by A. J. Cronin
In a spasm of sweltering despair he clenched his teeth and hung on to the railings for support. It was a bad dream, a nightmare, impossible to grasp how it had come about. He had meant well, tried to do the right thing, oh God yes, he had tried so hard, he had wanted to do well for everyone. It simply wasn’t in him to hurt even a fly. He couldn’t be blamed if, with the best intentions, he had over-estimated his strength, broken down and been obliged to withdraw. It had not been a deliberate betrayal, simply a moment of … no, he’d said that before, it was no use any more. Simply wouldn’t work. The instant of illumination when he stared into those dead eyes had shattered his self-constructed image. The hollow shell had broken, there was nothing left, nothing. In destroying her, he had destroyed himself.
Amongst the ruins, the clearness with which he viewed the stale imposture of his life was amazing, stereoscopic, four dimensional. All that had happened was his own doing, springing not from accident, but from something within, always his propensity for taking the way he thought most advantageous for himself. A genius at dodging responsibility, trouble, unpleasant issues, he saw with a sudden access of reason that he had developed to his logical conclusion. And yet, such a nice man, a charmer, cultured too, patron of the arts. How often had he heard, and merited, these compliments. Pity it was all gone – or would shortly go: reputation, position, freedom, happiness, hope in the future, and, naturally, his belief in himself. A queer logic had begun to take hold of him, comforting almost. He nodded twice in complete agreement. Imprisoned, walled in, every outlet sealed.
He reached the top of the hill and paused, exhausted but, strangely, more reasonable than ever. What a view! And a lovely night! A faint air stirring, the moon, alive again, drifting from the clouds, a soft mist rising from the lake, a nocturnal barge, unseen, chugged distantly. His thoughts strayed. A man had once told him that chugging note was his earliest childhood memory. Who? He had forgotten. It would have been interesting to ask him what he meant by it. Elusive shapes, records of his own past, swelled and faded in his mind. Say what they liked, he’d had an interesting life. An owl hooted in the orchard. Suddenly he caught sight of a hedgehog, a small brown ball, moving into its own shadow across the lawn with painful lack of speed. Of all things, a hedgehog; amused, he almost smiled, recollecting how Wilhelm had reviled the little creature for its shallow rootings. He lost contact momentarily, then suddenly became aware of where he stood.
‘Cercis siliquastrium …’ he murmured. ‘The leaves are used for salads in the East.’
Yes, a lovely tree in summer, dangling its purple drops that fell staining the lawn. A winepress. He had always been poetic.
He ceased to mediate and, under the moving branches of the tree, raised his head in a sudden, upward glance. The swing, with its long ropes, was oscillating gently in the breeze. Seductive, the motion – it fascinated him. Following the gentle movements across the face of the moon, he simply couldn’t take his eyes away. The faint rhythmic creak of the metal cleats began to beat a little tune inside his brain. Reality had left off, illusion was brightening his eys. He was beginning to understand everything in a peculiar and interesting way. This extraordinary calm was the most marvellous sensation he had ever experienced. And now he was talking to himself, in a quiet, confidential manner, carefully forming the words: restitution, complete vindication, the court of last appeal – absolving all guilt, restoring his ideal self. He stood there for a long time smiling to himself, enjoying his triumphant acquittal in advance, before he decided it was time for him to produce the evidence.
Next morning, just after seven o’clock, directed by the new Madame, Arturo went to the guest room, knocked on the door and brought in the breakfast tray: fresh orange juice, toast and boiled eggs, mountain honey, delicious Toscanini coffee in the silver Thermos. Arturo was in an unhappy frame of mind, almost convinced now that he would not keep his situation, but he said good morning, put the tray down on the oval occasional table by the window. Then he drew the lined silk curtains and flung the shutters back into their automatic catches.
The morning was cold, grey with mist, the raw air made his eyes water, and the wine he had drunk last night bad left him with a thick head. He was about to close the window when he straightened suddenly, wondering if he were still not quite himself. He peered into the mist, not seeing clearly, yet held by an extraordinary mirage. Turning his head, slowly, he saw that there was no one in the bed. He caught his breath, slewed round again, more slowly, then convulsively stepped back, knocking over the tray with a crash. A breeze from the lake had stirred and thinned the luminous haze. Now he saw quite clearly what was hanging in the tree.
Copyright
First published in 1961 by Gollancz
This edition published 2013 by Bello
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Copyright © A. J. Cronin, 1961
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