To the Dark Tower (4 page)

Of this letter he wrote in his diary: "She is mad. How can I answer her?” But several days later there is a further entry:

I have been re-reading that letter from Miss Forsdike. For some reason it disturbs me. I have brooded on it all this evening. She is unbalanced, of course—it would be wrong to make too much of it. And yet . . . I go back to it again and again.

It is as if she were the devil, taking me up into a high mountain and showing me all the kingdoms of the world in a moment of time.

She talks of my power. "You can lead us. You can give us a direction, aim." I have felt that myself. I have thought that, and put away the thought.

Often I have felt that if I wanted to I could do anything with men. But I am afraid of this power. It is something that I dare not, must not use. Often I have felt what she describes in her letter—that people are waiting for some divine intervention from me. Perhaps I should give it to them. Perhaps it is wrong of me to hold back.

"The smiling public figures." How well I know what she means by that. But is their deceit any worse than mine? Are they greater impostors? The difference is that they are satisfied with the esteem of the many, while I want the esteem of the few. Mine is the larger ambition. The few—S. N. G., for example—are not taken in by public speeches, and honours, and decorations. They see these things for what they are—a pretence. But is not the "integrity" which they admire in me also a pretence? In their fear of being imposed on by politicians—in their reaction towards someone like me, apparently without ambition—are they not being imposed on by a force more subtle? I am cleverer than the public figures; I want more. That is the only difference.

This woman reads my thoughts. She is prompting me—crudely, ludicrously—but prompting me, always prompting me.

I will not give in.

A letter from
S. N. GEORGE
(extract)

May 6th
, 1937

...Two women bicycled over from Somerville to-day to see me. I gave them tea in the garden. How I love sitting behind my silver teapot, civilised, comfortable, with my roses around me and a cat on my lap! I know you despise this; and I myself feel furtively ashamed about it all. But old ladies, and Kensington hotels, and the Army and Navy Stores—these have for me the same romance, the same nostalgia that
you
find in the Aztecs. This world of Daimlers, and modesty-vests and Queen Mary toques—as I grow older, I feel more and more that I belong to it.

The two women were intelligent but rather dreary. Of course they asked the expected questions: Is it necessary to have a knowledge of Orphic rites to appreciate
The Effigy?
What are you working on now? Would you please explain that line?... etc., etc.

Then we somehow moved on to politics, and one of the women began talking of the equality of the sexes. H. W., why do they do it? Do they really believe that such a thing exists? I didn’t give my opinion because I was afraid of shocking them. But what I should like to have said was that so far from Nature creating the sexes equal, she seems to have taken a perverse, an almost fiendish, delight in their inequalities.

On the physical side man has it all his own way—pragmatically, æsthetically. Nature has given him abundant energy, the pleasures of concupiscence, health; but woman is a sickly creature, slave to a monthly ritual, incapable of true orgiastic frenzy (she would like to think she is; in this she imitates man). Then the æsthetics of the question. Women artfully conceal their deficiencies under clothes, and corsets, and paint, and jewellery. But compare the sexes naked...

Is this equality? But take the spiritual side. Here women have it all
their
way. Men are for the most part brutes: savouring their physical sensations, making money, acquiring possessions—wives, children, houses, honours. You must turn

to women if you want true Christian virtues. It is women who are weak, and humble, and selfless, and loving. (That, incidentally, is why so many of my best friends are women.) The equality of sexes! Nonsense!

Of this letter the General wrote in his Diary:

Certainly! There is no equality of the sexes. Thus far I agree with S. N. G. But when he talks of men lacking the Christian virtues, then I say, "Thank God!" This does not seem a deficiency to me: rather it is the glory of our sex. I hate these Christian virtues which S. N. G. talks about. They are fit only for women. Why do men covet them?

April 22nd
, 1937

Judith has been out to a dance with the cadet we met in the cove. I ask her when she is going to see him again. She blushes: "Never—I hope."

"Good heavens! ...What’s happened? Have you had a quarrel?"

"No. I think he’s rather a cad, that’s all."

She won’t be more explicit. But one guesses. She reminds me of her mother in this. And Judith, too, will be passionate once she overcomes her revulsion.

May 2nd
, 1937

The disturbance still goes on—ever since that letter from Miss Forsdike. I seem to be losing self-discipline. I say, ‘I will not think of this’: and then my mind reverts. ‘If I have this power... Shouldn’t I use it? Am I not destined to be a leader? etc., etc.’

I am trying to curb my ambition, In every way I try to humble myself. I have refused the invitation to lecture at Oxford, the presidency of two societies, birthday honours. This sort of renunciation is
the proof
of merit. It is better than the achievement.

How I sympathise with Lawrence, hiding away in the Air Force! It is self-discipline that counts. But we are in a dilemma. Each renunciation of power brings power. The more we humble ourselves the more others respect us. There is no escape from our destinies. Our ambition works through each relinquishment of ambition. That is the tragedy...

May 5th
, 1937

When I go down to the cove this morning, who should I see reading under the shadow of a rock but the analytical friend of the cadet—alone! He is still in the alpaca coat, and he reclines in exactly the same way, humped forward, head tilted on to his shoulder. I greet him with a mixture of repugnance, affection, and surprise. But he looks up calmly, slipping an envelope between the pages of his book to mark the place. "Hullo."

I feel rather foolish at this drawled greeting. "I didn’t expect you here so soon. It’s only a few months since you went. They give you good holidays."

"I’ve left."

"Left the bank?"

He turns over on to his stomach, and then looks sideways up at me. "Yes. I’ve saved twenty pounds. That will keep me for about six weeks. By that time I hope to have finished my book."

"Was that why you left—to finish it?"

"Partly. I’d got stuck. In any case, I doubt if I could ever produce anything worthwhile if I stayed on."

"Are you staying with your friend—the cadet?"

He gives me an odd smile, knowing, almost patronizing. "No. He’s away. Didn’t you know?"

"I haven’t seen him for months." It is as though I want to defend myself. Hurriedly I ask: "Where are you staying?"

"I have a room the other side of the river."

"And you decided this was the best place to write in?"

"I came here to study my subject."

"Your subject?"

"The subject of my novel. I felt I was losing its essence. It was leaking away. So I came here to recapture it—to get its full force, so to speak." He rises to his feet, stretching, yawning, and moves away. "And now I must go."

"Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

He slouches as he walks, his book under his arm. He is still smiling.

I feel vaguely uneasy. I am used to summing people up: but I can’t do it with him. Each time I meet him it is as if I were exploring a different level of his character. But there is nothing to grasp. He is everything—and nothing...

May 6th
, 1937

The analytical friend is called Frank Cauldwell. At first he takes no notice of me. But then he puts down his book suddenly and begins asking questions. Not even amusement behind the glasses. Impossible to tell what he is thinking. But I answer him as best I can.

At last, rather crossly: "You seem very interested in me."

"I am. I am interested."

"But why?"

"I’m sorry. Do you mind all these questions? Am I being rude?"

"No. But it puzzles me. Why should you bother yourself with what I think?"

"You’re—a—Person who Matters."

(Is there mockery in the words? It is difficult to tell. I must be careful.)

"I see."

"To be frank, your personality obsesses me. I feel I must try to understand it. There’s some sort of answer there."

"Answer? I don’t understand you."

"It’s difficult to explain myself. But often I feel this with people. I am obsessed with their personalities for weeks or months or years on end." (Why do I instinctively think of Miss Forsdike?) "I suppose that’s why I want to be a novelist."

"But why my personality? Is it so very strange?"

"No—o." He is doubtful. "I really can’t tell you why one personality should obsess me and another not interest me at all. There was a man at the bank who was had up for kleptomania and self-exposure. I suppose the majority of people would consider him an ‘interesting’ personality. But no—I couldn’t interest myself at all in him. And yet I had known him better than anyone else there."

"That’s hardly flattering to me."

He laughs, then looks serious. "You see, I
know
that your character is vitally important. I know that, I am certain about it. It has an enormous, a profound interest, for me. But why this should be so I can’t say. And this ignorance in its turn intensifies my obsession. I want to find out. Curiosity. Nothing is stronger."

"But you really cannot see why I interest you?"

"Partly, yes. You’re a military genius—one reads that in the papers and one believes it to be true. I think you’re a great man. But that doesn’t entirely explain it. Your life is a sort of myth. If one could see the implications of the myth, one would understand much. But the myth is powerful whether one understands it or not."

I think: "He is talking nonsense." I feel suddenly irritated. Myth, personality! He is worse than Miss Forsdike!

I say: "Yes, I think I see what you mean."

"Do you? Do you really? I didn’t imagine that you would... Take the Oedipus myth. That story has obsessed generations of poets—and not poets only. It has had a universal application. But it is only in the last forty years that Freud has come along to explain it to us."

"And I am a myth?"

"I think so—yes. One can’t be sure."

I rise to my feet: "Can you swim yet?"

He shakes his head, smiling: "Not yet."

"Well, I’m going in again."

Sting of water, washing all his nonsensical theories out of my head.

May 26th
, 1937

Cauldwell has been here for three weeks now, and still I feel that I do not know him. He will never betray himself—while I have been stupidly indiscreet. Why, why? He is the only person to whom I have told so much—apart from S. N. G.

He never comments: perhaps this accounts for my candour.

May 27th
, 1937

We take the little steamer up to Stoke Gabriel and then walk back. Another lengthy conversation. I am talking to him about the visit to Germany when, suddenly conscious that he is staring at me, I ask: "Do my views shock you very much?"

"I try not to be shocked by them."

"But not very successfully?"

"As a novelist, I tell myself that I must not be shocked by them—and I think I succeed. But as an individual..." He shrugs his shoulders. "It’s very difficult, you know—this separating of the novelist from the individual. But it must be done. Sometimes I feel that I am two people—the commentator and the participant."

"You have strong views about your functions as a novelist?"

"Certainly I have strong views as to what my personality as a novelist should be. The trouble is that my creative ideal can seldom be reconciled with what I actually am. Hence this feeling of being two people. Ideally, the novelist should be shocked by nothing: he should examine, he should explain; he should never pass judgment. But as an individual I continually want to pass judgment. Ideally, the novelist should be a depersonalised beholder—an eye for seeing, and nothing else. But as an individual I cannot depersonalise myself; I have strong prejudices; I have likes and dislikes; I have certain traits of character—physical cowardice, a horror of sex, great ambition. The whole problem is not to let all these individual obstacles get in the way of the artist. This is the double life. When I am in the rôle of participant I give full rein to my idiosyncrasies; I pass judgment, I am egotistic, I am bigoted. But when I am in the role of novelist—when I am faced with my subject—then all these idiosyncrasies are bundled away: I try to depersonalise myself; I will only behold, never criticise; I will be entirely frigid; I will only see things as they are—not as I would like them to be; I will become an eye for seeing—nothing else..."

Saying this much he stops short, blushing. We walk on in silence. For the first time he has given himself away.

May 28th
, 1937

To-day I give Cauldwell his first swimming lesson. He is (as he admitted yesterday) a physical coward. Water terrifies him. He won’t duck, he won’t go out of his depth. I get him to float with my hand under his stomach. "One—two—three!" Jerkily he goes through the motions of the breast-stroke. "I shall never learn," he says gloomily when he splashes out of the water and shakes himself like a dog. Drying and dressing is an elaborate business with him; he dislikes being seen naked. His skin is a transparent white, like lard—the unhealthy colour of nearly all sedentary workers. He has a blue-green mark on his throat where his stud has pressed.

June 2nd
, 1937

"How is the novel going?" I ask.

"I think it’s shaping well."

"I didn’t see you yesterday."

"No. I spent the day writing. I wrote for fifteen hours on end. Then I went to sleep. I’ve only just woken up."

He certainly looks tired: his eyes are red, with a sty beginning in one of them.