The Pritchett Century

by V. S. Pritchett

  The simple change from God to Mind was like the change from gas to electric light to the Beluncles. Mrs. Beluncle dropped out of the discussion at the first contact. She did not understand what “this here Mind” was; for the first time in her life she was prevented from confusing theological argument by diversions into autobiography. There was an assuaging notion that whereas even Mr. Beluncle could not presume to be on equal terms with God, who according to the Bible was violent, jealous, revengeful, and incalculable, he could (as the leading mind of the family) know Mind in the natural course of business and affairs.

  Henry Beluncle sat in an exposed place in the front of Mr. O’Malley’s class. As Mr. O’Malley’s question came towards him, Henry vividly saw the incident in which his family’s life had crystallized in a new form. The changes in Mr. Beluncle’s religion had corresponded very closely to the changes in his occupation and they had not always, by economic standards, been for the better. Wesleyans, Baptists, Internationalists had let one down. The Unitarian phase had been sharp, supercilious, and fatal. But from Mind onwards, the Beluncles had been a little better off. And then Mind had taken Mr. Beluncle—as far as the family could judge—out of the house rather more. If he was home late, delayed on Saturdays, unexpectedly away on Sundays, it was known that Mind was the cause. Mind appeared to move in higher circles socially than those of the Beluncle family, who indeed moved in no circles at all. (They held, as Mr. Beluncle used to say, the fort.) Occasional news of the Hon. This, Lord That, Sir Somebody This or Lady Something Else, fell like a lucky bird-dropping upon the house. And if Mind led Mr. Beluncle to slip an American word or two into his speech and despise his family a little, his family admired this in him.

  In the old days before Mind, whenever Mr. Beluncle lost his faith or, rather, found a new one “more in harmony with modern business” one thing always happened. The furniture van would be at the door at once. The taxi arrived. Mrs. Beluncle would be sobbing; Mr. Beluncle would be catching two trains—one to put his family into and one for some business errand of his own. In the taxi, if Mrs. Beluncle was still weeping, Mr. Beluncle would sing:

  “Tell me the old, old story”

  and go on with warmth, putting his arm round Mrs. Beluncle, to the second verse:

  “Tell me the story simply,

  For I forget so soon.”

  (“Yes, you forget, you forget. I remember,” Mrs. Beluncle called out.)

  Or, if the removal was especially disastrous, Mr. Beluncle would sing a song to remind her of their courtship, like

  “Oh, dry those tears, oh, calm those fears—

  Life will be better tomorrow.”

  And Mr. Beluncle himself would shed a tear in this song and turn his face shyly to the cab window, in case his family should see it.

  It was in the period of one of these disastrous removals—an episode known in the family as “what happened at the High Street”—that Mind had appeared. The Beluncles had found themselves suddenly moved from a new villa in South London to a basement flat in a reeking street within sound of the howling Thames, a street that appeared to have been cut through an immovable stench of railway smoke and vinegar. Henry and George were ill in bed. Leslie, their youngest brother, was ailing. Mrs. Beluncle, who met disaster by outdoing it in the untidiness of her clothes—hiding her nice things so as to be ready to sell them—went about in an old coarse apron, her blouse undone, her hair down her back, her shoes broken. She had refused always the expense of doctors and dentists for herself and now had a long and bad attack of toothache. She sat in front of the kitchen range holding a piece of brown paper with pepper and vinegar on it, to the fire, and then pressing it to her cheek, and as she did so, she rocked. Rocking led to soliloquy, soliloquy to catlike moans, and her children sat at the corners of the dark kitchen, excited by the sudden squalor of their surroundings, watching her distantly. They did not dare to go near her, or she would grip an arm of one of them, with her strong working fingers, and with a terrifying expression of agony and drama, cry out, as if she did not know them:

  “Oh! If Gran could see me now!”

  It was into this room Mr. Beluncle came, after a month away, with the smile, the bounce, the aplomb of a very highly tipped head waiter; and on his innocent lips was the word Mind. Gently and firmly, he took the brown paper from his wife; gently calmed the children; gently and firmly he told Mrs. Beluncle about a man at the Northern Hotel, Doncaster, who had told him about Mind.

  “Did Mind make toothache?” Mr. Beluncle asked. “Of course he didn’t. And yet you’ve just admitted Mind made everything that was made.”

  “You’ll have to get your meal yourself. There’s what’s left in the saucepan,” groaned Mrs. Beluncle.

  “So you just think you’ve got toothache,” said Mr. Beluncle kindly.

  “You think you’ve had your dinner, go on,” said Mrs. Beluncle.

  “It’s an illusion of the physical senses,” said Mr. Beluncle, exalted. “Henry, you’re supposed to be clever. Can a piece of bone feel anything?”

  “Its nerves could perhaps,” said Henry doubtfully.

  “And did Mind make nerves?” asked Mr. Beluncle scornfully.

  “No,” murmured Henry.

  “Of course not. The boy understands, old dear. It’s simple logic. Now put that paper away, the smell’s awful. Let’s have some supper. I’ve been travelling since seven o’clock this morning.”

  The children smiled, waiting for the light to dawn on the crouching figure of Mrs. Beluncle. Suddenly she jumped up and screamed at their father.

  “You wicked man, you dirty devil you, don’t touch me. Talk about your sister, what about you …”

  The children were sent to bed in the next room. They listened but grew tired of the haggle of voices and dropped asleep. Henry woke up again, thinking it was morning, but the gaslight still shone through the fan light over the door. He heard roars and shouts of fury coming from the kitchen. Mrs. Beluncle was screaming out about someone called “that woman.”

  What had Mr. Beluncle brought home? Some sublime and noble thing which Mrs. Beluncle tore to pieces every evening like an enraged dog.

  Night after night, month after month, Henry Beluncle listened. Was it the Open Seal? Was it the Key to Infinity—for the word Infinite came in with Mind. Was it Mrs. Crowther’s conference, Mrs. Klaxon’s call, the Science of the Last Purification, the Art of Salesmanship, Universal Brotherhood, or Mrs. Parkinson’s Group?

  Henry Beluncle sat at his desk. His heart was racing. Even now he was not sure which kind of Mind had conquered his family.

  “Belcher,” said Mr. O’Malley.

  It was the name before Henry’s on the list.

  “Grocery,” said Belcher. “And Church of England.”

  Henry swallowed. Vanity decided him. He plunged.

  “Father’s business, sir,” said Henry Beluncle. “And Mrs. Parkinson, sir.”

  “What?” exclaimed Mr. O’Malley, putting down his pen.

  “Mrs. Parkinson, sir,” said Henry.

  It was not often that a smile of lyrical pleasure appeared on the small and injured face of Mr. O’Malley, but now his bitterness went. The little bosses of his cheeks became rosy, his muddy eyes closed to long slits of delight, his short teeth showed along the length of his mouth, and a long, almost soundless laugh was going on in his head. He looked round the class from boy to boy, grinning with affection at each one, and then he turned to Henry Beluncle.

  “Good God Almighty,” said Mr. O’Malley.

  “Yes, sir,” said Henry Beluncle, standing up at his desk.

  “Your parents are followers of Mrs. Parkinson?” said Mr. O’Malley.

  “My father, sir.”

  “Do you know what the teachings of Mrs. Parkinson are, Beluncle?”

  “Yes, sir. The Truth, sir.”

  “The Truth, sir. Balderdash, sir. Tommy rot, sir. Cheap, muddle-headed trash, sir.”

  Now he was on his feet, Henry felt no terror at all. He fel
t very strong. He had little idea of what the teachings of Mrs. Parkinson were but, hearing Mr. O’Malley’s attack, Henry was at once convinced of the Divine inspiration and absolute rightness of Mrs. Parkinson.

  “It is not, sir,” said Henry, astonished at his own voice.

  “How dare you contradict me, Beluncle!” said Mr. O’Malley. “Do you stand there in your idiocy and tell me that if you fell out of that window, three floors into the street, and broke your neck, you would say it was a false belief and hadn’t happened?”

  A murmur of laughter came from the other boys.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, sir, no, sir, yes, sir,” mocked Mr. O’Malley. “Would you, yes or no?”

  “I would, sir.”

  “Oh, no, you wouldn’t, sir,” said Mr. O’Malley. “Oh, no, you wouldn’t. You couldn’t, sir. You’d be dead, sir. Don’t add impudence to stupidity. And tell your father from me that if he is stuffing you up with that nonsense he is a lunatic.”

  Mr. O’Malley leaned back and presently a soft long dovelike call came from him:

  “Ooo. Ooo. Ooo,” he said softly and leaned confidingly to the class. “Now I understand. Now we can begin to follow the mind of Beluncle. Beluncle is a superior person. Beluncle is a snob. Beluncle is a fake, isn’t that so, Beluncle? A snob, Beluncle? A fake, Beluncle? Answer me, Beluncle?”

  “No, sir.”

  “No, sir. Yes, sir. A fool, sir, a conceited ass, sir, a lunatic, sir.”

  “My father,” Henry Beluncle shouted, “is not a lunatic.”

  The boys began to murmur. The captain of the form got up and said politely:

  “Excuse me, sir, Beluncle has as much right to his religion as you have to yours.”

  “Sit down. He hasn’t,” said Mr. O’Malley very surprised. But Henkel, the hot-tempered Jew, got up with a loud bang of his desk lid and shouted:

  “His religion is as good as being an Irish Roman Catholic.”

  Mr. O’Malley jumped to his feet, knocked his books off his desk and rushed up to within three paces of Henkel.

  “How dare you speak to me like that,” said Mr. O’Malley. “I’m not Irish.”

  Three or four boys called out, “You’ve got an Irish name.”

  O’Malley waved his fist and rushed to where he thought the voices had come from.

  “How dare you say I’m Irish,” shouted Mr. O’Malley. “How dare you associate me with that murderous lot of treacherous blackguards,” he screamed at them.

  The uproar in the class stopped at once. They were astounded by Mr. O’Malley’s outburst. They were not frightened by his rage. They sat back and waited to see, as connoisseurs, what form it would take next. What would Mr. O’Malley do now? Which of his well-known antics would he now perform? The classical tirade against liars which all the boys could recite; the famous hair-pulling performance; the question torture of Anderson: Do your parents live in a house, Anderson? Is there running water there, Anderson? What is water, Anderson? Tell me some of the purposes of water, Anderson? Have you ever applied water to your person, Anderson? Answer me, Anderson. Answer me, Anderson. A small dance of exquisite pleasure follows and then a cooing voice, Are you going to answer me, Anderson? Don’t you think you’d better answer me? And so on, the cooing voice rising and rising until at last Mr. O’Malley leaps a yard forward with his hands out like claws with a sudden scream of, Answer! Anderson begins to blubber, is made to sit down, stand up, sit down, stand up, and is left standing while Mr. O’Malley walks to the other end of the form room, opens his mouth into a huge grin and picks his teeth with a match stick.

  Which of these acts was it to be? Everyone could imitate them, Anderson best of all.

  Mr. O’Malley returned to his desk and sat down. His colour had become greenish but slowly it returned. He stared at the thirty boys, going over the desks one by one. Each boy noted the movement of the eyes as they checked him. Mr. O’Malley seemed to be about to spring, for his hands held the edge of the desk, but he was steadying himself, while his heart quietened and his breath came back. For several minutes he remained like this and there was no sound. A master passing down the corridor looked admiringly through the window of the door at the sight of thirty Boystone boys motionless. Mr. O’Malley’s methods were famous. At last Mr. O’Malley picked up his wooden pen and dipped it into the glass inkwell.

  “Cowley,” he said. “Future occupation? Religion? Come on.”

  There was a short flight of iron stairs at one end of the school building. A small court of admirers, sympathizers, and critics, surrounded Henry after school. These boys were all experts too. A hot argument about things Henry Beluncle had hardly heard of—so brief had been his family’s dips into the innumerable Christian sects—sprang up. The state of grace, the Real Presence, the Divine Mercy, Original Sin, the Thirty-nine Articles, were bandied about. Henry Beluncle said:

  “Mrs. Parkinson has cut all that out.”

  TWO

  At twelve o’clock Mr. Beluncle’s brown eyes looked up moving together like a pair of love-birds—and who were they in love with but himself? He put his nail scissors away in their little chamois case and the case went into the waistcoat pocket on the happy navy blue hill of his stomach where fifty years of life lay entwined with one another. The machines had stopped working too. Presently the eighteen men could be heard leaving the factory. A week had ended and Mr. Beluncle slackened and softened as the silence came to stand in his office. He looked out of the well-cleaned window at the wall of the factory opposite to his own and felt Saturday afternoon like a change of blood, the time when his office could have become a home to him. He went back to his desk and read again the country house advertisements in the Times and was wandering among shooting boxes and residences, sporting acres and paddocks, golf courses and mansions, travelling from one to the other in his car, seeing himself hit golf balls, ride horses, keep chickens, fish salmon, walk round his estate and stand before mantelpieces of all sizes. He was a short, deep, wide man, with grey hair kinked as if there were Negro in him. His skin was kippered by a life of London smoke but it quickly flushed to an innocent country ruddiness at the taste of food: his face was bland, heavy in jowl, formless and kind, resting on a second chin like a bottom on an air cushion. It was the face of a man who was enjoying a wonderfully boyish meal, which got better with every mouthful; but in the lips and in the lines from the fleshy nose there was a refined, almost spiritual, arresting look of insult and contempt. Mr. Beluncle was a snob about present pleasures; he was eager to drop old ones and to know the new. In his imaginary travels among the newspaper advertisements he got richer and richer, he moved from “well-appointed” residences to mansions and an occasional castle, he slowly raised his chin and insulted people right and left. He did not notice that he was doing this and, in fact, as he read, he felt more and more amiable; he doubled the pay of his workers, bought a fur coat for his wife, sent messages of love and peace to the unhappy masses in India and China, set the Russians free, until, at the spendthrift summit, he remembered his son.

  A son: a shy, desirous, passionate, protective, disgusted, and incredulous play of feeling made its various marks on his face.

  At once Mr. Beluncle marched out of his office, down the short corridor, to the general offices where his son worked with Chilly who was learning the business, and the clerks. Mr. Beluncle was going to tell his son not to wait any more and to go home. “I am not an ordinary employer. I am your father,” he was humming to himself. “Enjoy the sun, the fresh air, go home to your mother. You love her—or you ought to love her—think of her down there longing for you to get back.” The generous impulse was the pleasanter for a sweet flavour of self-pity in it. “At that boy’s age I worked till ten o’clock at night on Saturday,” he said, and the sensation was that Progress had been created by him for others, out of his sufferings.

  But in Mr. Beluncle’s dreams there was always a flaw. He opened the door of the general office, where half a dozen people worked. T
he first person he saw was this son of his, Henry, sitting at a long, high, old-fashioned mahogany desk that had been left when the office had been refurnished in the slump three or four years before. The boy had turned round from his desk on his high stool and was cleaning his nails with the edge of his season ticket. He was gazing in a sulky, childish, dejected dream at the sunlight on the factory wall which could be seen from this window also. The boy was such a stubborn, unorganized, weak replica of Mr. Beluncle with cheeks so young that one could cry out for care at the thought of a razor going over them. The father stopped short in horror and tenderness. A powerful feeling of anxiety possessed him. He forgot his intention in a shocked attempt to save the boy’s character and life.

  “One o’clock is your time,” said Mr. Beluncle. “I don’t like people idling away, watching the clock. The idle steal other people’s time.”

  Mr. Beluncle added the moral out of modesty, to escape the fault of random accusation.

  The boy blushed and his jaw hardened with quick, young temper. The clerks held their cynical pens for a moment.

  “I have nothing to do,” Henry Beluncle said, rudely sticking up for himself.

  “If you are working for me,” Mr. Beluncle said, his voice smoothing with a temper that was inexplicable to himself—it seemed to come from the small of his fat back, “it is your business to find something to do.” He was shouting but only as someone shouts for help.

  And Mr. Beluncle went out fast banging the door, getting away quickly with the self-effacement of one who has saved a life and does not wish to get a medal for it. Too ashamed to meet the looks of the experienced clerks, the boy opened his stock books again. His neck, his ears, his cheeks had reddened and he sat in a storm of humiliation. With the ingratitude of the rescued he wished he had been left to drown.