Bellamy
P.S. Is it true that Galatians 3.20 is the ‘great text’ mentioned in Robert Browning’s poem? I can’t see anything wrong with it.
Bellamy put down his pen. It was a dark morning. It was raining. He had pulled the curtains. He turned off the little lamp by which he had been writing. Through the space in the ragged curtains he could now see the rain coursing down the window-pane. It was clear and grey, seeming both still and in motion, accompanied by a soft humming sound caused no doubt by innumerable drops which were striking the pavement. Bellamy relaxed his hand and left it lying inert upon the page. He looked at it. He relaxed his lips and listened to his breath, he slowed his breath. When writing to Father Damien he always felt excited, he flushed, the words crowded onto the page faster than his thought, he had to prevent himself from abbreviating them into an illegible shorthand. He had been told not to write too often, he obeyed this command. Sometimes when he finished writing he felt a sick contingent sensation as if he had suddenly shrunk into something very small, a beetle, a piece of crumpled paper, a little dry lump of mud. He had once written to Father Damien about this state, calling it his dark night of the soul. Father Damien had replied that he could have no conception of that dark night, and should be humble enough to recognise ordinary boredom. At other times he could, as he released his pen, feel serenely tired and calm, sitting quiet for a while with his hands folded in a usual pose of meditation. Then there might come what he took to be the opposite sensation, the silent breeding of an enormous space, a chasm faintly lit, silently fermenting. In fact this experience now came to him quite often at times when he was sitting still. On more rare occasions he was gifted with tears. Time passed. He found himself thinking about how Father Damien had hinted, not for the first time, that Bellamy might in the end find his vocation in returning to social work. So what was going on now would seem like a holiday, perhaps later a dream. He thought I can’t be content with that, I have come so far, I must have more, more. Surely I have felt it, I have seen it, it has captured me. Surely it is true. Before him he had sensed, and with his other eyes seen, the vast extension of his soul wherein God seethed and bubbled like a vast lightless underground spring. Now, as he moved uneasily, remembering the priest’s ‘discouraging words’, something within him said, it’s all imaginary, it isn’t exactly false, it’s just a sort of waking dream. Then he thought, that angel that stood at the bottom of my bed, he was a dream all right. But who was he and what did he say? Now the wind was driving the rain against the window. Something touched him, perhaps the delayed tears. He thought, Eckhart was deemed a heretic, he was lucky not to be burnt. He moved, turning, thrusting his chair away, attempting to stand up. As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, oh God. My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God. He took a step, then knelt upon the floor, then fell face down upon the dusty threadbare carpet.
‘Perhaps he won’t come back.’
‘He’ll come back.’
‘He speaks so oddly, not like what one would expect. I think he just wanted to look at you.’
‘He looked at you. You shook his hand.’
‘Fancy his recognising me.’
‘He didn’t recognise you. You weren’t there. If you had been you would have been called as a witness.’
‘I – ? Oh yes. Indeed. Oh dear – but he knows – ’
‘God, have I got to hammer it into your head? We are not concerned with what he thinks he knows. We are simply concerned with what happened.’
‘But he saw – ’
‘It was dark, he saw nothing, he has had a severe blow on the head and has lost his memory. I thought he was a thief, perhaps he wasn’t. I shall be polite to him. He is certainly a damn nuisance and must be got rid of at once.’
‘You must say you’re glad he’s alive, at any rate you must be pleased that you didn’t kill him.’
‘I am a fool to let you be here. The fact is, I don’t fancy seeing him alone, and there’s no one else I can ask – Oh damn – look, I require you to be absolutely silent. I shall do all the talking.’
‘It’s nearly time for him to come.’
It was the evening of the day of the unexpected stranger’s visit. He had indeed stayed a short time. He had also, moving a little forward toward Lucas who remained seated, seen the baseball bat lying upon the desk. He stepped back and for an instant only exhibited the emotion which Clement had picturesquely described as turning pale. Apart from this instant he had maintained a tone of cool, almost considerate, politeness. He had announced that he would now have to go but would like to return at eight o’clock in the evening if that would suit Professor Graffe. Lucas had assented. Clement had silently shown him out. It was ten to eight.
Clement could not now conceal his agitation. ‘Oh dear, what will happen? Shall we offer him a drink?’
‘No.’
‘I’d like a drink.’
‘There is none in the house.’
‘Oh, of course. I hope he won’t stay long. I haven’t had any lunch.’
‘You may find yourself without an appetite for dinner also.’
‘How terribly unfortunate about the bat.’
‘Oh shut up. That didn’t happen. Anyway it had no significance.’
Clement had left the house that morning very soon after the stranger’s departure. Lucas, declining discussion, had told his brother to clear off. Clement went to the theatre where some sort of unruly committee meeting was in progress, stayed there a short time, went back to his flat, tried to eat something and failed, rang up Louise who chatted about Moy’s birthday party. She also asked after Lucas. Then he lay down on the sofa, uncomfortably, so as not to fall asleep. Then he took a short walk in the rain, returned to change his wet clothes, then took a taxi to Lucas’s house arriving at seven instead of, as Lucas had told him to, a quarter to eight.
The rain had stopped. The drawing-room, by contrast with the morning scene, was brightly lit. The room had scarcely altered since their father had furnished it, hastily but not cheaply, when he decided to make London his base of operations. The desk was handsome and huge, with an almost military look, its dark green leather glowing, its brass fitments gleaming. Lucas, who scarcely tolerated other people in the house, cleaned the place himself, hoovering the floors and dusting and polishing the furniture. Bookshelves covered the entire wall behind the desk, and also the opposite wall by the door. A large dark brown leather sofa, rarely sat upon, shiny as on the day of its purchase, stretched out beside the door to the garden, above it hung a watercolour of Lake Geneva showing the Château de Chillon. There were several powerful strong upright chairs with leather seats and ladder-backs. There was one soft low ‘sewing chair’ upholstered in golden brown velvet with an embroidered cushion on it which betokened the English mother. Her name was Barbara. There was a huge dark Persian carpet now pleasantly worn. Opposite the door to the garden a large Victorian marble fireplace surmounted a little crouching gas fire. The long mantelshelf was occupied by ornaments, again reminiscent of both English and Italian ancestors, china cats and dogs, lustre bowls, and hand-painted caskets of dimmed glass. Above the fireplace hung a portrait, by an obscure painter, of the Italian grandmother. In the picture she looked thin and startled, huge-eyed, one hand, curiously enlarged, clutching, above her silk décolleté dress, the end of a yellow amber necklace. Clement would have liked to have that painting, he would also have liked the sewing chair; but he had surrendered the house and all its contents to Lucas when his mother died. Or rather, he did not ‘surrender’ it, it simply never occurred to him to dispute the matter with Lucas. He wondered sometimes if Lucas and that frightened woman sometimes looked at each other in the dark evenings.
Tonight all the lights were on in the drawing-room, the big centre light with its bulbous art deco glass shade, and the four lamps, the green desk lamp, and the three powerful standard lamps. The thick brown velvet curtains, which reached to the floor, had been drawn against the tw
ilight, now against the dark. The corridor, which led past a desolate book-filled front room to the front door, was also brilliantly lit by two high unshaded bulbs. Even the light outside the door, which Clement had not seen illuminated since his mother’s death, was turned on. At eight o’clock precisely the doorbell rang. Clement, as instructed, ran to open the door. The stranger in the trilby hat stood outside, holding his umbrella now folded up into a neat packet. He smiled at Clement. Clement offered awkwardly to take his coat, but the man did not proffer it. Clement agitated and confused, forgetful of Lucas’s prohibition, launched into conversation.
‘I’m so glad to see you so well, you’ve made a marvellous recovery – ’
The stranger, surveying Clement with a gentle yet quizzical look, said to him, ‘I too must congratulate you on being still here.’
Clement said, ‘Oh yes – but actually – ’
After this ridiculous but important exchange, Clement turned and led the way into the drawing-room, and the visitor followed, retaining hat and coat and umbrella.
Lucas had turned the green-shaded lamp away from himself, but sat clearly revealed in the other lights with which the room was flooded. He sat quite still, upright, with his small hands evenly placed palms down upon the desk. He looked expressionlessly at the stranger with his slit eyes. The stranger, not taking his gaze from Lucas, now unhurriedly took off his coat and hat and handed them sideways, together with his umbrella, to Clement who, standing just behind him, hastened to put them, folding the coat carefully, upon one of the upright chairs. The stranger then walked down the room and stood before Lucas, a few feet from him. The sinister object was of course gone, but the stranger’s gaze flickered for a moment to where it had been. Clement followed, standing again behind him like an attentive servant.
There was a brief pause, long enough for Clement to wonder wildly who would speak first and what on earth he would say. The scene seemed to him absolutely taut with terrible impossibility.
Lucas, moving his flattened hands slightly in relation to each other, spoke first.
‘Good evening. I did not intend to kill you and I am glad to see you alive. I was unaware of your recovery.’
The stranger said in a low voice, ‘Yes, I thought you might not know. My death was news, but not my resurrection.’
‘Quite. Shortly afterwards I went abroad. It is kind of you to come and reassure me. It was an unpleasant encounter for both of us. I was under the impression that you intended to rob me, if I was wrong I am sorry. In any case nothing of that sort happened and we need not speak of it. You understandably wanted to see me, and now you have seen me, I have no ill feeling toward you, as I said I am glad to know that you are alive. It is extremely uncomfortable to believe that one has killed a man, however innocently. I think we may agree that this, though brief, has been a good meeting. Thank you for coming to relieve my mind. I hope you will now continue in good health. So – good evening to you, and goodbye.’
Lucas stood up.
The stranger who, as Clement observed him, had lifted his shoulders and closed his pendent hands while listening to the speech, now turned for a moment and darted a look at Clement. Then he returned to stare at Lucas. Clement had listened to Lucas’s cold clear words with amazement – yet what had he expected? He felt ashamed and shocked, yet also in a way which was familiar to him, he admired his brother. However, when the stranger looked at him, Clement felt a shock, a flush, as if he had been scalded.
The stranger said to Lucas, ‘Actually there is quite a lot more that I want to say. May I be quite clear? Did you really believe and do you still believe, that I am a thief?’
Lucas sat down and made a gesture, also familiar to Clement, which expressed the making of a concession tiresomely asked and grudgingly, yet generously, conceded. He said, ‘I only speak of an impression, if you now wish to declare that you are not, then of course I am ready to believe you. All I mean is that this need not detain us any further.’
The stranger said, ‘This impression was aired in court, where unfortunately I was not present, and I gather that you did not reject it.’
Lucas said in an irritable but matter-of-fact tone, ‘I was not present either, except when I was ordered to speak. I know virtually nothing of what went on in court, I felt it did not concern me. If you can recall that unfortunate night, it was very dark. I am sorry that I struck you such a violent blow. Perhaps your memory of it all is less than clear. All I mean is that since we are now not in a law court we need not go over the details of an episode so extremely disagreeable to both of us.’
The stranger taking his time and speaking in a slow thoughtful voice said, ‘I rather like details. Of course I was not attempting to rob you and I think you know that very well.’ He turned suddenly to Clement and asked, ‘How exactly are you two related? It is an unusual name.’
Clement, taken by surprise, said, ‘We are brothers.’ He flushed again.
The stranger murmured, ‘Ah, I see.’
Lucas said sharply, ‘May I ask you to go now? There is no point in our blundering over this confused and unpleasant matter which is now over and done with. I feel sure you do not feel disposed to chat about it. Please excuse my bluntness.’
The stranger, stepping back and speaking partly to Clement, said, ‘Perhaps I may remind you of my name, which you will both of course have heard, but may prefer not to recall. It was I am afraid rather mangled by the press, misspelt and, I am told, mispronounced. My name is Mir, spelt M – I – R, and spoken as in ‘mere’, not ‘mire’, a word which in the Russian language means both ‘world’ and ‘peace’ – world peace, a felicitous combination you must agree. I expect you know Russian, Professor Graffe, I believe you are a very learned man, in fact I can see from here books in Russian upon the shelf behind you. When I recovered consciousness – ’
Lucas came round the desk. Mir stepped back, so did Clement. Lucas said in a low voice, ‘Please – go away!’
Mir was considerably taller than Lucas, he was broad-shouldered and solidly built, but with the look of a man who should have been more ample. Though his face retained a sort of plumpness, he had probably become thinner during his illness. His dark green tweed jacket, as Clement noticed, hung upon him a little loosely, and his big powerful hands, hanging at his sides during the conversation, were wrinkled and stained. His age however might be guessed to be considerably less than fifty. His head was bulky and high-domed, his cheeks, with high cheek-bones, were plump, his nose, with wide nostrils, was short and broad and substantial, his mouth was thick-lipped but well-formed, his hair was chestnut brown and curly, his eyes, under copious eyebrows, were large, a dark and murky grey. He spoke with the odd accent which Clement had been unable to place until the man uttered his name. Clement had not hitherto known his name, had not read about him in the press, and did not want to know the name of the man who had died in his stead. He wanted this man to be no-man. Mir was still hard to place. He did not seem quite like an intellectual. He spoke slowly as if thinking slowly. He had a certain presence, a certain air of authority.
‘All right,’ said Mir, ‘I’ll go away. But I want to see you again soon.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Lucas, ‘that is not possible.’
‘I think you can make it possible. May I be perfectly frank? I want something from you – and I propose to obtain it.’
‘What?’
‘Restitution.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sometimes called justice.’
Lucas was sitting on his desk. Mir had gone. Clement waited anxiously for Lucas, who had been walking up and down the room in silence after Mir’s departure, to speak. Clement felt fear, breathing it in with the thick still air of the room, the smell of books, the presence of books. Lucas never opened windows. He felt also a curious shuddering thrill, somehow connected with Mir’s resurrection.
Lucas, seeming suddenly to notice Clement who was standing by the fireplace, smiled. Clement was amazed. Lucas said,
‘Well, what did you make of all that?’