Ripeness is All

by Eric Linklater

  Bolivia hammered on the door, and Mrs Barrow handed Wilfrid, two volumes of Lope de Vega. They were Jerusalen Conquistada and El Galán Castrucho. ‘Here you are,’ she said. ‘Knock their blooming heads off!’

  ‘If you don’t go away I shall have to resort to violence,’ said Wilfrid sternly.

  ‘I demand to see Stephen!’ shouted Bolivia,. ‘I’m not going to leave here till I settle with him. Stephen! Stephen!’

  ‘Will you go away, or will you take the consequences?’ asked Wilfrid.

  ‘Open the door, you puppy!’ roared the General.

  Jerusalen Conquistada flew down the cold night air and knocked his hat off. El Galán Castrucho followed. It opened its leaves in the outflowing light, it flapped in the darkness, and fell like a shot wood-pigeon at Bolivia’s feet. She jumped backwards into the winter soil of an herbaceous border.

  ‘Here’s plenty more,’ said Mrs Barrow, and gave Wilfrid Las Fortunas de Diana, El Maestro de Danzar, Las Flores de Don Juan, and several other plays, novels, and pastorals. In rapid succession Wilfrid hurled them at the enemy. The air was noisy with the fluttering of Spanish drama, the General’s oaths, and Bolivia’s indignant outcry. Las Fortunas de Diana scored a hit, and so did the Arte Nuevo de Comedias.

  Some thirty volumes had descended – and effectively restrained the invaders from further attack upon the door – when the third car arrived, bringing Hilary, Arthur, and Mr Peabody.

  ‘My God, there’s more of them!’ cried Mrs Barrow, and feverishly began to load the table at Wilfrid’s side with fresh ammunition: wedding-presents now, travelling clocks, toast-racks, etchings of Lammiter Bridge and the Fifteenth Century house in Green Street, decanters, hock glasses, walking sticks, a cushion, a patent putter, napkin-rings, a fruit dish, finger-bowls, book-ends, and so forth.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Wilfrid, ‘let’s see what they’re going to do.’

  It was soon apparent that the newcomers were not reinforcements for the attack. They were, indeed, a relieving force. Hilary took Bolivia by the arm and talked to her severely about her folly. Mr Peabody lectured the General on the rights of householders and the sanctity of private property.

  ‘But he’s insulted my daughter,’ shouted the General.

  ‘To force an entry into a private house’, said Mr Peabody, ‘is a very serious offence, and however grave the provocation I fear no magistrate would excuse your taking the law into your own hands in so violent and unwarrantable a manner. I myself am not only a lawyer, but a Justice of the Peace …’

  ‘So am I!’ said the General.

  While this discussion was proceeding, Mrs Barrow observed that Stephen had entered the room. ‘Why here’s Mr Stephen,’ she said. ‘Oh, what a dreadful injury you’ve got!’

  Stephen had put on a dressing-gown. He had also bedaubed his ear and the adjacent part of his cheek so lavishly with iodine as to resemble a skewbald pony. Mrs Barrow closely examined the punctured lobe. ‘There now,’ she said, ‘it’s not so bad as I thought it was. That’ll be all right in a day or two.’

  ‘It’s very painful,’ said Stephen.

  ‘Well, we don’t have to worry any more,’ said Mrs Barrow. ‘Not with Mr Wilfrid here to protect us. He’s been a perfect hero, Mr Stephen. You ought to have heard him telling off the General!’

  ‘I did,’ said Stephen.

  ‘Didn’t I do it beautifully!’ asked Wilfrid, his face flushed and his eyes shining with delight. ‘Oh, I’ve been having a lovely time. I’ve never felt so brave in my life before.’

  ‘What are they doing now?’ asked Stephen, and went to the window. He carried two pillows with him.

  The disputing groups had coalesced. The General and Bolivia were still protesting. Hilary and Arthur and Mr Peabody were yet persuading. But the latter were now dominant, and all five were gradually moving away. Stephen leaned out of the window and viciously hurled his pillows after them – white, soft, and heavy, they sailed through the air and mistook their targets; for one took Mr Peabody on the nape of his neck, and the other struck Arthur somewhat lower down.

  ‘Why didn’t you throw a clock or a picture at them?’ asked Mrs Barrow. ‘There wasn’t any need to dirty two nice clean pillows.’

  ‘They were the pillows off Miss Ramboise’s double bed,’ said Stephen, and slammed the window.

  Chapter 13

  Three days after Christmas Mrs Ramboise returned to the Riviera, and Bolivia went with her. There had been no communication between her and Stephen. The Times and the Lammiter Morning Post had announced that the marriage previously arranged would not take place, but details of the rupture were kept comparatively secret – Mrs Barrow had discretion, while none of the others would ever mention the horrid scene again – and even the most assiduous gossip-hunters had little but the bare bone of fact to supplement their Christmas dinners. Wilfrid, having packed up the wedding-presents, sent them to Bolivia to dispose of, and persuaded the furniture dealer who had supplied the bedroom suite to repurchase it at a somewhat reduced price. He and Stephen spent a very happy Christmas together, and settled down to work again in great content.

  After five weeks in hospital the Vicar had gone home, where he propelled himself about the ground floor of his house in a wheeled chair fitted with a horizontal support for his broken leg. He was unduly sensitive about the grotesque appearance of the immobilized limb, and did not encourage visitors. Even Hilary found him reserved and sometimes unamiable, but despite her lack of welcome she went regularly to the Vicarage during the Christmas holidays, when all the young Purefoys were at home.

  She found Rupert, the eldest of them, very busy with plans for a new school-magazine of which he was to be the editor. ‘But don’t think it’s going to be like the ordinary school-magazine,’ he said. ‘You know what dismal stuff they are. This is going to be serious and very good. The general idea is to put across the necessity for Communism in the Public Schools. You see we must do something about the present state of society, and if we don’t tackle it nobody will, because older people – well, my father’s generation – have never been taught to really understand how life is conditioned. We’ve got a marvellous design for the cover, a Red Hand holding a Hammer, and we’ll probably call it Red. Just the one word, you know. It’s going to create a terrific sensation, and I shan’t be a bit surprised if I get expelled.’

  Rupert sat on the arm of a chair and smiled at Hilary. He was a very good-looking boy with long eyelashes and a finely shaped jaw that was a more delicate edition of his father’s. His hair, a wavy dark brown, was rather long, and his voice had a light-hearted clarity. He was carefully and attractively dressed.

  ‘But surely you’re not serious when you say you’re a Communist,’ Hilary objected. ‘Think what they did in Russia: murdering hundreds of thousands of people, and stopping others from going to Church, and plotting against everybody, and putting people in timber-camps, and I don’t know what else. You can’t wish to see that sort of thing going on in England?’

  Rupert laughed. ‘You’ve got all the facts, haven’t you? But they don’t make any difference, because Communism is inevitable. It’s an historical necessity.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Hilary.

  ‘Well, of course, you’ve got to read Karl Marx and Lenin to find out really why. But they prove it quite definitely. You see, what has always counted most in history is the Class Struggle. Oh, I know you hear a lot about Hannibal, and Agincourt, and the Treaty of Utrecht, but that’s all eyewash, because till now history books have always been written by Capitalists, or at any rate by the Bourgeoisie, and they didn’t know about the Class Struggle. But it’s the most significant fact in history because it has never stopped. There have been Tyrants, and the Feudal System, and Aristocracies, and the Bourgeoisie, and now it’s the turn of the People. In the new order of things there’s bound to be a Dictatorship of the Proletariat.’

  ‘So you’ve become a Communist simply in order to be on the winning side?’

 
‘Oh, hang it, Hilary, that’s not fair! I’m a Communist because it’s the reasonable thing to be, and because I, and most of my friends, are simply sick to death about the stuff that all our politicians talk. They’re such ghastly frauds that one simply must be different from them. All the most intellectual men at Tugborough are Communists, and quite a lot of decent fellows too. It’s really one’s duty to try and clear up all the mess in the world, and naturally one wants a bit of excitement as well. And Communism seems the proper ticket, don’t you think?’

  ‘And what happens to the Class Struggle after you’ve established the Dictatorship of the Proletariat?’ asked Hilary. ‘Does it still go on?’

  ‘No, because there won’t be any different classes then, there’ll simply be the Proletariat. Of course I don’t pretend we’re going to skip right into a kind of Utopia. In fact, everything will be fearfully difficult and hideously uncomfortable for years to corne, before the Dictatorship of the Proletariat is really established. But that’s part of the fun, and it’s bound to be worth it in the long run.’

  ‘And when you’ve established the Proletariat, and there’s nobody else left, don’t you think the Proletariat will begin to develop into Aristocrats, and Capitalists, and Bourgeois, and start the Class Struggle all over again?’

  ‘Oh, no, that’s not at all likely.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, Marx says nothing about it, and I don’t think Lenin does either, and they’d thought about that sort of thing for years. I really don’t think you need worry about that.’

  ‘Human nature …’ said Hilary.

  ‘Human nature depends entirely upon environment and the economic conditions of life,’ said Rupert firmly.

  ‘But Denis has the same environment as you, and he hasn’t become a Communist,’ Hilary objected.

  ‘No,’ said Rupert judicially, ‘and that’s a good debating point. But Denis is very young yet. He’s eighteen months younger than I am, and he’s been led astray by Mosley. He says he’s a Fascist, you know, and actually I suppose he is, because he’s just the age to like walking about in a black shirt, and saluting people. He was in the Scouts till a year ago, and the Fascist uniform’s a lot smarter than theirs, and Fascists haven’t got to do good deeds or anything boring like that. We don’t deny – well, all the people who think as I do, I mean – we don’t deny that Mosley’s a very clever fellow, because he’s really invented something that does appeal to boys who’ve got a bit fed-up with Boy Scouting. But there’s no need to worry about Denis. He’s only sixteen, and he’ll get over this Fascist nonsense all right. I say, do you mind if I leave you now? It’s horribly rude of me, but I’m composing a Manifesto for the first number of Red and it’s rather a job, you know, because I’ve got to get all my facts absolutely right, and I want to re-read The Coming Struggle for Power.’

  ‘I’m waiting to have tea with your father,’ said Hilary, ‘so perhaps I’ll see you again.’

  ‘I do hope so,’ said Rupert, ‘but not this afternoon, I’m afraid. You really don’t mind my cutting away like this?’

  He was indeed his mother’s son, thought Hilary. He had all her charming gift of enthusiasm. It was a wild and wayfaring enthusiasm, but none the less a delectable heritage. Caroline had once endeavoured to provide the poor with window-boxes, and Rupert meant to give them the whole earth. It was a delight to be with him and to listen to him. Hilary felt a vast affection, a loving and laughing affection for him, and while she was savouring these happy thoughts she was loudly reminded of the existence of several other young Purefoys.

  She heard the sound of marching feet on the terrace outside the window. She heard a stern but youthful voice.

  ‘Halt!’ it cried. ‘Stand still, don’t wobble about like that… Right dress! Tuck in that beastly stomach of yours, Cecily, and try to stand still. Look to your right, Peter … Eyes Front! Now when I give you the order to dismiss, remember to raise your right arms in the proper salute, and then double smartly away … Squad, dis-miss!’

  A minute later Denis came in and greeted Hilary with a rather abstracted manner. He was a sturdy boy, with untidy reddish-brown hair and his father’s square-cut handsome features. He wore a black shirt tucked into a pair of dirty grey flannel trousers, and a belt that supported an empty holster.

  ‘Well, Denis, have they been drilling well?’ asked Hilary.

  ‘No,’ said Denis. ‘You haven’t any idea how difficult it is to get these little beasts to march in step or do anything really smartly. Cecily giggles, and Peter’s absolutely hopeless.’

  ‘He’s only six,’ said Hilary apologetically.

  ‘He’s quite old enough to realize that drill is important,’ said Denis. ‘If a boy can’t drill he can’t fight, and if he can’t fight he’s no good to the Empire.’

  ‘But whom do you want to fight?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Russia, I expect, or perhaps Germany, or Japan. It doesn’t matter, does it? We’re bound to be at war with someone pretty soon, and the sooner the better, because if we don’t go to war I expect I’ll be expelled. Old Picker, my housemaster, has had a down on me for years, because I’m a Fascist and he’s a Liberal or something beastly like that.’

  ‘Are there many Fascists at Tugborough?’

  ‘Hundreds of them,’ said Denis. ‘All the decent fellows are, and quite a lot of clever ones too.’

  ‘But Rupert isn’t. I’ve just been talking to him, and he’s a Communist.’

  ‘Oh, but that’s different. He’s getting pretty old. He’s seventeen, and when people get to that age they’re usually a bit soured and hopeless about things, and they think there’s nothing left but Communism. And he’s a bit of a snob too, and thinks it’s superior to be one of the Proletariat. But don’t worry about Rupert, Aunt Hilary. We won’t stand any nonsense from him.’

  ‘I hope you won’t be too rough with him,’ said Hilary gravely.

  ‘He’ll have to take his chance,’ said Denis. ‘In these days the State is everything and the Individual doesn’t matter. I say, Aunt Hilary, you won’t mind if I leave now? No, I don’t want any tea, I’m in training. I’ve got to go and have a look at my stamp collection, to see if it’s worth selling. I must raise some money before going back to school.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Well,’ said Denis, a trifle shyly, ‘I want to get a revolver if possible, and if I can’t manage that I might buy a pair of knuckle-dusters.’

  It was curious, thought Hilary, how completely their interest had been diverted, within the last year or two, from machinery to politics. A little while ago their thoughts had been filled by the mysteries of wireless telephony and aeroplane engines, but now they had forsaken short waves and cylinders for social problems. And that, despite the paradox of Rupert’s Communism and the adolescent bloodiness of Denis’s ideas, was a step in the right direction, Hilary believed. For she had always felt that aeroplanes and other mechanical devices, being simply things to use, a handsome enlargement of the bathroom tap, so to speak, were not worthy of the devotion they inspired in so many people. The proper study of mankind was man, and politicians, though often with unhappy results, did occasionally seem to realize that.

  Hilary picked up a book that Rupert had been reading and had left on his chair. It was an anthology called New Country. She turned over the pages and read, in some surprise and not without bewilderment, occasional stanzas. Here was more vigour than she had grown to expect in poetry. It was true that she had no sympathy with the pervading motif of rebellion, and it was also true that many lines read as though the writer’s pen had not been thrown properly into gear – there was, she thought, an unnecessary amount of noise – but her senses were forced to acknowledge a real exhilaration in most of the poems. Rupert had underlined a number of passages. There was a stanza he had framed with thick black pencilling:

  And we whom winter days oppress

  May find some work to hand;

  Perfect our plans, renew parts,
r />   Break hedges down, plough land.

  Caroline would have approved of that, thought Hilary; and turning a page or two found another marked line:

  Turning rebellion to a fanning breath and tradition to a jet of flame.

  It was more exciting poetry than the contents of the Georgian Anthologies that had been her last, but now almost forgotten, enthusiasm; and obviously Rupert had read it all and quite properly been excited by it. His manner, while he spoke of his plans for a Communist magazine, had been light and easy, but that proved nothing. He could not be expected to talk in the fervent voice of his favourite poets. However hot his belief, he would not throw red cinders on the carpet for conversation. But his secret thoughts might be glowing as red as these young poets’.

  Hilary read the last poem in the book. It had a brief chorus:

  Come then, companions. This is the spring of blood,

  heart’s hey-day, movement of masses, beginning of good.

  – And of course, thought Hilary, Denis feels that too, in his small-boy fashion. And though his idea of the movement of masses and the beginning of good is much much sillier than Rupert’s, that’s because he’s so much younger. I wonder if, for the first time since the War, the Spring of blood is really being felt by young people all over England? Oh, I wish I were young again, so that I could know!

  The door opened and the Vicar, preceded by his leg, rolled in upon his invalid chair. He was looking tired and rather querulous. His leg resembled a shelf for guillemots to perch on.

  Hilary said, ‘Do you know, Lionel, those boys of yours are better stuff than we ever were?’

  The Vicar cocked an inquiring eyebrow.

  ‘When we were their age’, Hilary continued, ‘we weren’t interested in the welfare of nations. We were only interested in ourselves.’

  ‘I don’t agree with you,’ said the Vicar. ‘When I was sixteen I intended to reform the whole world. People always do, when they’re sixteen.’

  ‘And then give up hope?’