A Garden of Trees

by Nicholas Mosley

  Being turned outwards, and suffering, he had to have a God, and his god was Marius. I believe that Marius was a god to several people, but to none so strongly as he was to Peter. Peter took Marius as a god because he was free not only from all the things that Peter hated, but also from the hatred that was in Peter; and perhaps it was this hatred that obsessed Peter most of all. I know that Marius never hated. I don’t know if he ever loved, either, in a human, passionate way; not even Annabelle. The word seems to bear a different relation to him. There is a meaning of the word in which it is abstract, inhuman; as if it described the state in which love might be possible, rather than the fact of love itself. This meaning, I think, was more applicable to Marius. Of course, Marius was not entirely like this, but he seemed to be at moments; and looking back on him this seems to be the best way to explain him.

  It is difficult to explain him further. I heard him called a saint, once, at the end of his life, but he was not a saint. Saints are solitary, emotional people, whose force is emotional and who as a result are often embarrassing. Saints are crucified by the world because people get fed up with them, because they are too much of a good thing, not because the world feels a challenge from them. Marius’s force was not emotional: he was too restrained, enclosed, static. It was not intellectual either, because I think he despised the intellect: he never gave much time to arguments that were logical. Another word is needed to describe the force that Marius possessed, and I do not think that the word exists. It was something to do with the subconscious, something frightening without the emotion of fear and true without the validity of reason. One always felt that Marius was right, like an oracle, even when one disagreed with his words. It was this that was frightening. His force, his whole understanding, seemed to come from a different level of consciousness to that of other people. Being in this presence was sometimes like the feeling that one gets when one is alone in a forest—a hard, impersonal, unbelievable feeling, like losing consciousness. I thought of him once as a tree, and I remember this feeling. Primitive peoples are said to worship trees because they imagine that there is something supernatural about them. There is nothing emotional or intellectual about this sensation. It is different from that—on another level.

  And the world did feel a challenge from Marius. They felt him as a witch, not as a saint, and they resented him. The peculiarity of witches, as opposed to that of saints, is that they are usually burned without having done anything. Saints have to do a lot before attention is called to them: witches need do nothing. Saints are condemned for their unnatural actions: witches for their unnatural personality. Marius did not have to do anything. He maddened people by doing nothing, by his aloofness. And those who did not see him as a god often saw him as a witch, and they wanted to burn him. They said he was inhuman, and so he was. Humanity depends upon the conflict between good and evil, and I do not think that there was often a conflict in Marius at all.

  And Annabelle? I cannot describe Annabelle. She has seemed to me to be most things in her time.

  In the days that we were together, then, after our meeting with Alice, we moved around London with the impetuosity of people who have not known each other for very long, people who have been thrown together on a holiday that might end at any moment or go on for years, people who keep moving because to sit still is a waste of time. Peter, waiting for news from his father, had nothing to do: I, being idle and disorganized, had nothing to do: Marius and Annabelle, although they disappeared regularly—she to the shops and kitchen, he to no one knew where—did not let what they had to do intrude upon the irresponsibility that seemed our special province. I have never again been happy in this province, but I was then, and I think it was this very fact that we were waiting, as if on a holiday, and the fact that we really knew each other so little, that made this happiness possible. I had built up myths around them, and perhaps they had built up their own myths too, and one can live by myths quite easily so long as circumstances do not combine to mock or shatter them. For me the circumstances were propitious for myths, because my knowledge of the reality was so limited. There were many unanswered questions that lay around us, for instance—questions about Marius’s wife, about Marius’s relations with Annabelle, about hers with him, about Peter’s attitude to whatever these relations were. There was also the question about myself—about why they should be content that I should spend so much time with them. This question was never even asked. Nor, indeed, were the others, but they hung in the air around us like the mysteries, the riddles, that are the guardians of myths. The question of Marius’s wife, especially, was often present in my mind; but instead of causing the uncertainty that might have been expected, in some way it helped, by the fact of its secrecy, to mitigate the irresponsibility and make possible the fun. Since we did not know what it was that we ought to worry about, we waited for a time when we might; and in the meantime did not worry at all. It was as if, under the shadow of secrets, we were able to live more freely beneath the sun that might otherwise have weaned us. The power of myths usually resides in their mysteries.

  It was this power that determined my feelings at that time towards Annabelle. I loved her, and I knew that I loved her, but it seemed impossible that I should ever make this known. I felt that she belonged to Marius; that there was so much established between her and Marius in their attitude, their behaviour, and their past, that any intrusion on my part would be sacrilege. It never occurred to me to try to establish a separate relationship between the two of us on our own. Whenever we happened to find each other on our own by chance, the situation at once became awkward, alarming, as if we were treading on forbidden ground; threatening the myth, coming close to breaking some taboo. We would make polite conversation, not looking at each other, and wait for the others to return. I became strangely aware of myself at these moments—aware of responsibility and the stretching length of time. But the others always did return, and then we would greet them, and the fantasy, shaded from its dangers, could continue on its levels out of time and out of thought. I did not know the nature of these taboos, these mysteries, but I remember them. Whatever love there was between Annabelle and me at that time belonged to them. I think it was the existence of Marius’s wife that was perhaps the cause of them. She was the fifth person amongst us, always, absent and unknown, who by her presence and yet her absence made the relationship between the four of us so imaginary and yet so strong.

  So we lived on the surface, and the surface was movement, and the movement was fun. Alice was right, I thought; it is fun that matters. Fun as a business, fun as a life, fun as an attitude that is graceful and creative. There were days when nothing mattered but this, and these I remember. Peter walking up the street with his golden hair bounding, his jacket open, his tie over his shoulder, his shirt rucked up around his waist: Annabelle with a hat like those that Spanish men wear when they come in to towns for the festivals, a black stiff hat with a wide flat brim and a crown on top like a cake tin: Marius on the corner, always slightly dramatic, always posed, his hands in his pockets, watching. Peter running through the traffic, running for a bus, everything flying, his arms, his legs, his elbows, waving: Annabelle swaying with long quick steps with her chin tilted up above the soft black strap that ran from her hat past her cheek-bones: Marius standing, watching us catch the bus, following from a distance discreetly in a taxi. Peter wore old clothes, clothes from his school days, but he wore them with a peculiarly careless elegance. Annabelle made her own clothes, made them from stiff jutting material that went in capes and folds, reminding one of bustles and epaulettes and bodices. One never noticed what Marius wore.

  Peter protests: “Annabelle, that hat is preposterous; you might be in the chorus of the Chocolate Soldier.” “They wore busbies, surely, or those cardboard things like jugs.” “Yours is like a cheese dish.” “We haven’t eaten for twelve hours,” Marius says; “Let’s go in here.”

  But we don’t, we go on, to the park, perhaps, where the band is playing (Peter: �
��Give us a song, Annabelle, you look like Lily Langtry”); or to Lords, for the last few overs of the day (Marius: “What we want is something revolutionary, a bowler who can send the ball up very high and get it coming down vertically on the stumps”); or to Kew, for the flowers (Annabelle: “I don’t think anyone will see you if you go into the bushes”).

  At Kew the flowers are out, some children are playing with a brightly coloured ball, the nursemaids are knitting beside their prams. The ball rolls to our feet, Peter picks it up (“Look out for the greenhouse”), he kicks it, it shoots up over the trees like a rocket. We spend several minutes trying to fish it out of the river, we borrow a walking-stick from an old man asleep. The children watch us, severe, reproachful. We are so much younger than they. Peter gets the ball to the edge of the river; he slashes at it, wickedly, with the stick; it disappears gracefully over the trees from whence it came. The children seize it, the old man dreams, Annabelle smells a petal from a blossom like snow.

  In the park we meet friends, friends of Annabelle’s, they want us to go somewhere, they have several cars. We climb in. It is a garden-party day with garden-party people, some boats on the river, fireworks, games. Annabelle walks through the crowd like a reaper through an orchard; she is in grey, and takes her hat off, because other women are in purple and have cherries in their hair. The men are tightly waisted, carrying gloves and rolled umbrellas. The day is hot. Peter undoes more buttons as the others mop their brows. We glide away, discreetly, seeing a fair-ground in a field. Crossing over a bridge above an ornamental garden we are like willow-patterned people on a plate of painted green.

  There are swing-boats, and we swing, and the earth slips sideways like the tumbling of a tray. Annabelle is above me, her hands are towards my head, the rope pulls her arms and her arms go with it, her hair is flung to the sunlight like the rising pulse of flames. She pulls, standing upright, her body is like a bird; she comes downwards, down upon me, then beneath me, as if she were drowned. The bird flies, falls to the water, she floats like a swimmer stretched laughing on the sea. As I stand up to pull, my knees touch hers, her body is like the waves upon which seagulls rest, and I am the bird.

  Peter is by the cocoanut-shy. “I say, these things are stuck on with glue.” “I know, old man, but you can’t expect to win every time.” “I haven’t won once.” “I know, old man, but you’re honestly not supposed to.”

  Annabelle props her elbows on the counter of a booth. She is given an air-gun, loaded. She leans forwards so that her waist is against the edge of the counter and the black band of her belt seems to cut her body in two. I stand behind her. Her dress is pulled forwards in tiny wrinkles from her armpits and her skirt curves outwards with the softness of skin. One foot is against the upright structure of the counter and the other is back with her toe just touching the ground. I can see her breathing. Then she holds her breath, and the muscle in her leg tightens, and she shoots a clay pipe from a shelf.

  Peter is rotating dispassionately on the end of a chain. “Rather dull, this.” We encourage him, and he stands on his head. The machine is stopped. “Sorry, old man, but it’s strictly anti-rules.” “I say, do all you people talk like this?” “Like what, old man, but you might get a nasty flesh wound.” “Flesh wound be damned, I might get killed.”

  As we go back in the cars I am alone with Annabelle. We sit looking out of our respective windows. The road passes. Time passes. We do not speak. The car is a tiny boat which has to be balanced very still. The road is dark, and the lights from other cars blind us. If only I could see into the dark, I think, and if other people did not blind me, I might not be so alone when I am alone with Annabelle.

  It was at Lords, finally, watching the cricket, that I met the Australian with whom I had shared a cabin on the boat. We were standing by the tavern, and Marius and Peter were having their protracted argument about the ball that should come down vertically on the stumps. (“You could hook it.” “Not if he pitched it dead on.” “He can’t have it both ways.” “Neither can you unless you sit on the stumps.”) The Australian came out of the Tavern with a mug of beer, and he did not see me at first. He was listening to the conversation. Annabelle had now joined in. (“Why shouldn’t you sit on the stumps?” “Danger of L.B.W.” “But the umpire never could tell unless he was up in the sky like a balloon.” “No reason why he shouldn’t be.” “He might get biased in a wind.”) The Australian had his head on one side and was grinning, incredulously. He began to roll a cigarette with the quick, damp movements that I remembered so well. The talk went on. (“It all depends on getting it very high.” “It sounds to me just like your grapefruits.” “You couldn’t hook a grapefruit, not at Lords.” “You might hook a lemon at the Oval.” “Oh Marius, really, what a dreadful joke.”)

  Then the Australian saw me. I detached myself from the group and greeted him. “Well,” he said, “and so you haven’t got any friends?” His gold teeth were showing, and I was glad to see him. “We were trying to find some way of beating you Australians,” I said. (“It would burst.” “Not if you glided it.” “You couldn’t glide a banana.” “If you avoided the slips.” “Oh Marius, really, what an utterly dreadful joke.”) “You certainly have got some friends,” said the Australian. “Yes,” I said. (“You might pull a plum.” “Like Little Jack Horner.” “Would that be L.J. Horner, Sydney, second test?”) “Yes that would be Christmas,” said the Australian, joining in. I introduced him. “He must have been quite young at the time,” Marius said. “Yes that was the game when Old King Cole was called on to bowl,” said the Australian, leaning back on his heels and roaring with laughter.

  The Australian was a great success. He said that Annabelle was a corker, Marius sharp, and Peter dry. He called Peter’s bluff, and outwitted him in complexities. With Marius he got involved in a discussion on the cultivation of fruits. We never knew when he was serious. He paid Annabelle elaborate compliments, and we drank a lot of beer. He played our game like a professional—one of those new-world professionals who take sport so devoutly. As we talked with him and followed him through the maze of his serious jokes, in spite of the laughter and the success of the day, I had the impression that we were only amateurs at this sport, that we would never make a business of it as he did; and after we left him it seemed we could retire unhurt. And just before we parted he came over and said to me, grinning all golden with his teeth: “And you said that you hadn’t got a girl.”

  III

  A GARDEN OF TREES

  8

  So, in a playground, as children, we waited; there was talk but no action because there was nothing to do. In the playground there was no responsibility, no conflict—it was a small enclosed existence in a corner shut off from the world. The sun shone and we did not look over the railings. We thought we knew about love because Marius had talked about love, we thought we moved in awe of our secrets because they were secret: but our emotions, however real they appeared, were emotions of the imagination. We created our rituals—the swings, the see-saws, of the children’s mind—but they were symbols which went no further than the confines of our waiting. We remembered our words; we thought we saw a tragedy here, a reflection there, eternity in our secrets; but so long as they remained words and not actions they had little relevance to living. Enclosed thus we could have continued but for the prevalence of time. Time came in, like a nursemaid, with the demands of reality; and on a summer morning Marius asked me if I would like to see his wife.

  It was a windy day. I had slept badly on a sofa in the flat, and my eyes were heavy as if drained of moisture. Marius came early, before the others were up, and when he asked me I did not think of what to expect. I dressed, and had breakfast, and followed him. We went in a taxi, I did not know where.

  The day seemed blown with the litter of ages. Driving through the wind it was as if we were leaving our past behind like paper. Out beyond the railings, across the waiting world, I felt little except the numbness. And yet there, at the end, was the centre of
the mystery. Marius’s wife had always seemed to me the guardian of our secrets. Stepping out of the taxi and standing on the threshold I might have been some novice on this edge of another life.

  A mottled, unpretentious building, one of a row, more of a nursing home than a hospital, with large knobs of bells on either side of the door. We waited. Inside there was an atmosphere of caution combined with disregard. Silent, neat officials lurked behind half-closed doors, watching yet oblivious, not caring to hide and yet not willing to help. Marius led the way, ignoring them, steadily, like a soldier marching through an occupied town. I followed him up the carpeted stairs and along the vanishing rubber-tiled corridors. There was a silence like that which precedes an action. Then he stopped and knocked on a door. Again we waited.

  This was a private nursing home, I could see; quiet, rich, discreet; suffering muffled behind doors of polished wood, the privacy of richness observed as in a bank. At the far end of the passage nurses glided, carrying objects shrouded under heavy white cloths. Disease, dying, was well camouflaged here, white-painted with cleanliness, scrubbed with optimism—the buoyant, determined optimism of a healthy pretence. As we waited a figure emerged upon the passage like a ghost, a disheveled old man in a dressing-gown, lost, flat-slippered, poling his old thin neck out of his garment like a tortoise, peering and bewildered. A nurse saw him, and seized him, and steered him flip-flap down the passage to the bathroom. He seemed dingy and crumbling in the stiffness of the building, as if he had strayed from the housemaid’s cupboard where the dustpans and brushes are kept. The patients often seem out of place in a nursing home. Marius became uneasy waiting outside the door, so he pushed and went in.