The Nice and the Good (26 page)

He tore the two photographs into small pieces. He sat down and put his head in his hands. In fact he had been deceiving Kate and Jess up to the hilt. There was no ‘explanation’ of his conduct. His conduct would look bad, just as bad as it was. He was justly served. And then the scoundrel had the impudence to offer him his wife! He could not believe that Judy McGrath— At that moment Ducane suddenly thought of something which ought to have been clear to him a good deal earlier.

“W
HAT
ees eet, Paula?”

“Venus, Cupid, Folly and Time.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“When shall we start reading the Aeneid?”

“Later, After— Later.”

“After what?”

“Later.”

“What ees eet, my dear?”

“Nothing, Willy. Why, here comes Barbara to see you. I must go. Thanks for the tutorial!”

Eric’s ship is steaming northward through the Indian Ocean, and Eric is in the prow, Eric is the ship’s figurehead, with his big varnished face and his stiff golden hair streaming backward. He leans across the brilliant sea, sending toward the north, toward the decisive meeting, the narrow burning beam of his will. That unappeased violence, in him travels to the encounter. With what can it be opposed? Is there any love still for healing, or only the need of courage in the face of force? What profit now even to run away, since discovery would be so certain and flight merely the fearful waiting in a stranger’s room for those inevitable feet upon the stair? He must be awaited here with closed lips, no single word uttered, no confession made, no assistance asked. It is too late, and pride will not now surrender its captive. After so much of cleverness, so much of subtlety, so much of the insolence of reason, comes that at last which must be dumbly faced. Eric, not now to be controlled or managed, must, with whatever outcome, be totally endured. The necessary courage is that full endurance in secrecy, that being dismembered in secrecy, the willingness to surrender, in whatever strange way it might be asked for, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. And this had to be, not only because of the relentless journeying ship, but because of the unredeemed past buried alive in its demoniac silence. Now let a demon courage rise to face that resurrected bloodstained shade.

But oh, the human weakness, the desire for the comforter, the frail crying wish that it had all never happened at all and things were as they once were. The bitter memory of the newly painted door and the beautiful woman entering. The bitterness of that bitterness. Oh Richard, Richard, Richard.

“Why, Henrietta, here all alone? Where’s Edward?”

“He’s hunting for Montrose.”

“Henrietta, you’re crying. What is it, my little pussy? Sit down here and tell me.”

“Everything’s
awful
.”

“Why, what’s awful? Tell me all the things that are awful.”

“We can’t find Montrose
anywhere
.”

“Montrose will come back. Cats always do. Don’t you fret then.”

“And we found a dead fish in our special pool.”

“They have to die sometime, Henrietta, just like us.”

“And we saw a bad magpie carrying off a poor frog.”

“The magpie has to eat, you know! And I don’t suppose the frog really knew what was happening at all.”

“I do wish the animals wouldn’t hurt each other.”

“We human beings hurt each other too!”

“And we found a poor seagull with a broken wing and Uncle Theo drowned it.”

“That was the only thing to do, Henrietta.”

“And I dreamed last night that we were back with Daddy and it was all all right again, and when I woke up I was so miserable. Why, Mummy, what is it? Why, Mummy, now you’re crying too.…”

“I’ve learnt the flute quartet in D major.”

“I know.”

“Oh, you’ve been listening! It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“I heard you the other day when I was walking by the house.”

“May I come up and play it to you?”

“No.”

“Why not? You used to let me come here and play to you.”

“Not any more.”

“Why not, Willy?”

“The music is too painful, dearest Barbara.”

“You think I wouldn’t play it properly! I
have
improved.”

“No, no, I could hear you were playing it beautifully.”

“Willy, why won’t you teach me German? You teach Pierce Latin so why not me German?”

“Just not.”

“I don’t understand you. I think you’ve become horrid. Everyone’s horrid. Pierce is horrid.”

“Pierce is in love.”

“Pooh! What’s being in love like, Willy?”

“I’ve forgotten.”

“Well, I suppose you are rather old. If I’m ever in love with someone I won’t be horrid to them.”

“That’s a very good rule, Barbara. Remember that rule when the time comes.”

“You remember how you used to say that I was Titania and you were the ass?”

“Did I? Well, I’m still the ass. I’m going to London tomorrow, Barbie.”

“I know. You’re going to stay two days with John. John told me.”

“I’m going to the libraries.”

“I’ll come and see you as soon as you’re back. I’ll be lonely, with mama and papa away.”

“I’ll be working then. Come at the weekend.”

“Why not directly you’re back?”

“
Nam excludit sors mea ‘saepe veni
’.”

“You keep saying things in Latin and you know I can’t understand. I might understand if you wrote it down. But I can’t
talk
Latin, and you pronounce it in such a funny way.”

“Never mind.”

“I wish you wouldn’t be so horrid, Willy, just when I’m so miserable about Montrose.”

“Don’t worry about Montrose, Barbie, he’ll turn up. He’s just wandered off on an expedition.”

“But he’s never done it before. He’s not a real torn cat. He wouldn’t
want
to go away.”

“I’m sure he’ll come back, my dove. There now, don’t cry. You upset me so much when you cry.”

“I don’t think you care at all. I think you’re beastly.”

Barbara, sitting on the floor beside Willy’s chair, had twined her arms about his knees. Willy now rose abruptly, stepping out of the wreath of her arms and marching over to the window.

“
Stop crying
, Barbara.”

Out of sheer surprise she stopped, and sat there snuffling and mopping her eyes, her bare feet, just visible underneath her green and white spotted dress, nestling together like two little brown birds.

Willy took hold of the window sill, pushed aside the latest stones which the twins had brought and the glass which held the now limp and drooping nettles, and began to look intently through his Swiss binoculars at nothing in particular. I shall have to leave this place, thought Willy. The agony was each time greater of not being able to seize Barbara violently in his arms.

“What are you looking at, Willy?”

“Nothing, child.”

“You can’t be looking at nothing. You’re so dull today. I shall jolly well go away.”

“Don’t go, Barbie. Yes, you’d better go. I’ve got to work.”

“All right, I shall go and ride my pony. And I’ll
never
play you that Mozart.”

“Do something for me, will you, Barb?”

“Possibly. What is it?”

“Go and find Pierce and be specially nice to him.”

“Well, maybe. I’ll see how I feel. Have a nice time in London.”

After she had gone Willy Kost locked the door and went into his bedroom and lay face downwards on his bed. The sheer physical strain of the last half hour had left him limp and shuddering. He could not decide if it was worse when she touched him or when she did not. There was a raw agony of yearning which was soothed by her touch. And yet at such moments the checking of the inclination of his whole body towards hers racked every nerve and muscle. To sit there inertly while she caressed his hair or stroked his knee required an exertion of physical strength which made him ache. And all the while vivid imagery of embracing her,
kissing her passionately, taking her on to his lap, surrounded Barbara with a golden aura of pain.

I thought it might have got better, Willy said to himself, but it seems to have got worse. I shall have to do something, I shall have to go away, if things go on like this I shall go mad. He began deliberately to think about Mary and at last a sweet soothing faintness began to creep over him like a light mist. He was not in love with Mary, but he loved her very dearly, and he had been more profoundly moved and delighted by her proposal than he had yet been able to express to her in the two affectionate, confused, inconclusive meetings he had had with her since the scene in the graveyard. Perhaps he would marry Mary and take her right away. Perhaps that was the solution. Why should he not even now make a dash for happiness? Was it too late? Had the past really broken him?

Willy lay motionless face downward on his bed as the sun went down toward the sea and the evening made the landward colours seethe with vividness and then faded them into a luminous blue midsummer dark. He lay there wide-eyed and listened quietly to Theo who tapped for a while upon the door and then went slowly away.

“
Ye highlands and ye lowlands
,

Oh where hae ye been?

They hae slain the Earl of Murray

And hae laid him on the green
.”

“Oh shut up, Fivey!” Ducane shouted through the drawing-room door.

The kitchen door banged. The drawing-room door banged.

“Sorry, Willy,” said Ducane. “My nerves are on edge.”

“What ees eet?”

“Oh nothing. All this sunny weather is getting me down. It’s so unnatural.”

“I wonder if those curious spots will go away in the winter.”

“What are you talking about, Willy?”

“Those freckles on your butler or whatever he is.”

“Good heavens! I’d never thought of that. I hope not. I rather like them!” Ducane laughed. “You make me feel better, Willy. Have a drink.”

“A
leetle
whisky, maybe, just for a nightcap. Thanks.”

“You’re very brown. Been basking in the sun?”

“Just lazy.”

“You seem cheerful, Willy.”

“Just crazy.”

“Octavian and Kate got off all right?”

“Yes, with the usual hullaballoo.”

“I hope they’ll like Tangier. I thought it was just like the Tottenham Court Road myself.”

“
They
will like
anywhere
.”

“Yes. They’re happy people.”

Both Willy and Ducane sighed.

“Happiness,” said Willy, “is a matter of one’s most ordinary everyday mode of consciousness being busy and lively and unconcerned with self. To be damned is for one’s ordinary everyday mode of consciousness to be unremitting agonising preoccupation with self.”

“Yes,” said Ducane “Kate and Octavian are hedonists,
yet they aren’t deeply preoccupied with themselves and so they can make other people happy.”

Ducane thought, this is a moment at which I might be able to make Willy talk about himself if I tried very hard. I think he wants to talk about himself. But I can’t do it. I’m too burdened with my own troubles. He said, “Things all right generally down there?”

“Yes and no. I don’t see them much. Paula’s worried about something, she’s got some sort of secret nightmare.”

She’s not the only one, thought Ducane gloomily. He said, “Sorry to hear that. I must try to see a bit more of Paula.” How instinctively I assume that what everyone needs is help from me, Ducane thought bitterly.

“Yes, do that, John. And poor Barbara’s still very upset about the cat.”

“The cat hasn’t turned up?”

“No.”

“I expect it will. Barbie’s a very sweet kid, but hopelessly spoilt of course.”

“Mmm.”

Ducane was feeling almost demoralised and as this was very unusual he was correspondingly alarmed. He was a man who needed to think well of himself. Much of the energy of his life issued from a clear conscience and a lively self-aware altruism. As he had had occasion to note just now, he was accustomed to picture himself as a strong self-sufficient clean-living rather austere person to whom helping others was a natural activity. If Paula was in trouble then obviously what Paula needed was the support, the advice, the compassion of John Ducane. To think this was a reflex action. Ducane knew abstractly that one’s ideal picture of oneself is likely to be misleading, but the discrediting of the picture in his own case had not brought any clear revelation of the shabby truth, but just muddle and loss of power. I cannot help anyone, he thought, it’s not just that I’m not worthy to, I haven’t the strength any more, I haven’t the strength now to stretch out a hand to Willy, I’m enervated by all this mess and guilt.

He had spent part of the previous evening with Jessica and had agreed blankly to ‘go on seeing her’. They had argued in a bitter hostile way about how often Ducane
should see her. Ducane had insisted that it should be only once a fortnight. Jessica had not screamed, she had not wept. She had argued shrewdly, coldly. She had interrogated Ducane, asking him once more if he had a mistress, which he had again denied. They had stared at each other with suspicion and anger and had parted brusquely. Ducane went away thinking though he was now too wary to say it: when two people have become so hard and unforgiving to each other they ought to have the wit and the strength to part. But then he felt, on reflecting on the evening, so extremely ashamed of his unkind behaviour that he took refuge in feelings of uncertainty and weakness.

He had also seen McGrath again and had given him some more money. He regretted having become so angry with the man on the first occasion, as it was at least worth discovering whether McGrath could be persuaded to sell any more information about Radeechy. Ducane noted wryly that his earlier scruples about corrupting McGrath and demeaning himself seemed to have vanished since he was now in any case on commercial terms with the fellow. McGrath, however, who was still uncertain, as Ducane intended him to be, whether or not Ducane was really settling down to pay him a regular wage for not posting the letters to ‘the two young ladies’, was evasive, hinted at things he might reveal if suitably rewarded, and made another appointment. In fact Ducane doubted whether McGrath had more to tell. As for the matter of the letters, Ducane told himself that he was just playing for time, and that was indeed all he could do. He must, at some suitable opportunity, inform Kate and Jessica of each other’s existence and prepare them for an unpleasantness. They were rational women and it would probably pass off all right. The only serious damage would be to his own dignity and that could be salutary damage.