For some time I had been riding a horse captured from the Japanese. One day, while returning from an inspection tour, I got to wondering what might have become of its previous owner. Lost in thought, I rode on, only slightly behind our lead guide. Perhaps I'd been partially hypnotized by the slow clomp of the beast beneath me, exhausted as I was, and by the thin air of that mountain altitude. Where was he? I wondered. Who had he been? Perhaps not so unlike me. Was he somewhere behind us, like so many of his comrades, eyeless, their dirt-filled mouths crying out mutely for a solemn return to the homeland? Yes, your horse is alive, I wanted to say, alive, if miserable in its new calling, and you are not. The beast outlives its master.
I wondered if perhaps it would be appropriate to shoot it once I arrived at the Base Hospital, as if in respect for its fallen owner, but it had proven too useful for that. Spurring it on, I pondered if it was better to be a beast of burden or, say, a little monk nibbling away at time as a mouse does cheese? A horse has a use, at least, and a quiet dignity in its labours. A monk is utterly useless and without consequence. I forgave the animal its origins and urged it to climb higher. It was early morning. The light was faint, almost blue, the sun not fully over the ridge to the west.
Near midday we came across a man alone and left for dead. The Japanese hadn't done such a thorough job on him. Perhaps they'd left him like this for a reason, or else had become bored with their torture, impatient to move on to better things. I asked Mr. Tung to come forward. The other men kept away. I dismounted and with Mr. Tung walked over to the man. The landscape was barren. The wind, carrying small flakes now, prowled in upward dancing surges. Snow snaked between the rocks as if scurrying from itself.
He was lying there, watching as we approached. He made no gesture, no movement, but his eyes were full of life and terror. His severed hands lay beside him, gripped in comradely greeting. When I kneeled down, his gaze shifted to his hands and made a strange face. It was as if he were trying to make them respond. His legs were broken and splayed out, bent and distorted from beneath him, his knees snapped backwards. He would be dead in a matter of minutes.
There was a wound in his chest I could fit my hand into, and his lungs were filling. There was no use for Mr. Tung since the man couldn't talk. He tried to smile at me, it was an apologetic smile, then he looked at his hands again. They were just out of reach. He seemed more aware than I had ever been in my entire life. Of all the eternity of moments that had been lived and were yet to be lived, this one in this timeless place, and with us as bystanders, had been fully dedicated to this simple man. This was the centre-point of his life. This was the fire, the flame moving underground. It was perhaps all he would amount to. Whether the precious facts of his life were in any respect complete or significant, it didn't matter now. This was the most important moment in his life, the exact moment of consciousness he'd wondered about while sleeping in caves and on the rocks of this mountain, freezing, sweating, eating gruel and starving, listening to his friends' stories of home, he himself dreaming of his life and always trying to imagine what death would be like when it came. And now, as I'd seen hundreds of times before in the faces of other men, he was sitting patiently, resignedly, staring down over the retreating landscape.
He sat before his entire life and waited to die as I sat beside him. Perhaps he'd raised his hands in supplication to his murderers, beseeching them, and then the
katana,
in a swift arc of reply, had cut through the air.
After he died, I crossed his arms over his chest and placed his hands there, curled, still clasped. Then we mounted our animals and started off once more.
*
Ho has joined me now. I do not usually write during daylight hours. There's never enough time. But today I have completed my rounds and performed three surgeries and managed to eat a bite and still there's light in the sky. I sat down and was just about to begin when Ho came to my door. Seeing my typewriter he retreated deferentially, but I got up and pulled him inside and asked him to sit. So here he sits, watching and waiting.
Last night I dreamed you came to me here. You were a child. “Go,” I said. “The war will be over soon, and I will come for you.” You looked at me and your smile revealed you were missing two teeth. You knew nothing of the horrors of this world, only its perfect beauty. I took you in my arms and carried you outside to a pasture with a stream and a bright light falling from the blue heavens and majestic oaks thrumming in the breeze. I set you down in the grass and went back inside.
Ho is a patient lad to sit here like this. Why do I invite him in here? Is it that I, too, am alone?
To keep him occupied I handed him a sheaf of pencil drawings I've been working on, with no words but the title. The most recent is “Burn Injury of the Left Arm with Surgical Amputation.” He nods enthusiastically.
*
I've been thinking lately about matrimonyâmine, to be precise. A strange preoccupation in the middle of a war. I have been thinking about you finding happiness with a good and patient man. Does that mark me as sentimental? Well, so be it. Perhaps he's leaning over your shoulder as you read this. I find that thought comforting. No union in life is as dear as marriage, and though I may have been more susceptible than most to the frailties of the heart, I still believe it. None of us is so different in that regard. We all harbour an abiding belief that even after failure there can be hope for the future. That is our greatest resource, I think, eternal hope. Some basic truths bear repeating, and this is one of them. I can tell you that the mystery of our loves is the deepest mystery we have, the most beautiful and ennobling, too, and the most deserving of our ceaseless energies and wonder. I imagine you will know by the time you read this that a first love is not often successful. I discovered this when I was younger, that one failure might strengthen you for another. The name of the woman who helped me to become that better man your mother fell in love with was Frances Penney. She became my wife, and two times I left her, walking back into my lonely life.
The Great War had ended and I had begun writing and painting again. I had found employment at Number 23 Great Ormond Street, London, working with children. One evening, in the fall of 1920, I met with an Australian friend, Clifford Ellington, at a pub in Soho. We were talking over a number of my poems and having a glass of beer when a group of four young women entered the pub. One was glamorous-looking, very beautiful. Her large eyes darted around the bar, and she produced a cigarette from her purse. She made much of this simple act. It was very much worthy of the pictures, I remember thinking.
Her dark hair was cut short, bobbed, as all the girls were wearing it then. She crossed her legs under her chair, then leaned into the middle of the table and remarked upon something that made her friends laugh. The four of them looked inelegantly in our direction as they did so. “A flock of parakeets mocking the baboons,” Ellington said. The server spoke with the young ladies and returned behind the bar, where we were standing. She busied herself with polishing a glass while the barman prepared their drinks. My left elbow was damp from leaning on the bar where someone had spilt a beer. My heart thumping, I asked the server “Would you please mop this up for me?”
We returned to our discussion, Ellington arguing that I should refrain from sending my poems out. He held the sheaf of poems in his hand, waving them as he spoke. They were, he said, childish and morbid, vain and self-important. Very nearly offended, I suggested he didn't have an ounce of creative or critical blood in his veins. “Bethune, this is not poetry,” he said, or something along those lines. He was an intelligent man and a very good doctor, and I enjoyed his company immensely. But I found it difficult to take his criticism seriously, though foolishly I'd asked for it. I never really liked his poems, greatly inspired by a fashionable Australian poet of the day who for good reason had yet to be discovered anywhere else in the English-speaking world.
“Norman, you're a charming drunk and a gifted doctor,” Ellington said, “but I would advise you to hold off with these. They make you seem a bit pathetic, really.”
I was pleased to change the subject. “For the sake of keeping the peace, let's concentrate on the parakeets over there.”
“I don't know why you wouldn't write about that. You know women almost as well as you understand the lower intestine.”
“You are vaguely pathetic yourself, aren't you.”
“After you,” he said.
“No, after you,” I said, but we didn't move.
“I suppose we'll be bachelors the rest of our lives,” Ellington concluded.
Well, those girls took the initiative and soon we were shaking hands all around, drinking and having a grand time. Later, after we'd visited a number of pubs, I stopped dead in my tracks. I had left the sheaf of poems somewhere. Perhaps Ellington was right about them being a bit vain, for I was less a gifted poet than a confessional one. They served as a journal, a diary in verse, so to speak, and without them I was lost. Abruptly I excused myself and left the party. Ellington saluted drunkenly, not the least bit concerned. Why would he be? I retraced our footsteps and in each locale my mood grew darker. I was stricken. I'd neglected to make carbons of the pages, and they were such long poems that I'd committed only a few of them to memory.
I was perhaps even more despondent the next day. On my way home from the hospital I stopped in at the Pig & Clover, where Ellington and I had started the previous evening. The pub was filling up but I was in no mood for socializing. I noticed a pretty young woman reading at the other end of the bar, a half-pint of Guinness before her. I couldn't help but smile when she glanced up. I saw something romantic about a pretty woman reading alone in a bar. I was not so different from her, I thought, craving solitude and seeking company in a book. This spoke of the sort of quiet desperation I often felt, and which most others chose to conceal.
When she turned the page I saw what she was reading was held in a sheaf. I rose quickly. “Excuse me,” I said, “that belongs to me.”
“You wrote these?”
I closed the booklet.
“I'm sorry. I thought it was a menu. I saw it here,” she said, pointing, “wedged up against the wall. I think they're quite beautiful.” She glanced at the cover. “H. Norman Bethune?”
“Yes.”
“Frances Penney,” she said, offering her hand. “Will you publish these?”
“One day, I'm hoping.”
“I liked the one about the British Museum. It was very sad, somehow. You won't mind my asking who Agnes is?”
“I made her up.”
“May I?” she said, reaching for the sheaf. I eased off my hand. She flipped through and found the page. She read the poem aloud.
I have carried it with me in memory all this time.
Nurse Agnes of Cambridge Visits the British Museum with Limping Soldier
He had never considered the souls
buried within the clay and gold,
the distant stone and iron brow
that held their long gaze
found so properly housed
in the greatest museums of the age;
They were just masks, he'd thought,
pretty things set out for display
on any afternoon of
any given day.
What are they though, she said that
afternoon, but reminders that you shall see
that same look of death looking
back at thee?
In a future exhibit entitled Post
Post Byzantium of the Long Lost Apocalypse
entry 5 shillings
the one expression we least of all deserved
will represent our age
and all its men
forever preserved.
Save your money, sir, and take a walk instead;
any good nurse will tell you more
about Nephthys of Egypt
than the old curators of the dead.
Her soft Scottish voice stayed quietly between us. Frances was, I decided right then, a remarkable beauty. When she finished reading she did not lift her eyes. She stayed like that, leaning slightly forward into the page. She might have been reading through the poem again, looking for some key to slip into a lock I had fashioned without any conscious intention. She might have been stalling, searching for kind things to say. I was ready to pounce on any interpretation she might offer, as I'd been the night before when Ellington had offered his thoughts. At most I'd thank her for recovering my poems, then leave. I waited, growing more uncomfortable by the second. She seemed so entirely lost in the page and unaware of me that I was free, nervous though I was, to let my eyes roam over her. She wore her striking dark hair cut short and parted on the left side, the tips of it curling in to her face just below her ear. Her eyes gleamed as they moved back and forth in the dirty half-light of the pub.
“But did you love her?” she finally asked, looking up at me.
The question came as a surprise. “It's make-believe,” I said.
“But you can't invent emotions.”
“Not if they're genuine, I suppose.”
“Did the young man love her, then?”
“I'm not sure,” I said.
*
I saw her again the following week. That is when she first called me her Poet-Doctor. I didn't mind. In fact I was thrilled. She brought me books of poetry: Donne, Shelley, Byron. While I had read most of them, I happily accepted these gifts inscribed with lovely notes. We nosed about the old bookshops on Charing Cross Road, and naturally I took her to the British Museum. I introduced her to Ellington, as she did me to her girlfriends, Norma, a pretty secretary at one of the larger law firms in the city, and Eunice, a student at Chelsea College. At the time I was a solitary creature, riddled by my own romantic impulses and irked by crowds. In solitude I was safe, but not happy. Frances cured that in me.
As a young doctor I was used to sharing myself with the sick and the dying, perhaps because their solitude and complete dependence on me made it all but impossible that I might be slighted or denied. There is comfort to be taken in the fact that a brash young doctor is never pushed away, for he brings hope in times when it is most precious. Young love is a different matter entirely. At first what I felt for Frances was confusing, often painful and always difficult. As I said, I was solitary by nature, and no single individual could change that. Frances, of course, devoured the company of others. She encouraged me to share my dreams and emotions. I painted portraits of my young love and praised her in my poems. Though cautious, I was an idealist, I can see that now, for those oblique paintings and colourless poems were at least a young man's attempt to understand and glorify this new world he'd recently entered. But soon enough those efforts revealed my deficiencies. We didn't talk about the war. We shared our food and friends. With me she shared her money, for she'd been left a fair bit by her wealthy father, and with her I shared my ambition and hunger for the world.