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âLook at this,' said Lucas. He handed over the letter. Clement read it. The letter ran as follows.
Dear Lucas,
You were kind enough to attend that curious gathering where our original encounter was commemorated, and where I distinguished myself by fainting. As your brother explained, one purpose of the meeting was to generate some will for a reconciliation. The other purpose was to jog my defective memory concerning some aspect of my life which I was conscious of having forgotten. The former objective is still unclarified, the latter has been achieved. As I have explained to Bellamy, who will explain to your brother and to the ladies at Clifton, I have, to put it briefly, remembered my religion. I am, as I told you, Jewish (and, as I told you, I believe that you are too). But I am also a Buddhist, and have undergone a considerable period of disciplined meditation. The shock of that second encounter or âevent' has brought me back again to my âright mind'. This is to admit that the view of me as âderanged', held I think by you and others, was in a sense a correct one. I had lost my moral consciousness â and have now regained it. I was filled with hatred and desire for revenge. Now I have no hatred and no desire for revenge. The threats and insults which I directed against you I hereby cancel and revoke. I have no ill will toward you, I am very sorry for my aggressive behaviour, and I ask you to forgive me. I now see that vindictive rages and vengeful intentions are but fantasies, the superficial frothing of the ego. I am now able to overcome these selfish and purely phenomenal manifestations. There are moments for war and there are moments for peace. You are no doubt familiar, on this topic, with the discussion between Krishna and Arjuna. Why did Krishna tell Arjuna to fight? Many well-intentioned thinkers have puzzled over this question. The ready answer is that Arjuna, sunk in egoism, could not have made the decision not to fight with a pure mind, his motives would have been self-righteous, his action valueless. Thus far any novice might stumble. But
why
did Krishna tell Arjuna to initiate a battle in which thousands of men would die â simply in order to perform what he âreally' or ânaturally' felt to be his duty? (We might discuss this case some time, I would like to hear your opinion.) Philosophy, in which I have dabbled, has long bemused itself with the contest between the right and the good â to which the saint's cry of
ama et fac quod vis
is a potent contribution. At any rate, in our affray, a decision for peace can I think be made easily and with a quiet mind. I have in the past (it seems now a very long time since our first meeting) moralised in an intemperate manner concerning your motivation, what you were about to do and why, what made you do what you did do. The clarification of this whole situation in the cause of justice was formerly my main objective. I wished to remove the shadow cast upon my own motives, and to extract from you some sort of retribution. I also wished to see you in the role of one suing for pardon. I have never, and I trust you understand this, had any craving for publicity or wish to drag you back into a law court. This was to be a matter between you and me â as indeed it continues to be. I want now to erase and wash away the whole of that situation, as I have washed away that state of my mind which promoted it. My desire for revenge, an eye for an eye, the humiliation and destruction of my enemy, is now understood by me as an impulse of unenlightened egoism, a submission to determinism, an evil fantasy, which I now hereby repudiate and make to vanish. May I hope that, as I offer you not a mere olive branch, but the total renewal of my soul, you will co-operate with me in ending a âfeud' which was itself unreal, and a painful wastage of time and spirit by both of us. May I come to see you? I am now back in my own house (a healthful image!) and my telephone number is above. I venture to add that when we meet (which I hope will be, at your convenience, very soon) that I shall ask you to grant me one small favour, which I shall then explain to you. Also, please may your brother, and he only, be present at our meeting.
Yours in peace and reconciliation,
Peter Mir
Clement read the letter through carefully and handed it back to Lucas. Lucas was seated at his desk, Clement standing facing him. Clement wanted Lucas to speak first, but as he did not speak Clement said, âYou will see him, of course?'
âI'm not sure about “of course”, but I shall certainly see him.'
âOut of curiosity.'
âOut of what he might call an “enlightened” curiosity.'
âWhen did you get the letter?'
âI found it yesterday evening, delivered by hand. I assume that Bellamy informed you, and has informed the ladies.'
âYes. You imply that you will receive him in an affable manner. I expect he will give you every opportunity to “come off” just as you wish.'
âYou use an elaborate vocabulary. I think he is an ingenious man, and I respect ingenuity.'
âWon't you be relieved to get rid of him?'
âGet rid of him? It doesn't seem, whatever happens, that I or we will be able to get rid of him! He makes himself out in the letter to be as light as a feather and as innocent as a little bird, his sins washed away by the wand of Zen. But what I fear is that he will prove to be an old man of the sea who will continue to hang about our necks.'
âYou mean the Clifton ladies?'
âOh, he will want to get hold of
them.
He may even fancy one of them â Aleph say â or even Louise. He is, I am prepared to believe, very rich, and is also, in spite of his protestations of simplicity, very strong-willed and very clever, or let us say smart. His ostentatious reference to the
Gita
shows that he has completely misunderstood that affair.'
âBut if all he wants is to make
them,
somehow or other, into his family, does not that in the end leave you free? Or do you think he wants to have you too?'
âAnd you, Clement, and you.'
âHe has certainly captured Bellamy.'
âWhen he does come here, and I join him in hoping it will be soon, he will act the part of a holy simpleton. But he will want his reward all the same. He may even want my friendship.'
âHe does not as yet know you very well.'
âIndeed, he may be in for more than one disappointment. But all
that,
which may be indefinitely prolonged, will constitute an emotional situation. I suspect he enjoys such things. He hopes for a baring of bosoms.'
âWell, he will never see yours. I wonder what the “small favour” will turn out to be. That may be the great snag. He will want you, after all, to confess to him, to say you're sorry, to give him free and for nothing all the things he was so aggressively demanding! At least you must be relieved to know that he has apparently no plans to murder you.'
âWe shall see.'
âOr else he may want you to sign some incriminating statement, which he will then treasure as a weapon against you.'
âNothing of that sort. Anyway we shall soon know. Could you fix it, my dear, there is his telephone number. Any day this week at 10 a.m. will suit me.'
Â
Harvey was sitting curled up in an armchair reading
I Promessi Sposi
when he heard the strange sound of a key in the front door. For a second he thought, it's a burglar! Or is it the cleaning lady? No, she always rings. He leapt up, decanting his book onto the floor. The door of the drawing-room was open. It was Emil.
âEmil! How wonderful, you've come home!'
âHarvey! I interrupt your studies! What have you been reading? Ah, very apt and suitable to your age. Have you been happy here?'
âOh, ever so happy! I'm awfully sorry â I should have moved out after you rang up. I â I just delayed â my mother was still there and â I'm so sorry, I'll pack up and get out at once â '
âIt needn't be at once, please do not blame yourself. Oh, how nice it is to be home!'
âYou have such a wonderful home to come to, I wish I â Well, I'll just go and get my things together.'
âNo, no, don't hurry please, I am so glad to see you, let us talk. What is the time? It is nearly twelve o'clock. Why not stay for lunch? Please stay. I have brought back some goodies in my luggage. Yes, if you could help me to bring it in from the landing. We can have a celebration lunch, and you can tell me all the news.'
Â
The next hour and a half was spent in the kitchen, where Harvey had hastily cleared away the remains of his breakfast. On the large kitchen table (Emil said âIt's nicer in here.') they had placed a white damask cloth with lace frills (never of course utilised by Harvey) and had laid out Emil's beautiful best plates and glasses for lunch. Emil had of course a big handsome dining-room where these lovely things, also untouched by Harvey, lived in a large long mahogany sideboard. For lunch they had, from Emil's goodies, bread, caviar, rollmops, salami, pumpernickel, schnapps, and two bottles of Rhine wine, and, from the house stores, oatmeal biscuits, butter, cheese and Cumberland jelly. Emil commented on the fact that Harvey had not touched any of the fancy tinned foods which were stored in the larder. Whatever had he lived on?
Harvey did not like rollmops and hoped he could get away with only pretending to eat them, but he liked everything else and as he sat down opposite to Emil and lifted the little round glass of schnapps which had been placed beside the tall thin glass of white wine, he felt a sudden lift of his spirits. Perhaps after all, somehow or other, with Emil's return, a new era was starting and his luck was going to change! Harvey liked Emil very much, though he had not (partly because of Clive's jealousy) come to know him well. He was cheered and heartened by Emil's kindness, by his affectionate smile, by his evident
appreciation
of Harvey. Emil was tall and soldierly, rather stern and dignified in appearance, with a long sharp straight nose and a well-shaven bronzed complexion and a very high brow with short straight blond hair sleeked well back and closely adhering to his head. Clive used to tease him by saying that he wore a wig, which was patently untrue. His narrow eyes were pale blue, his firm lips suggested determination, perhaps because the full lower lip projected beyond the thin upper lip. Cora Brock, who was very fond of him, said he had âtruthful lips'. He had been, and to some extent still was, a picture dealer. He was said to have come to England to escape a tyrannical father who disapproved of his sexual preferences, but left him all his money.
As they attacked the good food and drink Emil started to ask questions.
âNow I must hear all the news. I have been travelling and out of touch. How is your foot? You said on the telephone it was better. But I see you limping.'
âI think it probably won't get any better. I'll have to “live with it”, as they say. I'm constantly told that a limp is romantic, like Byron you know.'
âDear me, that is not good enough. We must hope for a complete cure â you are young and youth cures well. You are having some treatment I hope?'
âYes, but it doesn't help.'
âI know a man in Harley Street â '
âPlease let's not talk about my foot, it's such a bore.'
âAll right, but we shall return to the matter and I shall want details! And how is Lucas?'
âLucas? You know he is back?'
âYes, but no more. I received such a letter from Bellamy. Then I unexpectedly left the address I gave, but letters will have been forwarded to here.'
âOh, there are lots of letters, I put them in a box.'
âGood, good. And how is it with Lucas?'
âWell, you know the man he killed, well, he didn't kill him, the man turned up and wanted some damages.'
âSo he returned from the dead and wanted money from Lucas, after having tried to steal his wallet?'
âI don't know. You'd better ask Lucas.'
âAnd dear Bellamy? I hope he has not gone into his monastery.'
âNot yet.'
âAnd the lovely Andersons?'
âLovely as ever.'
âEspecially Aleph?'
âEspecially Aleph.'
âAnd your beautiful mother, gone back to Paris?'
âShe's, well, actually â '
âYou will be able now to get up the stairs to your attic?'
âYes, it â I've got used to it. I'll go after lunch â well, now we've really
had
lunch, and such a wonderful lunch, thank you so much! I'll just pack up my stuff, I can go by taxi â Emil, you were so very kind to give me that taxi money, I'd have died without it. I expect Clive is arriving later â '
âI will tell you something, Harvey. Clive will not be arriving later. We have parted company. Or I should say, he has left me. He has found someone else whom he better loves. He is gone from me.'
âOh Emil â how awful â you have been together so long â I am very sorry indeed â I do hope â you may find someone else â sorry, I am putting it badly, I am just so sorry â '
âYou put it very well, my child. To find someone â oh yes â that is the problem. To have mutual love, that is so difficult indeed. I hope you may achieve it, Harvey, I hope the gods will guide you to where happiness is. As for me â there is another partner waiting for me, a teacher whom I knew long ago â his name is solitude. I am glad to be back here among my English friends, I will, oh yes, ring up everybody, I shall make out some
übersichtliche Darstellung
, as Wittgenstein used to say. But I shall come back here to an empty flat and close the door, and I shall lean back against the door, as I recall I used to when I was young, and breathe deeply and feel the
deep
relief and liberation of coming home to solitude, coming home to
myself.'