account. He told Neil you were the right one for Simon--I suppose he'd guessed you were in love and was trying to help you."
Oh, my dear, dear Stephen, how can I ever repay you for such
unselfishness? But the happiness you hoped to win for me will never be mine.
"And of course everything will come right now," Rose chattered on.
"Just as soon as Simon's got over me a bit, you'll be able to get him
."
"I should have thought you'd have grown out of talking about "getting"
men," I said coldly.
She flushed.
"I didn't mean it that way- you know I didn't. I'm hoping he'll really fall in love with you. He likes you so much already- he said so only
today."
A dreadful thought struck me.
"Rose- oh, Rose!" I cried.
"You didn't tell him I'm in love with him ?" She swore she hadn't. But I fear she had. He has been so kind ever since then he was always
that, but now his kindness seems deliberate. Or do I imagine it? I
know it has made me feel I can hardly bear to see him;
but it takes so much strength of mind not to, when he comes to talk to Father nearly every day. They are in the gatehouse together, now.
Apparently I was all wrong about Father.
Apparently it is very clever to start a book by writing THE CAT SAT ON
THE MAT nineteen times.
Now stop it, Cassandra Mortmain. You are still piqued because Thomas
was the one to guess that what we found in the tower wasn't just
nonsense. You are trying to justify your stupidity--and it was
stupidity, considering Father had told you plainly that all his
eccentricities meant something. And it isn't true that the book starts with nineteen cats on mats; in the revised version there are only seven of them. And there is a perfectly logical explanation of them,
according to that bright boy Thomas. They are supposed to be in the
mind of a child learning to read and write.
Am I unusually stupid his Am I old-fashioned his Am I really Harry's
father jeering at Jacob Wrestling? Oh, I can see that Father's puzzles and problems are clever in themselves, that the language in which he
sets them out conjures up beautiful images; but why are they supposed to be more than puzzles and problems his Thomas and I were used as
guinea-pigs for the first four sections when Father had fully revised them; there is a lot more in them now than when we found them two
months ago. I really did try. I worked out the children's puzzles
quite easily. I managed to do the crossword--and I can't say I enjoyed it, as the clues are all to do with nightmares and terror. I treated
that homing pigeon with the greatest respect (it is the hero of a kind of comic strip called "Pigeon's Progress"). I even fought my way through most of Section D, which is a new kind of puzzle invented by
Father, partly words, partly patterns, with every clue taking you
further and further back into the past. But none of it meant anything to me-and it did to Thomas, though he admitted he couldn't get his
feelings into words.
Father said: "If you could, my boy, I'd go out and drown myself." Then he roared with laughter because Topaz said Section A had "overtones of eternity."
As far as I am concerned, it all has overtones of lunacy NO. I am
jeering again. I am DENSE. If Simon says Father's Enigmatism is
wonderful, then it is. (it was Simon who christened it
"Enigmatism"-and a very good name for it.) And publishers both in England and America have paid Father an advance, even though the whole book may not be finished for years. And the first four sections are
going to be printed in an American magazine very soon. So now will I
stop jeering?
If only Father would answer a few questions! If Thomas would throw out some more of his bright ideas! (after telling me Section A was a child learning to read and write, he decided he was not "prepared" to say any more.) Topaz, of course, is always delighted to air her views, but I
hardly find them helpful.
Her latest contributions are "cosmic significance" and "spherical profundity."
The one person who could help me, of course, is Simon; but I don't like to ask him to have a private talk in case he thinks I am running after him. I try to avoid meeting him unless someone else is there. Often I keep out of the way until I know he has gone back to Scoatney.
Shall I let myself see him today? Shall I run down from the mound when he comes out of the gatehouse, then say I want to ask him about
Father's work? I do indeed, but more than anything I just want to be
with him. If only I could be sure that Rose didn't tell him about
me!
I will wait until tomorrow. I promise myself tomorrow.
It is out of my hands. I looked down and saw him standing in the
courtyard--he waved to me -started towards the bridge--he is coming up!
Oh, I won't let myself be self-conscious! It will help if I talk hard about Father-How much one can learn in an hour!
All I really want to write about is what happened just before he left.
But if I let myself start with that I might forget some of the things which came first. And every word he said is of deepest value to me.
We sat side by side on the rug. He had come to say good-bye; in a few days he is going to America--partly because Mrs. Cotton wants to be in New York for the winter and partly so that he can be there when
Father's work first comes out in the magazine.
He is going to write some articles on it.
"Your Father says I'm like an alert terrier shaking a rat," he told me.
"But I think he's rather glad to be shaken. And it's important that he should be dropped at the feet of the right people."
I said: "Simon, as a parting present, could you tell me anything that would help me to understand what he's driving at ?"
To my surprise, he said he'd already made up his mind to try.
"You see, when I'm gone you'll be the one person in close touch with him who's capable of understanding it--oh, Thomas is a clever lad, but there's an oddly casual quality about his interest--in a way, it's
still the interest of a child.
Anyhow, I'm sure it's your understanding that your Father hankers
for."
I was astonished and flattered.
"Well, I'm only too willing. But if he won't explain Why won't he, Simon ?"
"Because it's the essence of an enigma that one must solve it for oneself."
"But at least one is allowed to know--well, the rules for solving puzzles."
He said he rather agreed with me there and that was why he had
persuaded Father to let him talk to me.
"Do you want to ask me questions ?"
"I certainly do. The first one is: Why does his work have to be an enigma at all?"
Simon laughed.
"You've started off with a honey.
No one will ever know why a creator creates the way he does. Anyway,
your father had a very distinguished forerunner. God made the universe an enigma."
I said, "And very confusing it's been for everybody. I don't see why Father had to copy Him."
Simon said he thought every creative artist did, and that perhaps every human being was potentially creative.
"I
think one of the things your father's after is to stimulate that
potential creativeness-to make those who study his work share in its
actual creation.
Of course, he sees creation as discovery. I mean, everything is
already created, by the first cause-call it God if you like; everything is already there to be found."
I think he must have seen me looking a little bewildered because he
stopped himself and said: "I'm not putting this clearly--wait-give me a minute--" He thought with his eyes closed, as he did once on May Day; but this time I only dared take one quick glance at his face. I was