Point Counter Point (21 page)

‘Hear, hear!’ shouted Cuthbert, and banged the table.

Rampion frowned. He felt Cuthbert’s approbation as a personal insult.

‘I’m a counter-revolutionary,’ said Spandrell. ‘Put the spiritual lower classes in their place.’

‘Except in your own case, eh?’ said Cuthbert grinning.

‘Mayn’t one theorize?’

‘People have been forcibly putting them in their place for centuries,’ said Rampion; ‘and look at the result.
You
, among other things.’ He looked at Spandrell, who threw back his head and noiselessly laughed. ‘Look at the result,’ he repeated. ‘Inward personal revolution and consequent outward and social revolution.’

‘Come, come,’ said Willie Weaver. ‘You talk as though the thermidorian tumbrils were already rumbling. England still stands very much where it did.’

‘But what do you know of England and Englishmen?’ Rampion retorted. ‘You’ve never been out of London or your class. Go to the North.’

‘God forbid!’ Willie piously interjected.

‘Go to the coal and iron country. Talk a little with the steel workers. It isn’t revolution for a cause, It’s revolution as an end in itself. Smashing for smashing’s sake.’

‘Rather sympathetic it sounds,’ said Lucy.

‘It’s terrifying. It simply isn’t human. Their humanity has all been squeezed out of them by civilized living, squeezed out by the weight of coal and iron. It won’t be a rebellion of men. It’ll be a revolution of elementals, monsters, pre-human monsters. And you just shut your eyes and pretend everything’s too perfect.

‘Think of the disproportion,’ Lord Edward was saying, as he smoked his pipe. ‘It’s positively…’ His voice failed. ‘Take coal, for example. Man’s using a hundred and ten times as much as he used in i8oo. But population’s only two and a half times what it was. With other animals…Surely quite different. Consumption’s proportionate to numbers.’

Illidge objected. ‘But if animals can get more than they actually require to subsist, they take it, don’t they? If there’s been a battle or a plague, the hyenas and vultures take advantage of the abundance to overeat. Isn’t it the same with us? Forests died in great quantities some millions of years ago. Man has unearthed their corpses, finds he can use them and is giving himself the luxury of a real good guzzle while the carrion lasts. When the supplies are exhausted, he’ll go back to short rations, as the hyenas do in the intervals between wars and epidemics.’ Illidge spoke with gusto. Talking about human beings as though they were indistinguishable from maggots filled him with a peculiar satisfaction. ‘A coal-field’s discovered; oil’s struck. Towns spring up, railways are built, ships come and go. To a long-lived observer on the moon, the swarming and crawling must look like the pullulation of ants and flies round a dead dog. Chilean nitre, Mexican oil, Tunisian phosphates—at every discovery another scurrying of insects. One can imagine the comments of the lunar astronomers. “These creatures have a remarkable and perhaps unique tropism towards fossilized carrion.”’

‘Like ostriches,’ said Mary Rampion. ‘You live like ostriches.’

‘And not about revolutions only,’ said Spandrell, while Willie Weaver was heard to put in something about ‘strouthocamelian philosophies.’ ‘About all the important things that happen to be disagreeable. There was a time when people didn’t go about pretending that death and sin didn’t exist. “_Au ditour d’un sentier une charogne infame_,”’ he quoted. ‘Baudelaire was the last poet of the Middle Ages as well as the first modern. “_Et pourtant_,”’ he went on, looking with a smile to Lucy and raising his glass.

‘“Et pourtant vous serez semblable a cette ordure,

A cette horrible infection,

Etoile de mes yeux, soleil de ma nature,

Vous, mon ange et ma passion!

Alors, o ma beaute, dites a la vermine

Qui vous mangera de baisers…”’

‘My dear Spandrell!’ Lucy held up her hand protestingly.

‘Really too necrophilous!’ said Willie Weaver.

‘Always the same hatred of life,’ Rampion was thinking. ‘Different kinds of death—the only alternatives.’ He looked observantly into Spandrell’s face.

‘And when you come to think of it,’ Illidge was saying, ‘the time it took to form the coal measures divided by the length of a human life isn’t so hugely different from the life of a sequoia divided by a generation of decay bacteria.’

Cuthbert looked at his watch. ‘But good God!’ he shouted. ‘It’s twentyfive to one.’ He jumped up. ‘And I promised we’d put in an appearance at Widdicombe’s party. Peter, Willie! Quick march.’

‘But you can’t go,’ protested Lucy. ‘Not so absurdly early.’

‘The call of duty,’ Willie Weaver explained. ‘Stern Daughter of the Voice of God.’ He uttered his little cough of self-approbation.

‘But it’s ridiculous, it’s not permissible.’ She looked from one to another with a kind of angry anxiety. The dread of solitude was chronic with her. And it was always possible, if one sat up another five minutes, that something really amusing might happen. Besides, it was insufferable that people should do things she didn’t want them to do.

‘And we too, I’m afraid,’ said Mary Rampion rising.

Thank heaven, thought Walter. He hoped that Spandrell would follow the general example.

‘But this is impossible!’ cried Lucy. ‘Rampion, I simply cannot allow it.’

Mark Rampion only laughed. These professional sirens! he thought. She left him entirely cold, she repelled him. In desperation Lucy even appealed to the woman of the party.

‘Mrs. Rampion, you
must
stay. Five minutes more. Only five minutes,’ she coaxed.

In vain. The waiter opened the side door. Furtively they slipped out into the darkness.

‘Why
will
they insist on going?’ asked Lucy, plaintively.

‘Why will
we
insist on staying?’ echoed Spandrell. Walter’s heart sank; that meant the man didn’t intend to go. ‘Surely, that’s much more incomprehensible.’

Utterly incomprehensible! On Walter the heat and alcohol were having their usual effects. He was feeling ill as well as miserable. What was the point of sitting on, hopelessly, in this poisonous air? Why not go home at once. Marjorie would be pleased.

‘You, at least, are faithful, Walter.’ Lucy gave him a smile. He decided to postpone his departure. There was a silence.

Cuthbert and his companions had taken a cab. Refusing all invitations, the Rampions had preferred to walk.

‘Thank heaven!’ said Mary as the taxi drove away. ‘That dreadful Arkwright!’

‘Ah, but that woman’s worse,’ said Rampion.’she gives me the creeps. That poor silly little Bidlake boy. Like a rabbit in front of a weasel.’

‘That’s male trade unionism. I rather like her for making you men squirm a bit. Serves you right.’

‘You might as well like cobras.’ Rampion’s zoology was wholly symbolical.

‘But if it’s a matter of creeps, what about Spandrell? He’s like a gargoyle, a demon.’

‘He’s like a silly schoolboy,’ said Rampion emphatically. ‘He’s never grown up. Can’t you see that? He’s a permanent adolescent. Bothering his head about all the things that preoccupy adolescents. Not being able to live, because he’s too busy thinking about death and God and truth and mysticism and all the rest of it; too busy thinking about sins and trying to commit them and being disappointed because he’s not succeeding. It’s deplorable. The man’s a sort of Peter Pan—much worse even than Barrie’s disgusting little abortion, because he’s got stuck at a sillier age. He’s Peter Pan a la Dostoevsky-cum-de Musset-cum-the-Nineties-cum-Bunyan-cum-Byron and the Marquis de Sade. Really deplorable. The more so as he’s potentially a very decent human being.’

Mary laughed. ‘I suppose I shall have to take your word for it.’

‘By the way,’ said Lucy, turning to Spandrell. ‘I had a message from your mother.’ She gave it. Spandrell nodded, but made no comment.

‘And the General?’ he enquired as soon as she had finished speaking. He wanted no more said about his mother.

‘Oh, the General!’ Lucy made a grimace. ‘I had at least half an hour of Military Intelligence this evening. Really, he oughtn’t to be allowed. What about a Society for the Prevention of Generals?’

‘I’m an honorary and original member.’

‘Or why not for the Prevention of the Old, while one was about it?’ Lucy went on. ‘The old really aren’t possible. Except your father, Walter. He’s perfect. Really perfect. The only possible old man.’

‘One of the few completely impossible, if you only knew.’ Among the Bidlakes of Walter’s generation the impossibility of old John was almost axiomatic. ‘You wouldn’t find him quite so perfect if you’d been his wife or his daughter.’ As he uttered the words, Walter suddenly remembered Marjorie. The blood rushed to his cheeks.

‘Oh, of course, if you will go and choose him as a husband or a father,’ said Lucy, ‘ what can you expect? He’s a possible old man just because he’s been such an impossible husband and father. Most old people have had the life crushed out of them by their responsibilities. Your father never allowed himself to be squashed. He’s had wives and children and all the rest. But he’s always lived as though he were a boy on the spree. Not very pleasant for the wives and children, I grant. But how delightful for the rest of us!’

‘I suppose so,’ said Walter. He had always thought of himself as so utterly unlike his father. But he was acting just as his father had acted.

‘Think of him unfilially.’

‘I’ll try.’ How should he think of himself?’

Do, and you’ll see that I’m right. One of the few possible old men. Compare him with the others.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s no good; you can’t have any dealings with them.’

Spandrell laughed. ‘You speak of the old as though they were Kaffirs or Eskimos.’

‘Well, isn’t that just about what they are? Hearts of gold, and all that. And wonderfully intelligent—in their way, and all things considered. But they don’t happen to belong to our civilization. They’re aliens. I shall always remember the time I went to tea with some Arab ladies in Tunis. So kind they were, so hospitable. But they
would
make me eat such uneatable cakes, and they talked French so badly, and there was nothing whatever to say to them, and they were so horrified by my short skirts and my lack of children. Old people always remind me of an Arab tea party. Do you suppose we shall be an Arab tea party when we’re old?’

‘Yes, and probably a death’s head into the bargain,’ said Spandrell. ‘It’s a question of thickening arteries.’

‘But what makes the old such an Arab tea party is their ideas. I simply cannot believe that thick arteries will ever make me believe in God and morals and all the rest of it. I came out of the chrysalis during the War, when the bottom had been knocked out of everything. I don’t see how our grandchildren could possibly knock it out any more thoroughly than it was knocked then. So where would the misunderstanding come in?’

‘They might have put the bottom in again,’ suggested Spandrell.

She was silent for a moment. ‘I never thought of that.’

‘Or else you might have put it in yourself. Putting the bottom in again is one of the traditional occupations of the aged.’

The clock struck one and, like the cuckoo released by the bell, Simmons popped into the library, carrying a tray. Simmons was middleaged and had that statesman-like dignity of demeanour which the necessity of holding the tongue and keeping the temper, of never speaking one’s real mind and preserving appearances tends always to produce in diplomats, royal personages, high government officials and butlers. Noiselessly, he laid the table for two, and, announcing that his lordship’s supper was served, retired. The day had been Wednesday; two grilled mutton chops were revealed when Lord Edward lifted the silver cover. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays were chop days. On Tuesdays and Thursdays there was steak with chips. On Saturdays, as a treat, Simmons prepared a mixed grill. On Sundays he went out; Lord Edward had to be content with cold ham and tongue, and a salad.

‘Curious,’ said Lord Edward, as he handed Illidge his chop, ‘curious that the sheep population doesn’t rise. Not at the same rate as the human population.

One would have expected…seeing that the symbiosis is such a close…’ He chewed in silence.

‘Mutton must be going out of fashion,’ said Illidge. ‘Like God,’ he added provocatively, ‘ and the immortal soul.’ Lord Edward was not to be baited. ‘Not to mention the Victorian novelists,’ Illidge went on. He had slipped on the stairs; and the only literature Lord Edward ever read was Dickens and Thackeray. But the Old Man calmly masticated. ‘And innocent young girls.’ Lord Edward took a scientific interest in the sexual activities of axolotls and chickens, guinea-pigs and frogs; but any reference to the corresponding activities of humans made him painfully uncomfortable. ‘And purity,’ Illidge continued, looking sharply into the Old Man’s face,’ and virginities, and…’ He was interrupted and Lord Edward saved from further persecution by the ringing of the telephone bell.

‘I’ll deal with it,’ said Illidge jumping up from his place.

He put the receiver to his ear. ‘Hullo!’

‘Edward, is that you?’ said a deep voice, not unlike Lord Edward’s own. ‘This is me. Edward, I’ve just this moment discovered a most extraordinary mathematical proof of the existence of God, or rather of…’

‘But this isn’t Lord Edward,’ shouted Illidge. ‘Wait. I’ll ask him to come.’ He turned back to the Old Man. ‘It’s Lord Gattenden,’ he said. ‘He’s just discovered a new proof of the existence of God.’ He did not smile, his tone was grave. Gravity in the circumstances was the wildest derision. The statement made fun of itself. Laughing comment made it less, not more, ridiculous. Marvellous old imbecile! Illidge felt himself revenged for all the evening’s humiliations. ‘A mathematical proof,’ he added, more seriously than ever.

‘Oh dear!’ exclaimed Lord Edward, as though something deplorable had happened. Telephoning always made him nervous. He hurried to the instrument. ‘Charles, is that…’