The New Collected Short Stories

  His speech was successful. The stormy scene came to an abrupt and placid conclusion. Before they had realized it, she had taken up her Baedeker and left them, with no tragic gesture. In that moment of final failure, there had been vouchsafed to her a vision of herself, and she saw that she had lived worthily. She was conscious of a triumph over experience and earthly facts, a triumph magnificent, cold, hardly human, whose existence no one but herself would ever surmise. From the view-terrace she looked down on the perishing and perishable beauty of the valley, and, though she loved it no less, it seemed to be infinitely distant, like a valley in a star. At that moment, if kind voices had called her from the hotel, she would not have returned. ‘I suppose this is old age,’ she thought. ‘It’s not so very dreadful.’

  No one did call her. Colonel Leyland would have liked to do so; for he knew she must be unhappy. But she had hurt him too much; she had exposed her thoughts and desires to a man of another class. Not only she, but he himself and all their equals, were degraded by it. She had discovered their nakedness to the alien.

  People came in to dress for dinner and for the concert. From the hall there pressed out a stream of excited servants, filling the lounge as an operatic chorus fills the stage, and announcing the approach of the manager. It was impossible to pretend that nothing had happened. The scandal would be immense, and must be diminished as it best might.

  Much as Colonel Leyland disliked touching people he took Feo by the arm, and then quickly raised his finger to his forehead.

  ‘Exactly, sir,’ whispered the concierge. ‘Of course we understand – Oh, thank you, sir, thank you very much: thank you very much indeed!’

  Stories Published Posthumously

  DR WOOLACOTT

  For this, from stiller seats we came

  ‘Cymbeline’ v. iv

  I

  People, several of them, crossing the park . . .

  Clesant said to himself, ‘There is no reason I should not live for years now that I have given up the violin,’ and leant back with the knowledge that he had faced a fact. From where he lay, he could see a little of the garden and a little of the park, a little of the fields and the river, and hear a little of the tennis; a little of everything was what was good for him, and what Dr Woolacott had prescribed. Every few weeks he must expect a relapse, and he would never be able to travel or marry or manage the estates, still there, he didn’t want to much, he didn’t much want to do anything. An electric bell connected him with the house, the strong beautiful slightly alarming house where his father had died, still there, not so very alarming, not so bad lying out in the tepid sun and watching the colourless shapeless country people . . .

  No, there was no reason he should not live for years.

  ‘In 1990, why even 2000 is possible, I am young,’ he thought. Then he frowned, for Dr Woolacott was bound to be dead by 2000, and the treatment might not be continued intelligently. The anxiety made his head ache, the trees and grass turned black or crimson, and he nearly rang his bell. Soothed by the advancing figures, he desisted. Looking for mushrooms apparently, they soothed him because of their inadequacy. No mushrooms grew in the park. He felt friendly and called out in his gentle voice, ‘Come here.’

  ‘Oh aye,’ came the answer.

  ‘I’m the squire, I want you a moment, it’s all right.’

  Set in motion, the answerer climbed over the park fence. Clesant had not intended him to do this, and fearful of being bored said: ‘You’ll find no mushrooms here, but they’ll give you a drink or anything else you fancy up at the house.’

  ‘Sir, the squire, did you say?’

  ‘Yes; I pass for the squire.’

  ‘The one who’s sick?’

  ‘Yes, that one.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Thank you, thanks,’ said the boy, pleased by the unexpected scrap of sympathy.

  ‘Sir . . .’

  ‘All right, what is it?’ he smiled encouragingly.

  ‘Sick of what illness?’

  Clesant hesitated. As a rule he resented that question, but this morning it pleased him, it was as if he too had been detected by friendly eyes zigzagging in search of a treasure which did not exist. He replied: ‘Of being myself perhaps! Well, what they call functional. Nothing organic. I can’t possibly die, but my heart makes my nerves go wrong, my nerves my digestion, then my head aches, so I can’t sleep, which affects my heart, and round we go again. However, I’m better this morning.’

  ‘When shall you be well?’

  He gave the contemptuous laugh of the chronic invalid. ‘Well? That’s a very different question. It depends. It depends on a good many things. On how carefully I live. I must avoid all excitement, I must never get tired, I mustn’t be——’ He was going to say ‘mustn’t be intimate with people,’ but it was no use employing expressions which would be meaningless to a farm-worker, and such the man appeared to be, so he changed it to ‘I must do as Dr Woolacott tells me.’

  ‘Oh, Woolacott . . .’

  ‘Of course you know him, everyone round here does, marvellous doctor.’

  ‘Yes, I know Woolacott.’

  Clesant looked up, intrigued by something positive in the tone of the voice.

  ‘Woolacott, Woolacott, so I must be getting on.’ Not quite as he had come, he vaulted over the park palings, paused, repeated ‘Woolacott’ and walked rapidly after his companions, who had almost disappeared.

  A servant now answered the bell. It had failed to ring the first time, which would have been annoying had the visitor proved tedious. The little incident was over now, and nothing else disturbed the peace of the morning. The park, the garden, the sounds from the tennis, all reassumed their due proportions, but it seemed to Clesant that they were pleasanter and more significant than they had been, that the colours of the grass and the shapes of the trees had beauty, that the sun wandered with a purpose through the sky, that the little clouds, wafted by westerly airs, were moving against the course of doom and fate, and were inviting him to follow them.

  II

  Continuance of convalescence . . . tea in the gun-room. The gun-room, a grand place in the old squire’s time, much energy had flowed through it, intellectual and bodily. Now the bookcases were locked, the trophies between them desolate, the tall shallow cupboard designed for fishing-rods and concealed in the wainscoting contained only medicine-bottles and air cushions. Still, it was Clesant’s nearest approach to normality, for the rest of his household had tea in the gun-room too. There was innocuous talk as they flitted out and in, pursuing their affairs like birds, and troubling him only with the external glint of their plumage. He knew nothing about them, although they were his guardians and familiars; even their sex left no impression on his mind. Throned on the pedestal of a sofa, he heard them speak of their wishes and plans, and give one another to understand that they had passionate impulses, while he barricaded himself in the circle of his thoughts.

  He was thinking about music.

  Was it quite out of the question that he should take up the violin again? He felt better, the morning in the garden had started him upon a good road, a refreshing sleep had followed. Now a languorous yearning filled him, which might not the violin satisfy? The effect might be the contrary, the yearning might turn to pain, yet even pain seemed unlikely in this kindly house, this house which had not always been kindly, yet surely this afternoon it was accepting him.

  A stranger entered his consciousness – a young man in good if somewhat provincial clothes, with a pleasant and resolute expression upon his face. People always were coming into the house on some business or other, and then going out of it. He stopped in the middle of the room, evidently a little shy. No one spoke to him for the reason that no one remained: they had all gone away while Clesant followed his meditations. Obliged to exert himself for a moment, Clesant said: ‘I’m sorry – I expect you’re wanting one of the others.’

  He smiled and twiddled his cap.

  ‘I’m afraid I mustn’t ent
ertain you myself. I’m something of an invalid, and this is my first day up. I suffer from one of those wretched functional troubles – fortunately nothing organic.’

  Smiling more broadly, he remarked: ‘Oh aye.’

  Clesant clutched at his heart, jumped up, sat down, burst out laughing. It was that farm-worker who had been crossing the park.

  ‘Thought I’d surprise you, thought I’d give you a turn,’ he cried gaily. ‘I’ve come for that drink you promised.’

  Clesant couldn’t speak for laughing, the whole room seemed to join in, it was a tremendous joke.

  ‘I was around in my working-kit when you invited me this morning, so I thought after I’d washed myself up a bit and had a shave my proper course was to call and explain,’ he continued more seriously. There was something fresh and rough in his voice which caught at the boy’s heart.

  ‘But who on earth are you, who are you working for?’

  ‘For you.’

  ‘Oh nonsense, don’t be silly.’

  ‘Tisn’t nonsense, I’m not silly, I’m one of your farmhands. Rather an unusual one, if you like. Still, I’ve been working here for the last three months, ask your bailiff if I haven’t. But I say – I’ve kept thinking about you – how are you?’

  ‘Better – because I saw you this morning!’

  ‘That’s fine. Now you’ve seen me this afternoon you’ll be well.’

  But this last remark was flippant, and the visitor through making it lost more than the ground he had gained. It reminded Clesant that he had been guilty of laughter and of rapid movement, and he replied in reproving tones: ‘To be well and to be better are very different. I’m afraid one can’t get well from one’s self. Excuse me if we don’t talk any more. It’s so bad for my heart.’ He closed his eyes. He opened them again immediately. He had had, during that instant of twilight, a curious and pleasurable sensation. However, there was the young man still over at the further side of the room. He was smiling. He was attractive – fresh as a daisy, strong as a horse. His shyness had gone.

  ‘Thanks for that tea, a treat,’ he said, lighting a cigarette. ‘Now for who I am. I’m a farmer – or rather, going to be a farmer. I’m only an agricultural labourer now – exactly what you took me for this morning. I wasn’t dressing up or posing with that broad talk. It’s come natural to say “Oh aye”, especially when startled.’

  ‘Did I startle you?’

  ‘Yes, you weren’t in my mind.’

  ‘I thought you were looking for mushrooms.’

  ‘So I was. We all do when we’re shifting across, and when there’s a market we sell them. I’ve been living with that sort all the summer, your regular hands, temporaries like myself, tramps, sharing their work, thinking their thoughts when they have any.’ He paused. ‘I like them.’

  ‘Do they like you?’

  ‘Oh well. . . .’ He laughed, drew a ring off his finger, laid it on the palm of his hand, looked at it for a moment, put it on again. All his gestures were definite and a trifle unusual. ‘I’ve no pride anyway, nor any reason to have. I only have my health, and I didn’t always have that. I’ve known what it is to be an invalid, though no one guesses it now.’ He looked across gently at Clesant. He seemed to say: ‘Come to me, and you shall be as happy as I am and as strong.’ He gave a short account of his life. He dealt in facts, very much so when they arrived – and the tale he unfolded was high-spirited and a trifle romantic here and there, but in no way remarkable. Aged twenty-two, he was the son of an engineer at Wolverhampton, his two brothers were also engineers, but he himself had always taken after his mother’s family, and preferred country life. All his holidays on a farm. The war. After which he took up agriculture seriously, and went through a course at Cirencester. The course terminated last spring, he had done well, his people were about to invest money in him, but he himself felt ‘too scientific’ after it all. He was determined to ‘get down into the manure’ and feel people instead of thinking about them. ‘Later on it’s too late.’ So off he went and roughed it, with a few decent clothes in a suitcase and now and then, just for the fun of the thing, he took them out and dressed up. He described the estate how decent the bailiff was, how sorry people seemed to be about the squire’s illness, how he himself got a certain amount of time off, practically any evening. Extinguishing his cigarette, he put back what was left of it into his case for future use, laid a hand upon either knee, smiled.

  There was a silence. Clesant could not think of anything to say, and began to tremble.

  ‘Oh, my name——’

  ‘Oh yes, of course, what’s your name?’

  ‘Let me write it down, my address too. Both my Wolverhampton address I’ll give you, also where I’m lodging here, so if ever – got a pencil?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t get up.’

  He came over and sat on the sofa; his weight sent a tremor, the warmth and sweetness of his body began casting nets.

  ‘And now we’ve no paper.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Clesant, his heart beating violently.

  ‘Talking’s better, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Or even not talking.’ His hand came nearer, his eyes danced round the room, which began to fill with a golden haze. He beckoned, and Clesant moved into his arms. Clesant had often been proud of his disease but never, never of his body, it had never occurred to him that he could provoke desire. The sudden revelation shattered him, he fell from his pedestal, but not alone, there was someone to cling to, broad shoulders, a sunburnt throat, lips that parted as they touched him to murmur – ‘And to hell with Woolacott.’

  Woolacott! He had completely forgotten the doctor’s existence. Woolacott! The word crashed between them and exploded with a sober light, and he saw in the light of the years that had passed and would come how ridiculously he was behaving. To hell with Woolacott, indeed! What an idea! His charming new friend must be mad. He started, recoiled, and exclaimed: ‘What ever made you say that?’

  The other did not reply. He looked rather foolish, and he too recoiled, and leant back in the opposite corner of the sofa, wiping his forehead. At last he said: ‘He’s not a good doctor.’

  ‘Why, he’s our family doctor, he’s everyone’s doctor round here!’

  ‘I didn’t mean to be rude – it slipped out. I just had to say it, it must have sounded curious.’

  ‘Oh, all right then,’ said the boy, willing enough to be mollified. But the radiance had passed and no effort of theirs could recall it.

  The young man took out his unfinished cigarette, and raised it towards his lips. He was evidently a good deal worried.

  ‘Perhaps I’d better explain what I meant,’ he said.

  ‘As you like, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Got a match?’

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t.’

  He went for one to the further side of the room, and sat down there again. Then he began: ‘I’m perfectly straight – I’m not trying to work in some friend of my own as your doctor. I only can’t bear to think of this particular one coming to your house – this grand house – you so rich and important at the first sight and yet so awfully undefended and deceived.’ His voice faltered. ‘No, we won’t talk it over. You’re right. We’ve found each other, nothing else matters, it’s a chance in a million we’ve found each other. I’d do anything for you, I’d die if I could for you, and there’s this one thing you must do straight away for me: sack Woolacott.’

  ‘Tell me what you’ve got against him instead of talking sentimentally.’

  He hardened at once. ‘Sentimental, was I? All right, what I’ve got against Woolacott is that he never makes anyone well, which seems a defect in a doctor. I may be wrong.’

  ‘Yes, you’re wrong,’ said Clesant; the mere repetition of the doctor’s name was steadying him. ‘I’ve been under him for years.’

  ‘So I should think.’

  ‘Of course, I’m different, I’m not well, it’s not natural for me to
be well, I’m not a fair test, but other people——’

  ‘Which other people?’

  The names of Dr Woolacott’s successful cases escaped him for the moment. They filled the centre of his mind, yet the moment he looked at them they disappeared.

  ‘Quite so,’ said the other. ‘Woolacott,’ he kept on saying. ‘Woolacott! I’ve my eye on him. What’s life after twenty-five? Impotent, blind, paralytic. What’s life before it unless you’re fit? Woolacott! Even the poor can’t escape. The crying, the limping, the nagging, the medicine-bottles, the running sores – in the cottages too; kind Dr Woolacott won’t let them stop . . . You think I’m mad, but it’s not your own thought you’re thinking: Woolacott stuck it ready diseased into your mind.’

  Clesant sighed. He looked at the arms, now folded hard against each other, and longed to feel them around him. He had only to say, ‘Very well, I’ll change doctors,’ and immediately . . . But he never hesitated. Life until 1990 or 2000 retained the prior claim. ‘He keeps people alive,’ he persisted.

  ‘Alive for what?’

  ‘And there’s always the marvellously unselfish work he did during the war.’

  ‘Did he not. I saw him doing it.’

  ‘Oh – it was in France you knew him?’

  ‘Was it not. He was at his marvellously unselfish work night and day, and not a single man he touched ever got well. Woolacott dosed, Woolacott inoculated, Woolacott operated, Woolacott spoke a kind word even, and there they were and here they are.’

  ‘Were you in hospital yourself?’

  ‘Oh aye, a shell. This hand – ring and all mashed and twisted, the head – hair’s thick enough on it now, but brain stuck out then, so did my guts, I was a butcher’s shop. A perfect case for Woolacott. Up he came with his “Let me patch you up, do let me just patch you up,” oh, patience itself and all that, but I took his measure, I was only a boy then, but I refused.’