Then, as I lay in the darkness, alone and wretched, I was numbed by the realisation that never—never—should I see her again.
And then, unheralded as a landslide, came the overwhelming knowledge that I was in love with her.
The transformation scene created by this discovery was so total that I could only stare at it with the astonishment of a child at a pantomime.
But almost immediately an interruption occurred—and a dramatic one.
Suddenly the light was switched on and Mervyn stumbled into the room—a Mervyn not easily recognisable. Staring eyes blazed in a pale distorted face, while he made jerky movements with his arms as if trying to free himself from an invisible assailant.
I sprang up and went to him.
“Are you ill?”
As he did not reply, I said:
“Get into bed!
He pointed to an arm-chair, so I guided him to it, then switched on the electric fire.
For some moments he lay huddled in a heap, but at last managed to say:
“Ridiculous, of course. . . . Frightfully sorry. . . . And so on. . . . Sort of collapse. . . . Hysteria, really.”
It was some time before he was able to talk coherently.
“Terribly apologetic, and all that. Absolutely childish! D’you happen to remember by any chance what I told you about my being blown up at the war—and about a young soldier called Ray?”
“Of course I remember!”
“Really? Well, every few months I dream the whole thing again—to the last detail. Extraordinary! I hear the shellfire—see our fellows retreating—then there’s a terrific explosion and I find myself doing a series of complicated somersaults in mid-air. I fall to earth, completely stunned, then look round and see Ray, quite near me—dead.”
Pause.
“I have this dream every few months. Always ends with my seeing Ray dead. It really is very—unpleasant. When I wake, I daren’t be alone. Perfectly absurd, of course, but you know what ridiculous creatures human beings are.”
Another pause. A long one.
“I say, Max! I suppose there isn’t a drink in the place?”
“Afraid not.”
“What’s the time?”
“About half-past two.”
“Shouldn’t think old Carshalton’s asleep yet. A man who’s interpreting the Book of Revelations couldn’t be in bed by two-thirty, do you think?”
“Doesn’t seem likely.”
“I’ll go up and try to get a tot of rum. Better put on my corduroys. Surely this ice age can’t last much longer.”
He returned in about three-quarters of an hour—wholly himself again—and enveloped in an aromatic aura.
“I say, Max! Carshalton really is a remarkable bloke. There he was in his wizard’s gown, wind-blown hair, and prophetic eyes, pondering this text: ‘And she brought forth a man child, who was to rule all nations with a rod of iron.’ I asked if that were Hitler and he said that, until recently, he had been certain it was Hitler—but now he was compelled to look in a more easterly direction. Anyhow, Carshalton is a real Christian. He gave me two big tots of rum. And he sent one down for you.”
“I don’t want it.”
“You—don’t?” His tone tried to register disappointment, but was unconvincing. “Right! Back in no time!”
He returned in about five minutes with a small tray on which stood a steaming tumbler, a thick exercise book, a packet of cigarettes, and some sheets of paper. He put the tray on a table near his arm-chair, sat down, took a sip of rum, then said:
“The real trouble, Max, is that my capital is trust money, so I can’t get at it.”
“Surely you’ve tried to break the settlement?”
“Tried? Tried? Every lawyer in London knows the clauses of that settlement deed by heart. They recite them in their sleep—to the consternation of their wives, who think they are talking in code. But the point is that I have a trustee. A monster—Ezra Barnacle. You can do nothing with Ezra.”
“You can’t?”
“Nothing! If I telephone him, directly I give my name, he says: ‘No, Mervyn.’ If I write, he returns the letter, unopened, with ‘No, Mervyn’ written on the back of the envelope. Ezra is a monster—a Victorian monster—who has a remarkable resemblance to the Prince Consort, and dresses exactly like him.”
Pause.
“By the way, Max, talking of Victorians reminds me. I was reading an article by a Left Literary Bloke when I fell asleep last night. This Left Literary Bloke sees all modern Youth pulsing with Progress—and eyes aflame with Utopian visions. Extraordinary delusion! I meet many young men who are eighteenth-century Tories—and I’ve just met a young woman who is as Victorian as a sampler. I must tell you about her.”
He took a pull at his rum, then continued:
“She’s about twenty-three. She has deep, earnest, brown eyes, and she lives with three maiden aunts at Highgate. She is secretary to an old, old family lawyer who practises in a vault near Lincoln’s Inn. She’s shy, demure, and blushes frequently. She reads the parish magazine, Little Women, and What Katy Did At School, I sat next to her on the top of a bus. I did not look at her, but just started talking as I always do. Well, at last I noticed that she had not said one word, so I glanced at her. Great, serious, trustful eyes were regarding me with coy amazement. She said she’d never spoken to a stranger before—and had never met any one like me.”
“Which seems probable.”
“I’ve met her two or three times. I think I can say that I’ve established a bridgehead in her affections. I shall consolidate—then fan out. Eventually, of course, I shall execute a pincer movement. That’s the one I like.”
“Tell me this, Mervyn: Don’t any of the innumerable women you meet ever ask if you are married?”
“It’s odd you should say that, because last week one of them did ask if I were married. I said I could not answer that question—for security reasons.”
After a silence, I said:
“What I was going to ask is this: Do you get any satisfaction from your numerous affairs with women?”
“No, no, nothing to speak of! For one thing, it’s such a repetitive performance and, as someone said, all repetition is anti-spiritual.”
“So you don’t care a lot about it, but you go on with it. Is that right?”
“Absolutely! There are several reasons. One is that sex desire is given more publicity than anything else. And I suppose that has an effect on the subconscious mind—if modern people still possess one. The result is that you get what Frieda calls—urges. And off you go again! And so, Mervyn Maitland, like everyone else, sells eternity to get a toy. That’s another phrase I picked up somewhere.”
Pause.
“It’s like smoking, Max. I dislike cigarettes—they give me a beastly mouth in the morning—but I smoke more and more of them. Mind you. I’m not as bad as Sydney Sparks, who tried to train himself to smoke cigarettes in his sleep—with the result that his wife ran off with a fireman. Most sex, like smoking, is habit, my dear fellow. Still, perhaps it’s better to be humble through indulgence than proud through abstinence. I’ve noticed that most abstainers are pretty frosty with spiritual pride. Anyway, there’s a tidal wave of sex nowadays—which isn’t surprising, as this little island is bursting with Americans, Canadians, Czechs, Poles, Free French, Dutch, and other members of the peace-loving nations. So, inevitably, sex rages. After all, sex is international. There’s no language bar. It’s basic Esperanto.”
He rose, stretched with huge satisfaction, moved his chair nearer the fire, then sat down.
“Listen, Max! This is serious. I’ve been haunting the Mirage Club lately and I do wish you’d go there sometimes.”