel shades harmonizing delicately with the soft green caterpillars of the larch. Suddenly it rose, with a flash of blue-green wing feathers, and flew off, screaming harshly. Immediately all the birds in the wood seemed to break into chattering. A cold wind blew across the stream. Monica shivered and drew her coat round her shoulders. ‘I think there’s a storm coming up, darling’ she said ‘Let’s go back to Grannie.’
‘I think there’s a storm coming up, but I’m glad we came all the same’ said Edwin, as, somewhat out of breath, he reached the crest of the hills. ‘We’ve gone much farther than I ever intended, but the time’s passed so quickly in talking. I’m afraid the others may get rather anxious, but still I think one has a right to enjoy oneself in one’s own way sometimes, don’t you?’ Then not waiting for answer he continued ‘The Saxon settlement must have run right across the chain to the left here. Down below, you see, is Milkford, the outskirts run right up to the foot of the hills. It’s quite an important town still, a sort of watering place, but it was even more important in medieval times. Of course there’s nothing earlier, really, than thirteenth century’ he said apologetically ‘but the castle’s quite interesting – fifteenth century, you know, when the fortress is turning into the country house. We might run down and look at it later, would you like that?’ he asked.
‘That would be most nice’ said Sven ‘but for some minutes I should like to rest here, please. The heat renders me most tired’ and indeed beads of sweat were trickling down his brown chest where the line of his shirt lay open almost to his stomach.
Edwin turned away ‘Yes, you he there a bit while I explore round the place’ but he did not move far off. Suddenly Sven broke the silence.
‘That is so lovely, your signet-ring. I should much like one of the same kind’ he said.
‘Would you?’ said Edwin. ‘We must see what we can do about it.’
Sven did not answer. It was nice to lie here in the sun and to feel that one was being watched, admired. It was boring staying with these Newmans. Richard, with his books, had been bad enough at home, but there it did not matter, if he did not choose to come out swimming or skiing with the girls, he could be left behind. But here there were no girls, no sports, only books and talking and talking. He had hoped to watch the English girls bathing and to go dancing with them; they were said to be prudish, but all the same he was usually very irresistible. They would have run their hands through his hair like Karen, who looked so pretty when her own hair blew across her face and she smiled with those white teeth through the salt spray; or they would have stroked his fine brown legs as Sigrid, when she buried them in sand and he brought his face close to her firm white breasts showing through her costume; or perhaps even an English girl more bold than the others would lie naked and soft under him on the sand like little Lili who had licked the salt sweat from his chest when he had done his part with her – different girls, but all of them, all of them wanting him as he had a right to be wanted, so handsome he felt that sometimes he almost wanted himself. But here there were no girls only books and talking. He had hoped much of Richard’s sister, but she was only a child of sixteen and even so she was taken up with some rubbish about religion. With Mrs Newman, too, he had thought he might have so much fun, after all she was not so old as Mrs Thomas, the American woman, who had taken him out to cabarets and dances and given him presents last year when he was only seventeen. It had been most pleasant and he had learned from her so much that was useful. But this bitch treated him as though he was a child, it made him so glad that now he could hurt her. Even if Richard had made him his hero like Ekki Blomquist who followed him around with admiring eyes, little Ekki whom he liked to protect and pet and tease – but Richard thought only of his books. No, it was only Mr Newman who had been kind to him and who
admired him. He looked so gay and fine for forty-seven, he would be very pleased if he could look so at that age. But all the same it was very disturbing, it would not be pleasant if so kind a man should behave stupidly, it would be necessary to be very polite and very firm. For a little while still it would be nice to continue to be admired, also he would like to have the present of the ring, also he would like to make that bitch unhappy. Not that he liked to be naughty but it was not pleasant when one was not admired. What strange little white shells there were on the ground, like little Lili’s ears, or his own curls when they fell from the nape of his neck at the barber’s shop.
The same little Crustacea lay all around Edwin, pressed into the soft ground by the tightly winding mesh of mossgrass. Little balls of rabbit droppings were scattered here and there. The hillside was carpet smooth but for an occasional red and yellow vetch that rose above the even level. Edwin peered closely at the turf, but he noticed nothing for his thoughts were far away.
If only I could collect my ideas, thought Edwin, but the blood pounds so at my temples. If only I could piece together how it had all led up to this. I think I have been feeling shut in by them all for a long time now, at any rate all this year. Richard with his books and Elizabeth with this priggish religious talk, and lately even Monica has seemed to be so sure of her values, so determinedly living in a world of beauty. All the best that’s written, only the actions God approves, only the most beautiful in nature and art – it almost sickens me at times. It all seems to come out in their lack of charity to Sven. I wanted so to be kind to him, to show him that he was wanted, to make up for their priggish lack of courtesy. I understood what they meant when they said he was materialistic, animal, superficial, vain – but in some degree I felt that I was too and I wanted them to realize that. The children will always be afraid of physical pleasure in sex, afraid of their own bodies’ lusts, afraid of the lusts of others for them. It’s worse, somehow, when Mrs Rackham’s here because I can see the stunted shy, self-satisfied life they’re heading for. But Monica is different, all the years she has understood my feelings about it, and at times has shared in them gloriously, but recently she’s changed, ‘trying to put sex in its perspective’ she would call it, but that’s only another name for avoiding it because it’s distasteful. It’s true she’s given me this physical reason but she said it so eagerly that it seemed like an excuse for doing what she’s wanted to do for years. And now this has happened. What I thought to be kindness and sympathy for a rebel has re-awakened the old feeling of twenty years ago, the old sensual pattern of Gilbert and Heinrich and Bernard and the others, only more violently as it seems, and the blood is pulsing in my head as it used to then, only more loudly.