Cards of Identity

by Nigel Dennis

  Now occurs a very pretty, indeed brilliant incident, illustrating the ability of brave men to rise to an occasion even when they are sick with fear. Dr Musk, one of the finest brains in the Club, walks straight up to Jellicoe and says: ‘How excellent to see you again! I hope your health has improved since we met last. You were very shaky on your pins, if I remember rightly.’ To which Jellicoe, delighted at being recognized, answers: ‘It was my hope, sir, that your familiar face would be here again. My health, though of course no better, is a small matter, sir, I assure you.’

  When Jellicoe has left the room, the President bows his head respectfully and says: ‘What a finish you give to your people, Mallet! That man is like an old inlay.’

  A murmur of agreement runs through the members: despite their fear, they have one and all studied Jellicoe intently, without once seeming to have looked at him.

  ‘So untouched,’ says Father Orfe, draining his third glass and looking ascetically at the ceiling. ‘Not a finger-mark. You would think it had been done by waving a wand.’

  ‘I hope he is really settled at bottom,’ says Mr Jamesworth.

  ‘He looked like a butler to me,’ says Mr Harcourt. ‘But then, so do all butlers.’

  ‘I hope,’ says Dr Shubunkin, working his signal-box until every inch of his visage becomes a local train, ‘that we will soon have a chance to see some other jobs of yours.’

  The captain blushes, as a modest captain should. He knows that not another man in the Club, the President included, can make an identity with quite his skill. He would like to rush them all out of the room and show them his other trophies – Miss Paradise, Tray, Towzer, and the sublime Chirk – but he checks himself because he notices that the members are suddenly feeling comfortably at home. The few words of shop that have been spoken have brought back their sense of vocation; they are again conscious of being dedicated persons: simultaneously, they all begin to talk at once, at the tops of their voices, each man expanding, as it were, to his full self. Though each is too preoccupied to hear what any other says, all are united by an identity greater even than their separate own–the identity of the group, or body, devoted in plural ways to a singular aim. No one who has smelt this atmosphere of a congress, or gang, of learned people can ever forget it: to these men, the problem of human identity not only surpasses but embraces all other problems; there is nothing on the face of the earth which they cannot reduce, in no more than three steps at most, to a matter of identity. Moreover, since each man specializes in a special aspect of the special matter of identity, they stand like spokes running to a central hub, as if they were the wheel of life itself. In other rooms, in other houses, all over the world, other bodies devoted to sex, or compost, or holism, or Marxism, are forming thousands of similar wheels: but what makes these other wheels so fatally different from the one now running at Hyde’s Mortimer is the fact that all the others are running in wrong directions.

  So the captain stands to one side, drinking in the buzz of sound that rings true only when one belongs to a circle which has at last identified absolute truth. But he has a duty to perform; so when the President shouts: ‘I am sure your two colleagues played a substantial part,’ he bellows back: ‘They were pearls without price, Mr President. He (indicating Beaufort) is developing a sensitivity of response that I have never known in such a young member, while she…’ –but Mrs Mallet is not in the room at the moment.

  At the word ‘she’, the members fall silent, and the captain continues in a lower voice: ‘As we know, she is the only woman member of the Club simply because any other would be superfluous. It takes all sorts to make a man, but one is quite enough to make a woman. Oh, gentlemen, I wish you could have seen our chosen lady in action recently – a veritable dream of female identity! Tears coursing down her cheeks from a reservoir that is yet eternally full; inclinations of the head alone which are enough to give fixity to this amorphous life.’

  At this they all take out clean white handkerchiefs and press them gently to their eyes, causing Mrs Mallet to remark as she enters with a tray of sandwiches: ‘You dear things! I suspect you have been talking about me.’

  One by one they come up and shake her hand, blurt out their compliments, and resume the dabbing of their eyes. Mrs Mallet, who only weeps in the service of her vocation, has a kind word for each of them, enough to make them feel that their lives have been enriched from an important source. Stapleton alone remains aloof; not only has he never seen Mrs Mallet before, but, at heart, the young prig disapproves of having any woman in the Club. The President has really done a very interesting job on him.

  Taking the captain to the quietest corner, the President now shouts: ‘Psychologically, Mallet, which would be better: to let them have lunch first and then go over the premises, or vice versa?’

  ‘Get it all over!’ the captain shouts back. ‘The sherry has steadied them nicely; lunch would only make them sluggish.’

  So the President turns and squeaks for silence. ‘Gentlemen!’ he cries: ‘we are going to make a tour of the house and grounds … No, be so good as to stop looking so miserable: it has to be done. Captain Mallet will first say a few words, after which he will answer questions. Captain Mallet.’

  The captain steps forward and rests three fingers on a table. He performs this simple act of self-identification so artistically that a light clapping runs round the room. He bows, and says quietly:

  ‘Gentlemen, this is an historic moment for the Identity Club. For more years than I can remember we have spent our lives in the seclusion of our London quarters toiling at the great theory which is the unifying factor of our lives. It was ever our belief that this theory could be perfected best in isolation: we have known from experience that once a theory is exposed to the knockabout of daily life it loses the bloom on which its beauty depends. Most clubs – and there are many nowadays – ignore this precaution; they pitch their theory into the outside world and back it against all rivals, thus leaving it dependent upon nothing but the hysterical pugnacity of its supporters. This is all very well, but it has always seemed to us that as all clubs are closed circles, permitting no deviations whatever, it is senseless to expose loyal members to the rough-and-tumble of debate. Why argue with a member from another club when you know that both he and you are so inextricably identified with opposing theories that for either to yield a point is like losing an arm or leg? No, gentlemen, since it is the aim of every club to be the only club and of every theory to be the only theory, the way of our club is surely the best. We actually do live in isolation from the world-which is to say that we live in exactly the same way as all other clubs except that we do so more comfortably and don’t have to pretend that we have open minds. Our beloved theory, the only true one in the world, is the only one we want to hear about. Identity is the answer to everything. There is nothing that cannot be seen in terms of identity. We are not going to pretend that there is the slightest argument about that.’

  There was loud applause.

  ‘Nonetheless.’ the captain continued, ‘there are times when even we find it necessary to put ourselves in contact with the outside world. This session is one of those times. We have come here for a little change, to see objects, human and otherwise, that we do not see in our club quarters. We expect to translate them all into the terms of our theory, but we shall enjoy having something fresh to translate. It will make next year’s case-histories more interesting. It will broaden our minds without changing them in the slightest.

  ‘This sort of house was once a heart and centre of the national identity. A whole world lived in relation to it. Millions knew who they were by reference to it. Hundreds of thousands look back to it, and not only grieve for its passing but still depend on it, non-existent though it is, to tell them who they are. Thousands who never knew it are taught every day to cherish its memory and to believe that without it no man will be able to tell his whereabouts again. It hangs on men’s necks like a millstone of memory; carrying it, and looking back on its
associations, they stumble indignantly backwards into the future, confident that man’s self-knowledge is gone forever. How appropriate it is that these forlorn barracks, these harbours of human nostalgia, should now be in use once more solely as meeting places for bodies such as ours! How right that we should assemble this summer in one of the last relics of an age of established identities! Today, when it is rare to find any man who can be said to know his self, it is clubs such as ours which tell these sufferers who they are. That each club tells him he is something quite different is beside the point. We of this club excel all other clubs in that we give our patients the identities they can use best. We can make all sorts of identities, from Freudian and Teddy Boy to Marxist and Christian. We are thus the idea behind the idea, the theory at the root of theory. And what we like about ourselves is the frank way we go about our work. Other clubs stubbornly deny that they try to supply their patients with new identities. They insist that they merely reveal an identity which has been pushed out of sight. Thank God, gentlemen, we shall never be like them! We are proud to know that we are in the very van of modern development, that we can transform any unknown quantity into a fixed self, and that we need never fall back on the hypocrisy of pretending that we are mere un-coverers.

  ‘Let me say a word about the domestic staff of this establishment. I think that I and my two colleagues have done a good job of fixing these fluid entities. We have given them exactly the selves which they deserved, as well as temporary names which mean a great deal to them. Do not be afraid to call on them for any service you need. If you are too lenient with them, or worry because they seem overworked, kindly show no concern. We have gone to much trouble to return them to their favourite era of injustice and drudgery and any attempt to lighten their burdens will not only distress them but may wreck their tenuous grasp of self.

  ‘Now, as to your own selves. I hope I shall not tread on any corns if I say that many of you will feel that this archaic environment is a menace to your identities. Let me assure you, there is no ground for terror. There is nothing here, nothing whatever, that has any vestige of life left in it. It is a warehouse of distorted memories and nothing else. One evidence of this is that whereas in the old days many curious visitors would have interrupted our Session by paying calls and leaving cards on us, today hardly anyone will even notice that there are living people in the house. The few who do notice will detest the very idea of burdening their lives with new acquaintances, of exposing their broken identities and bad consciences to strangers. Only parasites pay calls today – and our kitchen has already given two of them an appropriate welcome.

  ‘Outside these walls, in the open air, many of you may feel a certain sense of exposure. The best answer to that is pipes, cigars, and cigarettes which leave a familiar mark upon the void. The wearing of a hat is also helpful: I do not have to remind you of the late Dr Black Planorbis’s superb paper on the relation between modern hatlessness and loss of identity. But the greatest help of all is the handling of strictly contemporary objects, such as ration-books, identity-cards, very small pieces of meat and butter, and objects that have been obtained a little dishonestly. And if these, too, fail, let me advise you to fall back on a dodge that I have found highly successful – carry some money in your pocket and wrap your fingers round it. Often, in the last two months, I have overcome a sense of identical disintegration simply by leafing through my cheque-book.’

  There was a chorus of claps, and the President stepped forward. ‘These have been wise words, gentlemen, so let us be off and change our clothes – taking good care not to take off the underclothing that is so much a part of us. Let us also follow Mallet’s suggestion and transfer plenty of loose silver from the old trousers to the new. We meet here again in fifteen minutes.’

  *

  When the Club reassembled there was a great improvement evident. The President looked relaxed in a loud check suit: he carried a shooting-stick. Some members were in plus-fours; Dr Shubunkin wore a cap smattered with fishing-flies. All this caused a lot of friendly teasing; but all members noted with relief that, though their companions were totally disguised, their identities – seen, as it were, simply in new frames – stood out even more prominently than before.

  ‘As a special treat,’ cries the President, ‘I am going to ask Mallet to show us the human occupants of this pile first of all. There is nothing duller than being shown over another person’s property, but there is nothing more stimulating than being shown over his cases.’

  No one, of course, is more delighted than the captain to hear this and soon the whole company is streaming through the great kitchen door.

  Mrs Paradise stands bowing inside. Behind her are great tables sticky with damp flour, dough, and poultry in undress. Her sleeves are rolled up, showing her prime forearms. The Club studies her with interest: there is a flutter of note-books and requests for loans of pencils.

  ‘Good morning, Florence,’ says the captain. ‘I have brought our guests to see your admirable establishment. Some of them are old friends of yours and it is they who have insisted on showing you off to the others.’

  ‘Admirable, indeed!’ cries the President: ‘an astonishing place! Tell us, my good woman, do you spend all day in work of this kind?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir,’ replies Mrs Paradise, at once falling in love with this bearded old man’s childlike, upper-class innocence. She has not met him before, but almost feels she has.

  ‘I recognize a bird, do I not?’ says the President triumphantly, pointing his shooting-stick.

  ‘That is a turkey, sir, in preparation for the table.’

  ‘It looks different without its feathers, doesn’t it? You have no difficulty in knowing it for what it is? You never think it a goose?’

  ‘Oh, never, sir. They are far from one bird.’

  ‘It must all be very difficult. To know what everything is when it no longer has any resemblance to itself; to know where you have put it when you want it; to know what to do with it when you have found it. Do you never lose your head?’

  ‘Never, sir. I am at home here, you see. Everything is familiar.’

  ‘You never have the feeling that you are being swept away by powers beyond your control?’

  Mrs Paradise smiles and loves him more than ever. She answers: ‘Not if we are given ample warning that guests are expected, sir.’

  ‘Of course. I had not thought of that. Everything has to be conclusively identified before a certain fixed hour.’

  ‘That is correct, sir.’

  ‘And how many are you?’

  ‘We are myself, Mrs Chirk, and Jellicoe, sir. Three in all.’

  ‘And you can look after all these guests for three weeks without getting tired?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. We work in shifts, you see. During the day we cook and wash-up, and then, when night comes and the gentlemen are in bed, we have a chance to go through the living-rooms. We are rarely in bed before three a.m., and then we are up again at six. We are proud to think that we manage so economically.’

  ‘Yes, it is not half bad,’ said the captain.

  ‘I imagine that prayer is a great help, too,’ said the President. ‘If you have time to squeeze some in.’

  ‘Prayer has never failed me yet, sir.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it. So many people nowadays have simply dropped it. Who is that woman in the corner with red eyes? Would that be Mrs Jellicoe?’

  ‘Her name is Mrs Chirk, sir. People always seem to have trouble with her name.’

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Burke. So you work here, too?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I do – as best I can.’

  ‘Do you enjoy your work?’

  ‘I hardly pause to think, sir, but I doubt I would be doing it if there were not enjoyment.’

  ‘Do you get very good wages? That is always a help.’

  ‘The family is very generous, sir. I often find an extra coin in my envelope.’

  ‘How do you like this modern life?’

  ‘
I am sure my parents’ days were better, sir. We worked harder then, but we were much happier. And the shops were so full of good things. Even though we couldn’t afford to buy them, it was a pleasure to think what happiness they brought to others.’

  ‘Nonetheless, you are content with the present? It doesn’t bewilder you with its intricacies and swiftness? All these trains, and so on.’

  ‘Only if I pause to ask, sir.’

  ‘I see. You find stability in momentum; identity in thoughtless self-propulsion.’

  ‘I couldn’t answer that, sir.’

  ‘You get happiness from thinking that your parents were happy and that your children will be happy too? So the present – yourself – is neither here nor there?’

  ‘Not a scrap, sir, if I just keep going and going.’

  ‘Well, thank you very much, Mrs Jellicoe and Mrs Paradise. We must move on. We are going to shoot, or something, I think. Thank you a thousand times and good luck to you.’

  Jellicoe welcomed them at the butler’s pantry.

  ‘Why!’ cried the President, ‘you are the man who brought us the sherry!’

  ‘Yes, indeed, sir. This is where I bring it from.’

  ‘Is that not a long way?’

  ‘Eight hundred and sixty-four steps, sir.’

  ‘Well, if you have time to count up to 864, you are not as hard-pressed as I thought.’

  ‘But I am, sir, if I may say so. It is just that I feel the pain more exactly if I give it a number.’

  ‘Oh. You have a sort of rough-and-ready philosophy, have you?’

  ‘Only a very simple one, sir. I hold that life is intensely painful but that the good man does not complain.’

  ‘I suppose you read that in a book?’

  ‘No, sir. It struck me quite personally.’

  ‘Then your idea of perfect happiness is to meet the maximum of pain with the minimum of complaint?’