by Philip Child
“What about Uncle Murdo?”
“No. The trouble with Murdo is his pride, though he doesn’t know it. You see, plenty of Burnets have deserted their wives, but he’s the first Burnet whose wife deserted him. That’s why he became a medical missionary and went to the East.”
Sudden compunction overtook Charles. One oughtn’t to talk thus to the young. “It won’t bother you,” he said. “You’re a Thatcher. You’re a steady sort of chap.”
“I don’t know.… Am I?”
IV
To Dan, the freedom of college was a heady draught. There seemed nothing in the world ahead of him that threatened to baffle his growing sense of power. Dan and Alastair viewed failure, sickness, old age, and all the other evils of life with confident superciliousness.
Dan roomed with Quentin Thatcher, partly because Quentin wished it and partly because he did not want to room with Alastair. Quentin he found a prickly person to live with, morose often, serious minded, and very exacting in friendship.
The sight of Quentin poring grimly over a book as if his life depended on it made Dan feel uneasily that perhaps Quentin’s life did depend on it. It wasn’t normal. Sometimes the way Quentin breathed bothered Dan; he almost panted after knowledge.… Why do I like him, anyway? I suppose because he likes me. And besides, well — hang it! He’s Quentin. He’s always been my friend.… If only he had a sense of humour. But Quentin was always harping on their friendship. If only he wouldn’t talk so much about it. It wasn’t normal for a person to be so dependent on one friend. It was womanish of Quentin! Besides, there were so many things and people that he himself was interested in that he had no intention of giving himself to the Damon and Pythias business. He didn’t want to be pinned down!
“Tell you what, Quentin,” he said one day, “I’m taking Cynthia Elton to the Lotus Club dance. Why don’t you go stag?”
“Do you want me to, Dan?”
“What on earth has that got to do with it?” exclaimed Dan irritably.
“All right. I’m sorry. I’ll go, if you like.”
Dan had no time for Quentin mainly because his interest was focused on Cynthia Elton.
Beatrice, the cleverest of the sisters, had gone to college with a scholarship. Cynthia wanted to go, too, but Mr. Elton, who had not gone to college himself, felt that a higher education unfitted women for the role of man’s inferior, which he firmly held to be their true destiny. So he sent her instead to a “finishing school” in Toronto where she was taught, by way of compensation, the polite art of social superiority. Cynthia did not have it in her to become a snob, but being young and conventional she accepted the finish superficially and studied poise, manner, the correct thing to say in the usual social crises, small talk about the arts, and even cookery and the managing of servants. In short, she prepared herself to occupy in matrimony “the position to which she had been accustomed.” In spite of her education, Cynthia was a charming and natural girl.
Charles Burnet, watching them together, said to Maud: “Why is it that each batch of youngsters coming along thinks it is going to make so much more of a success in marriage than its elders did?”
“Puppy love!” said Maud tartly. She did not like the idea of the boys marrying. “Most people in our class,” she took occasion to say to Dan, “don’t marry until they are thirty or so.”
V
The orchestra twittered tentative notes over the empty ballroom, inviting the ladies, already present in their partners’ minds, to finish powdering quickly and to descend in their amethyst, turquoise, and pastel silks and satins to be carried off over the forgetful sea of rhythm. Dan stood with Quentin Thatcher, waiting for Cynthia. “When she comes,” thought Dan, “she won’t look like just any girl you are going to dance with. It will be as if we stood apart from other people, and together. I don’t know why she makes me feel that way, but she does.” Thus to feel, made him happy and triumphant; it made everything so simple.
At this moment he frankly resented the presence of Quentin, an earth-bound spirit willing to drag one to his own ironic level.
“Whom are you dancing with, Quentin?”
“Oh, Tessa, I suppose, and Cynthia if she’ll spare me one, and Beatrice, I dare say.”
“Isn’t there anyone you really want to dance with?”
“No! I loathe women, if you want to know. They exist for the sole purpose of getting you into nature’s trap and making you toe the line for the rest of your life. That’s all they think of, really; it’s what they call romance! It’s all so darned biological! A man might as well be an amoeba.… This” — he waved his cigarette — “is all just part of the game.”
“That sounds pretty silly to me! After all, people have to get married — and that means courting, doesn’t it?”
“Most people do. I don’t. If I have to make any changes in my plan of life, I’ll superintend them myself. I shan’t have my life arranged for me by someone else.”
“I bet you make a mess of it, then, old man.”
Quentin crushed out his cigarette and turned to Dan seriously. “Listen, Dan. I’d let a friend interfere, perhaps. Yes, I would. There would be some sense to that. A friend likes you for what you are — for what’s in your mind, I mean — not simply for the purpose of tying you up so you’ll raise a family of brats exactly like a million other brats —”
He might just as well not have spoken, for Cynthia had appeared, and Dan had neither eyes nor ears for him. In her ball dress, with her hair done up, she looked taller. Her eyes were shining with joy, her lips were parted in laughter, and she stood swaying gracefully to the music, young, triumphant, and completely mistress of herself. She smiled to him and he saw her with the unspoilt eyes of youth, not noticing the mould of her features or the colour of her hair, but seeing beauty itself.
“It will always be like this,” thought Cynthia. The music stopped, and for no clear reason at all, she curled her fingers about his hand and gripped convulsively.
“What is it, Cynthia? Is anything the matter!”
“Nothing. Just foolishness. The music stopped and all at once I felt as if you had gone far off from me. ”
“I shan’t go far,” said Dan with a laugh, “and you can have me back whenever you want me.”
He looked at his program. He had a dance with Tessa, of course, and the next with Beatrice. Most of the program was marked with crosses. “Whom are you dancing with, Cynthia?”
“Alastair.”
“Don’t let him fascinate you, Cynthia. My brother’s good at that! You’re my girl, you know.”
“Am I, Dan? Who is your partner?”
“Beatrice.”
“Well, she’s safe. She’s engaged, or I mightn’t trust you.”
Dan exclaimed at this with whimsical incredulity: “Beatrice!” But Cynthia was serious.
“She’s clever, Dan. Like you.”
“So are you, Cynthia.”
“No, I’m not. I can’t talk except just the things everyone says.”
“But we do talk. As much as we want to.”
“I wish I hadn’t said that, you mightn’t have noticed. Never mind, Dan. Go and dance with Beatrice. I’m glad you like her. She’s worth it.”
With Beatrice he wanted to talk. It was extraordinary how well their ideas fitted, he reflected. It was odd, too, that that hadn’t occurred to him before — particularly.… It was not at all like being with Cynthia, of course. That always seemed — well, inevitable. One didn’t need to talk to Cynthia.
“Dan, this is the first time we’ve danced together since my engagement. Am I different?”
“Do you know, you are somehow. Your expression, I mean. Being engaged becomes you, Beatrice. I’ve never seen you look so pretty.”
She blushed. “I wouldn’t have blushed if anyone else had said that, Dan. But it’s t
he first compliment you ever paid me.… I used to be awfully fond of you.”
“And still are, I hope?”
“Of course. But —”
“But now you’re in love. And that automatically divides the world into two hemispheres. You and Matthew Wilmot in one hemisphere, people in the other.”
She laughed. “Well, yes, in a way. You’ll find out.”
“Is it very difficult to live marooned in a whole hemisphere with only one other person?”
Beatrice smiled absently. “Will you answer a question, Dan? I’m serious.… Are you in love with Cynthia?”
Dan adopted an air of whimsical caution. “Why do you ask?”
“A good reason. I like you and, naturally, I like my sister.”
“I don’t know, Beatrice. I think so. I’m young and so is Cynthia. You see, I’ve got to finish college and learn a profession. That’s a long time. I don’t want to let myself go yet.”
“Because if you are, you ought to understand her better. I don’t think you do.”
“Well, what ought I to understand, lady?”
“That Cynthia’s spoilt, Dan.”
“Cynthia!”
“Oh, not in the way you think. She’s sweet and unselfish — I don’t mean that. But she is spoilt just the same. And so am I, Dan. You see, she and I are both afraid — oh, of life, let’s say. It’s true. You can’t understand that, can you? … You’ve always been so safe and secure … in your home, while we —” Beatrice would not meet his enquiring look and the phrase died on her lips.
“You mean —”
She nodded. “There hasn’t been much in our home to give us confidence, Dan. That seems such a rotten thing to say. But you ought to know. Cynthia’s very conventional because she isn’t sure of herself. She may marry you, but she will never trust you completely unless — You’ll have to change a bit, Dan. You’ll have to sweep her off her feet, if you really want to win her.”
“But you, Beatrice — how did you put it? — you’ve given your trust completely.”
“Yes, I have. Once and for all. If Matthew asked me to go anywhere or do anything for him, I’d do it.” She gave a little, shaky laugh. “That’s how I know. I’m not like Cynthia. I’m more impulsive and reckless. You see, Dan, it makes me feel so marvellously settled and secure. It brings everything to life. Ideas, yes, and principles, too, I’d believed in just with my mind before, I believe in with my heart and that’s the important thing.… If anything should happen to us, to Matthew and me, I’d — I couldn’t stand it!”
“Why should anything happen? There’s a clear sea and a fair wind, Beatrice.”
She said nothing for a minute, then — “If you were really in love, you’d be afraid.”
“I don’t believe in fear,” said Dan confidently.
When he got back from the dance he found Quentin sitting before the fire poking it idly, still dressed. Dan was tired and wanted to sleep, but Quentin wanted to talk. “It’s odd,” thought Dan, “that a person as sensitive to his own feelings as Quentin is, should be so insensitive to other people’s moods. Are poets all like that, I wonder.” Before long Quentin’s talk had slid into the inevitable groove — himself, his feelings. For once Dan’s irritation broke loose.
“For goodness’ sake, Quentin! Why do you talk about your feelings all the time? It isn’t wholesome. It’s not normal.”
Quentin flared up. “All right, I’m not normal and wholesome, if you like! Never have been, very likely. Probably never will be. It’s a hell of a world, Dan, and people are rotten!”
“That’s a rotten thing to believe!”
“Do you think I want to believe it? I just see clearly, that’s all. Why, Dan, when my mother was ill — but that’s none of your business! Oh, why don’t you let me alone!” He threw down the paper in a rage and began to pace about. “Now I won’t sleep. Why don’t you let me be the way I am?” He sat down and sank his head in his hands.
Dan gazed at him, startled and a little frightened. “I think if you don’t look out, Quentin, you’ll have a nervous breakdown.”
“Very likely you’re right — I’ve been working too hard.” He began to writhe his head between his hands. “Damn! Damn! Damn! I’m not like other people because I can’t be like other people. Can’t you understand that?”
“But I’d no idea, Quentin — I never thought —”
“You never do. You understand nothing! … Do you remember when I jumped off the thirty-foot bridge over the canal and broke a rib? Do you know why I jumped?”
“Because the rest of us had jumped.”
“No! Because I knew you would despise me if I didn’t.”
“According to you, Quentin, friendship is a kind of tyranny. You can never accept a friend for what he is — though you want me to accept you that way — you must always be exacting something from him that he hasn’t got to give. There’s no comfortable give and take about that.”
“I don’t want there to be.”
“You don’t.” Dan became angry. He now saw clearly what he hadn’t quite realized before. Quentin was an egotist.
“I’m not talking about what usually passes for friendship between people who choose their friends because they think they’ll be of use in business! I’m talking of what every mother’s son of us needs and has got to have in order to get out of himself. If you can make a friend it’s proof that you’ve got some grandeur of spirit. But you don’t see it. You probably never will. You’re so damned mediocre. You’re a philistine. You’re one of the sheep. You think you have got to feel and do what every Tom, Dick, and Harry feels —”
“Oh, Lord, Quentin! Do change the needle. Let’s have a new record.”
“Don’t you see ? When someone chooses you for a friend, you’re saddled with a responsibility. You can’t help yourself, you’re simply chosen. And a friend has a right to demand of you all you have to give and more!”
“That’s beyond me, Quentin. I’m just an ordinary clod. Anyway, it seems to me you’ve a right to choose to be chosen, or not, just as you please. And what’s more I think one shouldn’t talk about one’s — one’s sentiments. It’s womanish, and when you put them into words, they lose their power. And, anyway, by jingo, it bores me!”
“Probably,” said Quentin bitterly, “you’ll fall for that — girl!”
“You mind your business about Cynthia!” said Dan hotly.
“Perhaps,” Quentin suggested, “you would like to room with someone else.”
“Perhaps I should.…”
At seventeen, with at least three more years of college ahead of him, it had certainly never occurred to Dan to become engaged to Cynthia. Time passed so pleasantly and so slowly.… The great world peace had yet a few months to run.
The Apple
Yonder withered apple
Clings to its tree,
But the winter wind is sweeping
And the snow swings free.
Gnarled and ugly covering
And brittle stem,
Live seeds — and the shrivelled flesh
To cover them.
Fifty knife-cut wrinkles
In a haggard skin.
There was once a blossom
When Spring came in.
Blow the stem asunder
You death-keen wind.
None can read the seed beneath
The wrinkled rind.
(From Quentin’s Notebook)
PART II
The Wheat
Chapter IV
I
In the summer of 1914 the Thatchers took a cottage on Georgian Bay because the quiet of that northern country was good for Joanna’s health.
One August night Dan and his father walked to the railway station for news of peace or war. The platform was des
erted. The station agent stooped over the telegraph key, coat off, perspiration streaming down his face. Presently, they heard the whistle of the approaching train.
“Supposing —” began Dan.
“Supposing what?” interrupted his father quickly.
“Oh, nothing. I was just thinking — you know father, I’m seventeen.”
Pen said nothing, but neither of them thought the remark irrelevant.
The train swung round the bend into sight.
Pen seized Dan’s arm with a sudden tight clutch. Scrawled on the coaches in large letters of chalk was the single word WAR!
Dan drew in his breath sharply, but his father said nothing, simply stared like a man in a dream.
Soon the train gathered itself together, grunted, and chugged into motion. The songs and the shouting advanced into the darkness and grew faint. The crickets renewed their triumph over the still night.
“Well, Dan?” said Pen.
“Uncle Charles will go!”
“This isn’t romance, Dan! It is not a page out of the Iliad . It’s the devil let loose in the world. You must use your brains and your conscience, my dear boy. You mustn’t swing in behind the devil with the rest of the sheep.”
II
Outwardly, “a state of war” caused little immediate change in the Thatcher family. They still went their ways in civilian clothes, thinking civilian thoughts, but with an uneasy feeling that a thread was attached to each one of them, drawing them to a strange web.
Sunday evening supper was still an institution at Ardentinny, but Charles brought his fellow subalterns, and with khaki in the ascendant, there was much talk of the humours of camp life, while Pen Thatcher, who had his own good reason for loathing war, held his peace. A veteran of Mons came and told of a major with a glorious sense of humour, rallying stragglers, and marching them back to the “British Grenadiers,” played on a penny whistle and a child’s toy drum, when nothing else would have budged them. In a sentimental voice, Euphemia asked this hero about the angels at Mons. “Have you heard, Captain, of how the ghosts of our longbowmen who fell at Crécy and Agincourt helped our men at Mons?”