The Parson (Peter Owen Modern Classic)

by Anna Kavan

  With all the power of her will, she set about trying to transform the memory of what had just happened into fearful but absurd nightmare that couldn’t possibly have been real; struggling as desperately now with her will as her body had struggled then to obliterate all but a confused dreamlike impression, as of something imaginary. She didn’t know whether she would ever be able to do it. She was still so cold, shivering, freezing cold, everything wavering round her. The iron grip holding her seemed the one stable point in the universe.

  Suddenly, then, she became aware of Oswald, who had saved her and was still holding her in his encircling arms, through which she could feel pulsing, like an electric current, the vibration of his desire. And, like a reflex, at this first instant of recognition, the part of her that always resented a man’s touch stiffened, and she heard her unsteady voice say, ‘Let me go ...’ Although, as she realized immediately afterwards, this was the very last thing she really wanted. She was really in desperate need of him at that moment. Alone, she couldn’t recover from her terrifying experience. She needed the help of another person to overcome it and re-establish her in her life. The warmth of a living body was needed to counteract that other coldly inhuman touch. She needed to be identified with the life force throbbing in Oswald’s passion in order to prove that she was also alive and a part of life.

  In spite of her protest, Oswald was what she needed, and Oswald she must have. Let him take her and warm her back to her life – let him exorcize the spell of the sea. His arms around her were hard and unyielding like bonds, but they were burning, pulsing with the urgency of his passion, to which she gave herself up, relaxing thankfully in their ungentle grasp.

  *

  It was to escape the load of his responsibilities and unhappiness, of which he was aware only as an undefined threat or weight, that the young man had followed her into the ruined castle. Inside, his blank state intensified by the dark and the sleep-walking motions of his companion, he’d drifted after her without a thought, as though being pulled by a magnet.

  His action in catching her when she fell had been mechanical, purely. But the effort involved had brought him partially out of his daze, to which he now wished to return.

  Why was he here in this horrible, dungeonlike place? Suddenly becoming more objectively conscious of Rejane, he remembered that she’d forced him to come, resenting this almost as much as he resented the pressure of her body, forcing him to be aware of the physical, when he wanted to exist only in the abstract. He wanted nothing to do with her, so why was she still in his arms?

  Seeing her leaning against him, limp and trembling and almost unconscious, incapable, obviously, of standing alone, in a sort of panic-resentment, he dragged her a few steps nearer the door. But he gave up the attempt at once. He’d never be able to get her outside, to drag her along all those black tunnels he vaguely recalled.

  Panic subsiding, he felt a remote surprise at the change in his own feelings. It was such a short time, hours rather than days, since to be holding her in his arms would have seemed like heaven. In this short time she’d become a stranger to him, a woman he neither knew nor wanted to know – least of all in the carnal sense. What could have put that thought into his head? The very notion of sensuality at such a time was repulsive to him.

  This was the moment when he felt Rejane’s slight stiffening and heard her voice murmur unsteadily, ‘Let me go ...’

  An instantaneous flash went through him, like the lurid flashes and sparks from an electric train. ‘No – why should I?’ he said; or rather, his voice said it for him, in the brutal, embittered tone his mother and sister had been the first to hear. All the resentment he had accumulated during his whole life seemed released now, as by a breaking dam, in this violent electric discharge, directed against the unjust world in general, and Rejane in particular, who had destroyed his dream and debased the love that should have been pure and perfect.

  It was as though, during his dazed absence from himself, the evil influences of the place had taken possession of him, filling him with a sort of madness The Parson could never have known. A strong, savage excitement was working in him, unmistakably pleasurable, though it was perverse and sadistic – The Parson could never have harboured any such cruel sensation.

  Some small remnant of his everyday self was disgusted and shocked; but this was immediately submerged by a new self which, in cynical rebellion against The Parson and all his works, swept his ideals into the dustbin as so much rubbish. To hell with The Parson!

  Now he was going to take what he wanted. The sinister flash again, as the knowledge of his intention exploded into his nerves and blood. Now he was going to take his revenge.

  The fierce excitement went on raging through him, while, with a sensation of something malign breaking out, full of destructive power, he clasped Rejane tightly to him and crushed his lips down on hers. At this moment he derived a peculiar satisfaction from knowing that he was outraging his most fundamental beliefs by performing an illicit cruel act, abhorrent to everybody. The sadism that had replaced his tender love rejoiced at the prospect of humiliating the lovely body he’d hitherto regarded as unattainable and almost holy. Really she was no better than the army wives, on whom he also seemed to be revenging himself by embracing her so fiercely.

  Still holding her firmly gripped by one arm, without lifting his mouth from hers, in a single sweeping movement he tore down and flung on the floor an armful of the tattered hangings, rotten and almost transparent with age, which adhered to the wall just behind him.

  *

  And Rejane, who normally couldn’t stand any form of coercion or crudity, actually encouraged his ruthless excitement, because it was almost like the blind destructive force of the sea, and she seemed to be substituting this situation for her other awful ordeal, which was thus rendered harmless. Her thoughts were still all confused; but she felt obscurely that she was making the disaster unreal, by repeating it now in this way, because her ravisher was a mere man who, basically, couldn’t harm her.

  Oswald’s warmth was an instant relief to her trembling body, which had been frozen almost to ice. His ungentle grasp restored stability to the world and anchored her firmly in it; his hard hands pulled her back to life. The violence with which he held her clenched stopped her shivering. The mortal cold melted out of her, and the blood, which had seemed static in her veins, circulated again. As warmth came back to her and her shuddering ceased, what had happened began to seem less and less possible: till presently, just as she wished, all that had taken place since she arrived in the north assumed the aspect of an incoherent dream, culminating in the nightmare just over – that it should have taken the form of the falling nightmares of her childhood confirmed this.

  Since each grotesque, incredible detail was a fresh proof that she must be dreaming, she could accept a sadistic lover who, as if with the intention of inflicting pain, crushed her much-cherished body against the rock, which the pile of rags, damp, mildewed, disintegrating, softened no more than a heap of cobwebs.

  Her heart was beating fast with triumphant relief – the sea had no more power over her! It had all been a nightmare, simply. Now she listened to the waves with a kind of gloating, as to the cries of a vanquished enemy she humiliated deliberately by this performance of the sexual act – which was the act of life – so soon after her victory, so near to the scene of the struggle.

  Safely back in her life, she felt stronger than ever before; herself again, but with this triumph added, that she’d conquered the power of the sea. She could now positively enjoy her sensations, the very strangeness of which stimulated her somewhat cold eroticism.

  Lying in Oswald’s arms she exulted because danger and death had been put far from her and had no more reality – nor had he, incidentally. All the same, she was glad to have taken him as her lover, which, to her sense of theatre, had always seemed the only appropriate climax and end to their relationship. It was quite true that she despised him rather for making no advances to h
er – a deficiency he’d corrected at the last moment with the rough violence to be expected of the barbaric north. She didn’t hold it against him, complacent and well disposed towards all the world as she could afford to be.

  5

  OUTSIDE, the storm hadn’t broken. They emerged into a world still ominously roofed over by leaden clouds. In this sombre light, glancing at her companion, Rejane was struck by his face of stony despair, most unsuited to her own triumphant feelings – for her, this was a moment for jubilation. In the overflow of her victorious good nature she wanted to cheer him up and asked what was the matter. Getting no answer, she supposed he was downcast because everything was so soon over, and cheerfully said, ‘We’d have been frozen if we’d stopped in there any longer. Besides, I thought you were in such a hurry to start back?’

  The wind swooped down on her then, she ran to the car, jumped in, slammed the door and pulled the window right up, too anxious to escape the northern elements to notice his continued silence and gloom. Wrapping herself in the rug, she quickly discarded those garments that were uncomfortably damp, snuggled into the luxurious warmth of the fur coat she’d left on the seat, and turned the driving mirror towards her to do her face.

  The love she’d always felt for her own beauty was her deepest, most sincere emotion, and for a while she was oblivious of everything but the reflection. She had no thought but the admiring wonder inspired by that lovely face, almost luminous in the dulled light, more radiantly beautiful than she’d ever seen it. Far above the commonplace vulgar world, where no threat could touch her, she floated, entranced by her own magnolia-pale loveliness.

  When she came down to earth again, she glanced out rather disdainfully at Oswald, still brushing and beating his clothes, in a stubborn, unsuccessful attempt to remove the traces of seaweed and water. Why did he fuss over such trifles? She called to him to make haste.

  The afternoon had gone bleak and horrible under the protracted threat of the storm. When they finally drove off, it seemed to her that all the viciousness of the coming winter pursued them, pouring out of the ruin behind, as if Bannenberg were its stronghold, the wind blowing great guns. She wanted only to forget the horrible place and didn’t even glance back, luxuriating in the warmth of the car, after all she’d been through in there, curling up in her comer with catlike content.

  Gradually, however, Oswald’s silence became impossible to ignore, obtruding itself upon her self-satisfaction. Persistently striking a discordant note, it forced her, eventually, to look at his face, which seemed to have taken on a greyish tinge under the tan. His fine blue eyes stared out with brilliant fixity, always averted from her; and never a word did he utter – she might not have been there at all.

  She was accustomed to very different treatment from her various lovers, and began to feel irritated. His silence got on her nerves. She resented it much more than his sadism just now, which she’d already almost forgotten, remembering only enough of his recent behaviour to realize that it contrasted strangely with his former adoring reverence. Her annoyance increased now; she didn’t want his unselfish devotion; but he had no right to take it away from her – she felt she’d been deprived of something that was really her property and gave him an indignant glance.

  How dare he inflict his sulks and silence upon her – so childish and stupid? He had no business to be sitting there – he ought to have vanished. If she’d really possessed magic powers, her venomous glance would have disintegrated the handsome young man on the spot. At such close quarters she found his nearness oppressive, he seemed to occupy too much room. Though she didn’t know it, his physical presence threatened the derealizing process on which she depended for her peace of mind. He seemed overpowering physically, rather as if some great snow animal had climbed into the car and were sitting beside her, taking up far too much space. But, though over-assertive, his presence was also lifeless, in its sullen, stupid silence, as though some great stuffed animal sat in the driver’s seat.

  She glanced at him again, in amusement this time, her good humour quickly restored. Of course he was lifeless. He had to be, since he wasn’t real but a character she had dreamed up, no more important to her than the memory of the pony, Coffee.

  Nestling into the comforting warmth and softness of her fur coat, closing her eyes, she settled down to wait for the drive to end, oblivious of Oswald and of her surroundings. She had no further use for the north, its spell had broken, for good and all this time. She simply waited to be somewhere else.

  She took no notice of the storm when it broke at last, just as they turned inland, the booming clouds releasing torrents of pale snow or sleet, in which were entangled odd electrical flickerings, which might have been lightning, or the aurora borealis, or Jove’s thunderbolts – she didn’t care which they were, she was indifferent, and scarcely looked.

  *

  It wouldn’t have interested her to know how persistently the man beside her was being tormented all the time by all sorts of painful emotions, of which she was the centre. His mental state was still far from normal, although to a point he had regained control. The satisfaction of his desire had brought him no peace, his senses were in a ferment, his thoughts churning distractedly in his head.

  Of his behaviour at Bannenberg he refused to think. The memory of what he’d done there was insupportable and had left an aftermath of disgust and shame he tried to transfer to Rejane, blaming her for all he had suffered and was suffering now. The whole time he had loved her it had been torture, and now that his love had turned to hate, the torture was ten times worse. That she should be unapproachable, like a princess, he’d been able to bear as long as she represented his dream and been glorified by its nameless brightness, because, paradoxically, it identified her with him.

  Now all this was changed: her perfection had gone, and so had his worship. He still hadn’t got over the shock of seeing the undisguised witch-look on her face, showing him that he’d been deluding himself, and that she cared nothing for him, had nothing to do with his dream. Now he saw her without that mysterious brightness, and he couldn’t bear what he saw; though, really, when he thought he was seeing her objectively, it was through the dark veil of all his other suppressed grievances. He had thrown himself upon her with such brutal violence because he’d felt wronged in the regiment, because his comrades had turned the cold shoulder upon him, because he’d been persecuted by their wives.

  When the storm broke and the road veered away from the dangerous cliffs, he knew, by the pang of disappointment that went through him, that he must really have been hoping for a catastrophe, and that the car would become their coffin. He now really wanted to cut himself altogether from the unjust world and the love by which he had been betrayed. His silence – which had lasted so long that it seemed impossible to break – was a manifestation of this death-wish, which, however, he did not recognize for what it was.

  In connection with himself, the whole concept of death seemed unreal; in his healthy extrovert existence, always fully occupied, he’d never thought about it. Even his father’s death long ago had made no impression on him. His temperament, background and education prevented him from viewing his own death as an aim he might achieve by his own action. Hence his disappointment because the sea and the storm failed to achieve it for him.

  All the same, without knowing what he was doing, he continued to proceed towards his objective by devious methods, indirectly, by concentrating on all that was most painful to him and made his life seem not worth while.

  He kept telling himself that, to Rejane, he could have been only a casual pick-up, a convenience, of whom she had made use because nobody else happened to be on hand. Their relationship could have meant no more to her than any trivial holiday episode. But what an atrocious thing it was to play on a man’s deepest feelings as she had! First she’d made him ashamed of his restraint; then of his brutal outburst of passion; and finally she’d deprived him of his revenge by throwing herself into his arms – what depravity, to giv
e the situation that fiendish twist! And he, instead of retaliating in the only possible way, by rejecting her utterly, had weakly submitted, allowed her to make use of him to gratify her lust. Gould anything be more contemptible than the part he had played?

  As wave after wave of humiliation swept over him, he tried to distract himself from his own shame by the violence of his raging against her. What a devil of a woman she was, turning him into something he never had been, a sadistic rav-isher, just in order to give herself a perverted thrill! How she must have been laughing at him all the time, pretending she was a sweet young girl, when really she was this ... corrupt horror ... this abomination ...

  Here his normal sense of fairness rebelled, reminding him that he himself was not blameless by any means. At once, as the memory began to force itself on him, his whole being recoiled in horror from what he had done. The memory of that sadistic act, totally opposed to all his deepest beliefs, was unendurable, simply – he slammed the doors of his mind, he couldn’t bear to think of it or to know about it.

  If only he’d never set eyes on Rejane! Even while he was thinking this, he gave her a furtive glance, and what he saw struck him a fresh blow.

  Her whole natural, artless pose, and particularly the way her head, thrown back and resting against the seat, jolted with the jolts of the car, seemed to express youthful pathos and innocence, like a tired child fallen asleep on a journey. All the abuse he’d been piling upon her was now heaped on his own head in self-reproach, as he realized that, whatever happened, some part of him would always see her as the adorable young girl he had loved with so pure and fervent a love.

  But this picture was the very opposite of the new one he’d set up in his mind, where the two contradictory images seemed to exist side by side, the gentler more idealized version persisting, no matter how viciously he tried to destroy it. She really might have bewitched him, for nothing could stop the frantic racing of his crazy, discordant thoughts for a single second.