The Sleep of Reason Page 7

  Nowadays I met George three or four times a year, and this double vision was still working. I could still – not often, but in sharp moments – see the young man who had befriended me, set me going: whose face had been full of anger and hope, and who had walked with me through the streets outside on nights of triumph, his voice rebounding from the darkened houses.

  But, more than in any other friend, the present was here too. There he sat in the pub. His face was in front of me, greeting me with formal welcome. It was the face of an old, sick man.

  Not that he was unhappy. On the contrary, he had been happier than most men all his life, and had stayed so. Not that he behaved as though he were ill. On the contrary, he behaved as though he were immortal. If I had been studying him for the first time, I should have been doubtful about guessing his age. His fair hair was still thick, and had whitened only over his ears, though it was wild and disarranged, for his whole appearance was dilapidated. His face was lined, but almost at random, so that he had no look of mature age. His mouth often fell open, and his eyes became unfocused.

  He was actually sixty-three. I had tried to get him to discuss his health, but he turned vague, sometimes, it seemed to me, with a deliberate cunning. He spoke casually about his blood pressure and some pills he had to take. He admitted that his doctor, whose name he wouldn’t tell me, had put him on a diet. From what I noticed, he didn’t even pretend to keep to it. He still ate gargantuan meals, somehow proud of his self-indulgence, topping off – in a fashion which once had been comic but was now frightening – a meal larger than most of us ate in two days with four or five cream cakes. He drank as much, or more, than ever. He had always been heavy, but now was fat from his upper chest down to his groin. He must have weighed fifteen stone.

  None of that had interfered with his desire for women. I had an uncomfortable suspicion that, as he grew old, he wanted younger girls: but, with the same elderly cunning with which he dissimulated his health, he had long ago concealed those details from me. I knew that his firm of solicitors had pensioned him off a couple of years before. Once again, he was vague in telling me the reasons. It might have been that his concentration had gone, as his body deteriorated. It might have been that what he called his “private life”, that underground group activity by which he had once started out to emancipate us all, had become notorious. And yet, in this middle-sized town, none of the members of the Court that morning would have been likely even to have heard his name.

  He kept his strange diffident sweetness. When he forced himself, his mind became precise. He liked seeing me. Yet, I had to admit it (it was an admission that for years I had shut out), he had become quite remote. Whenever we met, he asked the same set of hearty mechanical questions, as he did that night. How was Margaret? Well, I said. Splendid, said George. Was I writing? Yes, I said. Splendid, said George. How was Charles? Getting on fine, I said. Here the formula took a different course. “I’m not concerned about his academic prospects. I take those for granted,” said George. “I’m asking you about his health.”

  “He’s very tough,” I said.

  “I hope you’re certain about that,” said George, as though he were a family doctor or the best-qualified censor of physical self-discipline.

  “He’s fine.”

  “Well, that’s slightly reassuring,” said George. “It’s his health that I want to be convinced about, that’s the important thing.”

  That conversation, in very much the same words, took place each time we met. It expressed a kind of formalised affection. But it had set in a groove something like ten years before. So far as there was meaning in the questions about Charles, they referred to the fact that he had been seriously ill in infancy. Since then he had been as healthy as a boy could be: but George, who wanted to show his interest, couldn’t find an interest in anything that had happened to him since.

  “Drink up!” cried George. I had another pint of beer, which, except with him, I never drank.

  I should have liked (I had enough nostalgia for that) to settle down to talk. I mentioned my singular experience with Mr Pateman. George, happy with some internal reverie, gave a loud but inattentive laugh. I said that I had, for a moment or two, come across his niece. At that he showed some response, as though breaking through the daydream which submerged him.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t been able to see much of my family,” he said.

  I understood his language too well to ask why not. There were esoteric reasons manifest to him, though to no one else. In fact, he had had three sisters: all had married, and one, Cora’s mother, was now dead. Another one was living in London, and the third stayed in the town. All three of them had borne nothing but daughters; I had met none of George’s nieces until that afternoon, and he himself seldom referred to them.

  “This one (Cora) seems to be pretty bright,” he said. “She even tagged along with some of my people not so long ago–”

  “My people” were the successors to the group of which, in my time, he had been the leader and inspirer. All the years since he had been surrounded by young men and women, his own self-perpetuating underground.

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, somehow she seemed to lose touch.” He went on: “I’ve never enquired into the lives of any of my family. And I’ve never told them anything about my own.”

  He said that with the simplicity of Einstein stating that “puritanical reticence” was necessary for a searcher after truth.

  I started to speak about a concern of mine. After all, he was my oldest friend, and it had been a jagged year for me, as my father didn’t know but my young son did – and as George had barely noticed. When I got out of public life, soon after Roger Quaife’s defeat, I had expected to get out of controversy also. But it hadn’t happened like that. Some of the enmity had followed me, and had got tangled up with my literary affairs. A few months before, I had been accused, in somewhat lurid circumstances, of plagiarism. This had made the news, and kept recurring. As I told George, understating the whole business, if you live in public at all, you have to take what’s coming: but, though I could imagine almost any other kind of accusation against me having some sort of basis, this one hadn’t. That, however, didn’t make it any more pleasant.

  My brand of sarcasm washed over him.

  “I remember seeing something or other in the papers,” he said. “Of course, I couldn’t take part. Who’s going to listen to a retired solicitor’s clerk? Anyway, as you say, you’ve nothing to complain about.”

  That was not what I had really said: he had forgotten my tone of voice. “If anyone’s got anything to complain about,” said George, warming up, “I have. Do you realise that I’ve spent forty-two years in this wretched town, and they’ve kept me out of everything? They’ve seen to it that I’ve never had a responsible position in my whole life. They’ve put a foot across my path ever since I was a boy. And at the end, if you please, they don’t say as much as thank you and they give me a bit more than they need just to stop feeling ashamed of themselves.”

  In the first place “they” meant his old firm of solicitors. But “they” also meant all the kinds of authority he had struggled against, detected conspiracies among, found incomprehensible and yet omnipotent, since he was a boy. All the authority in the country. Or in life, as far as that went. It sounded like persecution mania, and he had always had a share of it. Yet, like many people with persecution mania, he had something to feel persecuted about. Perhaps the one allured the other? Which came first? He was the cleverest man whom I had seen, in functional terms, so completely wasted. But now I had seen more, I speculated on the kind of skill, or whether there was any, which would have been needed not to waste him – or not to let him waste himself.

  “I never got anything, did I?” he said, with a gentle puzzled smile.

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I suppose I didn’t want it very much.” Just for an instant, all the paraphernalia of his temperament was thrown aside, and that dart of
candour shot out.

  “Anyway,” he shouted, in a great voice, not the voice of a sick man, “they won. They won. Let’s have another drink on it.”

  He was happy and resigned. Did he realise – probably not, he was too happy to go in for irony – that, in a different sense, it was he who had won? All those passionate arguments for freedom – which meant sexual freedom. The young George in this town, poor, unknown, feeling himself outside society, raising the great voice I had just heard. “Freedom from their damned homes, and their damned parents, and their damned lives.” Well, he had won: or rather, all those like him, all the forces they spoke for (since he was, as someone had said during one of his ordeals, a “child of his time”) had won. How completely, one could not escape at the Court that morning. The freedom which George had once dreamed about had duly happened: and, now it had happened, he took it for granted. He didn’t cherish it as a victory. He just assumed that the world was better than it used to be.

  I had expected that we should have a meal together – but George was looking at his watch.

  “I’m afraid,” he said, “that I’m rather pressed tonight.”

  He had the air, which one sometimes saw in businessmen or politicians, of faint estrangement from those not regulated by a timetable.

  I did not ask where he was going. I said I should attend the Court in June, and that we could meet as usual. Splendid, said George. Splendid, he repeated, with immense heartiness. He got up to leave me. As he went to the door, I noticed that he was making one, though only one, concession to his physical state: he was walking with abnormal slowness. It was deliberate, but from the back he looked like an old man.

  When I myself left the pub, I didn’t stroll through the streets, as I often liked doing. That meeting with George had had an effect on me which I didn’t understand, or perhaps didn’t want to: it hadn’t precisely saddened me, but I didn’t want my memory to be played on. It was better to be with people whom I hadn’t known for long, to be back in the here-and-now. So I returned to the Residence: this time the drawing-room lights, seen from the drive, were welcoming. The sight of Vicky was welcoming too. They had had an early dinner, she said, and her father had gone off to his manuscripts. She said: “When did you eat last?”

  Not since breakfast, I replied. She clucked, and said that I was impossible. Soon I was sitting in front of the fire with a plate of sandwiches. Vicky curled up on the rug. I was tired, but not unpleasantly so, just enough to realise that I had had a long day. It was all familiar and comfortable, the past pushed away, no menace left.

  Vicky wouldn’t talk, or let me, until I had eaten. Then she said that her father had told her about the Court proceedings. She knew the result, and she was relieved: anyway, we had time to work in: perversely, she was enough relieved to be irritated with me.

  “You two (she meant her father and me) had an up-and-a-downer, didn’t you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “That’s his account, anyway.”

  I told her that I thought I deserved a bit of praise. She said: “I must say, I should like to knock your heads together.”

  It appeared that Arnold Shaw had told her of a violent argument, in which he had prevailed. Actually, she was pleased. Pleased because she was protective about her father and trusted me. She was hopeful about the next moves. I said that the academics were being sensible, and I myself would try to involve Francis Getliffe.

  She was sitting on her heels, her hair shining and her face tinted in the firelight.

  “Bless you,” she said.

  I had not mentioned Leonard Getliffe’s name, but only his father’s. That was enough, though, to set her thoughts going, as if I had touched a trigger and released uncontrollable forces. Her expression was softened; when she spoke her voice was strong, but had lost the touch of bossiness, the doctor’s edge.

  Could she make a nuisance of herself again? she said. She knew that I understood: questions about Pat had formed themselves. My first impulse, before she had said a word, was of pity for Leonard Getliffe.

  Though I knew, and she knew that I knew, she started off by seeming unusually theoretical. Was a marriage, all other things being good, likely to be affected if the wife was earning the livelihood? Even for her, the most direct of young women, it was a pleasure to go through a minuet, to produce a problem in the abstract, or as though she were seeking advice on behalf of a remote acquaintance. I gave a banal answer, that sometimes I had known it work, sometimes not. In my own first marriage, I added, my wife had contributed half the money: and, though it had been unhappy, it had not been any more unhappy, perhaps less, because of that. She hadn’t heard of my first marriage: and after what I had just said, she still really hadn’t heard. She said: “So you’re not against it?”

  I said, once more banal, that any general answer had no meaning. Then I asked: “Are you going to get married then?”

  “I hope so.”

  I had another impulse, this time of concern for her. She was speaking with certainty. I wished that she was more superstitious, or that she had some insurance against the future.

  “You see,” said Vicky, “I can earn a living, though it won’t be a very grand living, while we see if he can make a go of it. Is that a good idea?”

  “Isn’t he very young–” I began carefully, but she interrupted me.

  “There is a snag, of course. You can’t do a medical job with young children around. I’m too wrapped up in him to think about children now. You know how it is, I can’t believe that I shall ever want anything but him. I have to tell myself of course I shall.” She gave a self-deprecating smile. “I’m just the same as everybody else, aren’t I? I expect I shall turn into a pretty doting mother.”

  “I expect you will,” I said. I was easier when she got down from the heights.

  “If we wanted to start a family in three or four years’ time, and we oughtn’t to leave it much later, because I shall be getting on for thirty, then he might not be able to keep us, might he?”

  Practical plans. Delectable practical plans. As delectable as being on the heights, sometimes more so.

  “However good he is,” I said, “it’s hard to break through at his game–”

  “I know,” she said. “Well, what else can he do on the side?” I said it would be difficult for his father to allow him anything. Martin had a daughter still at school, and, apart from his Cambridge salary, not a penny. As for myself–

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly let you give us money.”

  Her young man quite possibly could, I thought. I nearly said it: but she, like George in the pub an hour or two before, would not have recognised my tone of voice.

  In any case, there was something that I ought to say.

  “Look, Vicky,” I began, as casually as I could, hesitating between leaving her quite unwarned and throwing even the faintest shade upon her joy, “I told you a minute ago, he is a very young man, isn’t he?”

  “Do you know, I don’t feel that.”

  “Your character’s formed,” I went on. “You’re as grown-up as you’ll ever be.” (I wasn’t convinced of that, but it was a way to talk of Pat.) “I’m not so sure that’s true of him, you know.”

  She was looking at me without apprehension, without a blink.

  “I mean,” I said, “parts of people’s character grow up at different rates. Perhaps that’s specially so for men. In some ways Pat’s mature. But I’m not certain that he is in all. I’m not certain that he’s capable of knowing exactly what he wants for his whole life. He may be too young for that.”

  She smiled.

  “You’re wrong,” she said.

  She smiled at me affectionately, but like someone in the know, with a piece of information the source of which cannot be revealed.

  “He’s a very strong character,” she said.

  All my hesitation had been unnecessary. I hadn’t hurt her. She was no less fond of me, and also no less joyous. She was totally unaffected. She was confident �
�� but that was too weak a word, for this was the confidence of every cell in her body – that she knew him as I could never do, and that she was right.

  We did not say much more about Pat that night. Some time afterwards, while we were still sitting by the fire, Arnold Shaw came in, rubbing his hands.

  “Couple of hours’ good work,” he announced. “Which is more than most of my colleagues will do this term.”

  With the utmost friendliness and good nature, he asked me if I had spent a tolerable afternoon, and invited me to have a nightcap. Vicky was watching us both with a blank expression. She had heard him talk of a bitter quarrel: if I knew Arnold Shaw’s temper, he had denounced me as every kind of a bad man: here he was, convivial, and treating me as an old friend. She admired him for being a museum specimen of a sea green incorruptible (in that she was her father’s daughter): here he was, looking not incorruptible but matey and malicious, and certainly not sea green. Here we both were, drinking our nightcaps, as though we wanted no one else’s company. Yet she didn’t for an instant doubt that he would never budge an inch, and that I too would stick it out. Here we were, exchanging sharp-tongued gossip. It struck her as part of a masculine conspiracy which she could not completely comprehend.

  When Arnold Shaw was disposed to think of a second nightcap, she roused herself and, daughter-like, doctor-like, said that it was time for bed.

  6: Describing a Triangle

  BACK in our flat, the sunlight slanting down over the Hyde Park trees, my wife was listening to me. I had been telling her about the past two days: we had our own shorthand, she knew where I had been amused and where I was pretending to be amused.

  “It’s a good job you’ve got some stamina, isn’t it?” she said.