Authors: Nigel Dennis
‘You’d be surprised!’ I shouted back.
‘Would I? Give me one scrap of evidence – just one!’
‘I have nothing on me at the moment….’
‘Exactly! None of you ever has. Sometimes I wonder why any of you stays here.’
‘We’ve taken vows, haven’t we?’
‘Vows, indeed! It’s not vows that keep you here. It’s the wonderful public appeal of a holy place. As long as you stay here, you are somebody:
if you went, you would be a nonentity. Just like the Party!’ Observing me grinding my teeth, he went on: ‘Well, perhaps I shouldn’t pick on you. The point is, my dear boy, that when you came here I had such high hopes of you. Your earliest confessional work had a wonderful simplicity. Even your evasions looked like golden curls. Here, I said to myself, is my successor. Here is a confidant, one who stands above the ruck, a man who could help me draw a good line.’
I was thrilled by these words, and answered: ‘Father, I am still that man.’
‘No, no. Too late! It was all a dream. “I have nothing on me at the moment”: that is what you said. For once, it was true. I must bear the burden alone. I must be solitary on the hilltop.’
‘I will prove you mistaken!’ I cried.
‘You will do nothing of the sort. I flatly forbid it.’
‘You have no right to forbid it!’
‘Oh yes I have. It is not my duty to encourage normal minds into nervous breakdowns.’
‘Normal minds!’ Never had I been more insulted! I turned white with rage and my eye flew to the radiator. I raised one trembling hand in the direction of my hidden manuscript.
Suddenly the Abbot began to cry. ‘Forgive me, brother!’ he exclaimed, ‘Pray with me! I am the worst of sinners.’ He dropped on his knees.
‘No!’ I cried, all my anger forgotten; ‘
I
am the worst!’
I
dropped on
my
knees.
‘Far, far the worst!’ he groaned, laying his forehead on the floor and punching his breast decisively.
‘Yet not so low as I,’ I bellowed, rubbing my whole face on the ground.
At this, he flung his legs out behind him, so that he was prostrate overall, and said: ‘That’s quite enough, brother! I’ll trouble you to keep your proper station.’
I obeyed. We prayed.
*
I woke this morning feeling unwell. My stomach was not itself. I thought of calling in the Abbey doctor; but one is always reluctant to take this step. I must confess, though, that even the thought of a fatal illness visiting me did not stop me feeling rather proud. It is not every
day that one argues the Abbot on to his face. I went over our little fracas stage by stage, rather enjoying it; I did this a second time; and then a third.
It was on this third round that I suddenly turned white as a sheet. In the two previous replays I had only been repeating our
words;
this third time I was doing our looks and gestures too. Only then did I realize that the Abbot’s cry for forgiveness had come a split second after I had gestured in the direction of my hidden manuscript! The dreadful truth broke on me: in that instant he had discovered my secret: his plea for my forgiveness was not, as I had imagined, a purely routine bit of Abbey theatre; it was an absolutely genuine request for something that he was going to need – something which I would shortly be in no position to supply.
It is not nice to know that one is soon going to die, that the impressive edifice one has toiled to build is going to be rubble. Fortunately, for people like me there are many consolations. If we have enough time, we can always write still another confession, something really poignant. If time is too short for this, we can start thinking about death–that is to say, of what we will look like from a dead point-of-view. This is a wonderful occupation: abruptly one realizes that this is
the
great moment. I mean, all about one are millions of living people – and there is one’s own dead face staring out of all the morning papers, a thing apart, a secret agent in excelsis,
the
insoluble enigma,
the
end to which one has devoted one’s whole energies since childhood.
After thinking on these things and marvelling at the clever way the Abbot had tricked me to them, I rose, went to the radiator, took out this confession, and laid it openly on my table. I then popped ‘A Day in the Life of a Rabbit’ into the radiator, for Nimpy to steal. This gives me, I reckon, about twenty-four hours’ grace.
*
Dear Abbot,
By the time you read this, pneumonia will have carried me off. It simply had no option. I love to think of your sermon; I know it will be a good one – and the first I have ever had which was about nothing but me!
Apropos of my published confessions: a good deal of bickering is still going on between my agent and the Brazilian publishers.
Do
back-up my agent – particularly as I would like the Abbey to have the
money. I like to die feeling that you are all under an obligation to me!!!
As to the confession you are reading now, I do hope it is along the line you mentioned last night. What pleases me is knowing that I have left it in the right hands. You alone will be able to judge when the time is ripe for publication. It will need some editing, of course, but as long as it remains
recognizably
me,
I don’t worry.
I can’t tell you how proud I am to go out like this. It seems to me that I had the best of two worlds while I was alive and am going to have still a third when I am not. My sole aim, now, as always, is uniqueness; and I must say, with all humility, that few others on this planet have come as close to it as I am coming now.
Skipwith and Heilbronner have always treated me very well and have the option on the new book.
Re the Mihailovich case coming up shortly (at which I was to testify) do give the prosecutor the list of names and dates in my drawer. I
think
you might also hint that a two-minute silence in
my memory would not be out of place in court.
Let me say again that to be the one who was chosen for liquidation in so great a switch of the line is all a man of my type could possibly ask. What bothers me is the thought of having to share this crown of thorns with Brother Herbert. I don’t grudge him
some
prominence, but I would hate to think of sharing the limelight with a second-rater. I depend on you to give me top billing.
Best of luck to you and the Abbey. They were good days and I regret nothing. I hope that when your time comes you, too, will go to God confident that you have written your very last confession!
Yours ever,
‘One of the Boys’.
P.S. Don’t please be offended by the bit which says that eventually ‘the Abbot will wither away’. I only meant it as a little joke. Abbots like you will never wither away as long as there are brothers like me.
*
Silence is golden before and during a recital, but it is not a thing the performer wants to hear at the end of one. So Father Orfe was well pleased to stand bowing left, centre, right, front, back as the shouts and claps resounded through the room: he did this with the dignity that is
proper to a male pianist – that is to say, he blew no kisses to the clappers, caught no huge bunches of flowers; he merely
acknowledged
the din by awarding it severe torsal inclinations and permitting his eyelids to become half-hooded. When it had died down somewhat, he raised his manuscript once more and began to read aloud again:
‘Here is a tale about our Abbey which I am sure will amuse you. Brother Nimpy is what is known as a “manual type” – that is to say, he is almost illiterate. This means that when he writes his confessions, his publisher’s religious-editor has to do the actual writing, imitating what Nimpy’s prose might be, had Nimpy prose. Well, Nimpy’s confession went up to the Abbot in the usual way and got a
nihil
obstat:
but next day the Abbot met him in one of the corridors and said earnestly: “Do you feel well, Nimpy? You look as if you had seen a
ghost
.”’
After great laughter and clapping, Father Orfe again raised his hand and said: ‘Here’s another, equally funny.
‘One encore is sufficient, Orfe,’ said the President, raising his hand.
‘Just this one more,’ said Father Orfe.
‘Certainly not. It has all been most interesting but it could easily become dull. I have a good many points to make, but as I have not marshalled them yet, I would rather someone else made a stumbling opening. First speaker, please.’
There was no response.
‘Come, come, gentlemen,’ said the President. ‘You are not shy, I know.’
At last Dr Musk rose and said: ‘I think members feel that it is the duty of the Abbot to open the discussion of this particular history.’
‘Abbot?’ cried the President.
‘I am sorry. It was a slip of the tongue. I suppose an apology is in order.’
‘Not merely in order. For immediate delivery.’
Dr Musk looked sulky. ‘It will take a moment to frame one that will not involve too much loss of face,’ he said.
‘Very well. We will patiently await your self-insurance.’
Everyone watched with interest while Dr Musk raised various phrases in his mind and examined his dignity in their light. At last Father Orfe cried: ‘May I point out that the whole
tension
of my history is slipping away?’
‘That’s true enough,’ said Mr Jamesworth. ‘Just watching Musk’s face for three minutes has caused me to forget every word of Orfe.’
‘I’ve got it!’ cried Dr Musk. ‘No, I haven’t after all. Sorry.’
‘May I point out,’ said Dr Shubunkin, ‘that this is the third time in as many histories that an apology to the President has been demanded?’
‘I second that point,’ said Dr Bitterling. ‘In my opinion, a Presidency should not depend upon reiterated apologies.’
‘I wish you would all shut up,’ said Dr Musk. ‘I almost had it then.’
‘I rise to propose a motion,’ said Father Orfe angrily: ‘namely that Rules incorporate a clause giving discussion of a history priority over apology.’
‘Come along, now, Musk,’ said the President: ‘You are making us all very fretful. Just spit it out.’
‘All those in favour?’ cried Father Orfe furiously.
Most of the Club raised their hands.
‘What!’ cried the President, and again: ‘What! Gentlemen, have you taken leave of your senses? There is no valid motion but that which is intoned from the chair.’
‘Intone it then!’ cried Dr Shubunkin.
‘I shall do nothing of the sort. It is wholly against my interests.’
‘I’ve got it
now
!’
cried Dr Musk. ‘Here goes …! It’s rather long….’
‘There is a motion on the floor, Musk,’ said Dr Shubunkin, ‘so bottle your apology for some other occasion.’
‘Or for some other President,’ said Mr Jamesworth.
‘That is very well put,’ said Father Orfe.
‘Some
other
President.’
‘No, no!’ cried poor Stapleton, tears running down his face. ‘I am sure the President will be only too
happy
to
explain
!’
‘For God’s sake, Mr Stapleton, sit down!’ exclaimed the President. ‘Death is as nothing compared with the horror of your support.’
Stapleton turned white and collapsed in his chair. By tomorrow, he will be a cynic for life. Clearly, his war-veteran identity was nothing but a makeshift.
‘Since the President has been frank enough to declare his fate,’ said Mr Jamesworth, ‘it is proper that we should match it by drawing up a frank indictment.’
‘I have had one in my mind for some time,’ said Dr Musk, ‘and, unlike my apology, can think of it instantly.’
‘Are you not proceeding too rapidly, gentlemen?’ cried the President.
‘We’ll not pause for second thoughts, if that’s what you mean, you crafty old fox!’ cried Dr Shubunkin passionately.
‘You flatter me,’ said the President, looking rather pleased.
‘Recite the indictment, Musk,’ ordered Father Orfe.
‘Just a minute, what
is
all this?’ cried Mr Harcourt. ‘I thought we were discussing monasteries.
‘You’re an intelligent citizen, aren’t you?’ asked Mr Jamesworth. ‘Are you not in favour of the indictment?’
‘Yes, I’m sure I am, but I don’t know what it is. It’s all over my head.’
‘My
head,’ said the President.
‘Go on quickly. Musk, or he’ll wriggle out!’ cried Dr Bitterling, abrubtly recovering his voice. ‘Where his life’s concerned you can’t trust him an inch.’
‘We, of the Identity Club,’ said Dr Musk, ‘hereby indict our President for having failed utterly in his duties. It is the task of every leader to give his followers that sense of security and lightness that makes life worth living, and this our President has failed to do. He has allowed members to feel doubt as to the uniqueness of their selves. He has allowed his own image to lapse by utterly misapplying it –failing to drive home at the right moments the rudeness, amiability, satire, benignity which are the marks of leadership. Either as a result of boredom or senility he has not lent a sense of passion or urgency to the theory on which this Club is based. He has even given the impression that all theories are pretty much alike as far as he is concerned, and that the Theory of Identity is not only not the only true theory but merely one of the many plausible ideas which are floating about nowadays. His behaviour has resulted in a feeling of grave unease among our members which, if allowed to develop, might result in many of them dropping the whole idea of identity and starting off on quite a new one, such as carrots, vitamins, money, or sex. We therefore believe that it is time to get rid of him and replace him with a President less subject to the eclecticism which is bringing so much ruin on the world. We believe he would make an excellent corpse, and that in fact he has already decided to become one. We agree that in choosing this new identity he has acted wisely and we propose the immediate formation of a committee to discuss the best way of assisting his suicide.’
‘May I add a rider?’ cried Mr Jamesworth: ‘that we feel no good would be obtained by postponing the business in any way?’
‘Quite so,’ said Father Orfe. ‘Nostalgic memories of his prime might stay our hands.’