Cards of Identity

by Nigel Dennis

  My wife and I are now applying for membership in the Identity Club for the following reason. Throughout our working day we have no identity whatever. From our dais we look down on the pushing mob of hysterical buyers with a disgust too great for words. If we did not detach ourselves utterly from the spectacle below we could not go on living at all. So great is our contempt that we do not hesitate to be pretty sharp in our dealings: the bidder who tries too eagerly to catch my eye pays dear for his imprudence. And this, we feel, is the proper fate for greedy materialists: it is we who have higher interests and more-devoted principles who glean the pennies from the dirty pockets of the average man.

  So once the money is in the bank and my wife and I are at home again, we take up our true identities. Together, we read a passage from some one of Vinson’s favourite books, after which we discuss it and try to ascertain what he might have concluded from it. Then comes a brief supper off celluloid plates, quickly over. After that, we read again and make notes in our journals. At eleven, we go to bed: that was Vinson’s hour. At the turn of the moon we fill a cow’s horn with an essence of boiled herbs and bury it in the compost-heap. Twice a week we copy out passages from Vinson’s letters in Italianate script. About once a month we secretly abstract, and read, one another’s journals; this is always a painful experience.

  And so it goes. We love our way of life but we would like to spread our identities farther afield. We know that there are people like ourselves springing up all over the nation today, that rebirth into symbolic identities is one of the new spiritual values of the times. In your Club we would hope to find dedicated men who, like ourselves and Dr Bitterling, have tried, like Vinson, to put as great a distance as possible between how they live and what they believe. There was a time, they say, when men loved their work and gave their best to it. But those days are gone. We are glad they are gone. Dr Bitterling says we are right to be glad. And Dr Bitterling is never wrong.

  *

  ‘How,’ cried the President, above the applause, ‘we love the beginnings of orations – the expectant silence, the promise, so rarely kept, of novelty! But how much more we love orations’ ends! Like prisoners at last released, we wander free in the world of our own thoughts. We see the speaker resume his seat, and as his last words fade into the past, never to be recalled, we start forward in our chairs, burning to press on him, in the disguise of questions, the ideas with which we have consoled ourselves throughout his address. We applaud him not because he has brought his own history to a close but because he has at last brought our own closer to a beginning. Moreover, there are to be other speakers after him, and the sight of him reseating himself is a sign that their number has been mercifully reduced by one. So I am sure we are all grateful to Dr Bitterling for his address, which, when you come to think of it – if so you ever do – might have been much longer. Has anybody any further compliments to pay?’

  ‘Obviously,’ said Dr Shubunkin, ‘he worked his fingers to the bone. Well, not quite to the bone; down to the second skin, say. Had he but gone a shade deeper he would have uncovered a perfectly obvious sexual situation and seen this badger of his in a very different light. Yes, a very different light indeed.’

  ‘Symbolism is more my field than his,’ said Father Orfe, rising with a hiccup, ‘so I am not speaking lightly when I say I admired the way he got his false teeth into it. Unfortunately, owing to the eminent split in my personality, I was either too drunk or too exalted to follow the history closely.’

  ‘I liked the part about the auction,’ said Dr Musk. ‘But then one is always excited by description of money changing hands. It’s much more fundamental than sex.’

  ‘The descriptive passages were good, in their way,’ said Mr Harris, ‘and I say that as one who detests all descriptive passages. It was, on the whole, a healthy rebuke of the romantic ideal, though I am bound to say that the best part of it was wasted. I refer, of course, to the aunts – those noble Roman matrons round whom the whole history should rightly have revolved.’

  ‘I was sorry to see no real centre to the corpus,’ said Mr Jamesworth. ‘I cannot deny the embroidery.’

  ‘As an average man,’ said Mr Harcourt, ‘I found the whole thing quite above my head. I have no doubt that people do carry hobbies, such as badgers, to an extreme, but I’m not sure I want to hear about such people. Still, an average man is always proud to think that he has sat patiently through a lecture of which he has hardly understood a word.’

  ‘I thought it was a wonderful address,’ said Stapleton, blushing furiously. ‘It gave a new horizon to the vision. It added a new dimension to the thought. It put another foundation under the ground we stand on; it raised the ceiling above our heads.’

  ‘I should like to ask Bitterling,’ said Mr Jamesworth, ‘what relative importance, if any, he attaches to aunts? Or were his aunts merely thrown in, faute de mieux?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ answered Dr Bitterling. ‘I would have made much more of them if I had not found that they obstructed the narrative flow. I was quite taken with them when I began writing the early part of the history, but when I found the story taking an unexpected turn there was nothing to do but change them into symbols. I mean that when, as is common nowadays, a man has betrayed his mother, killed his father, divorced three wives, and lost all contact with his children, his aunts are the only fixed points of reference left. Thus, in a sense, my whole history was of the tragedy which overtakes a man when his very aunts shift like sand.’

  ‘Were you aware of this, Dr Bitterling, when you were actually speaking?’ asked the President. ‘Or is this aunt-symbolism something that has just occurred to you?’

  ‘It was formerly in my unconscious mind,’ said Dr Bitterling. ‘Now, it is risen to the surface, like corn in a grain-elevator. I thus claim original brilliance on two counts, in two regions.’

  ‘I see. More questions?’

  ‘Does the speaker,’ asked Dr Shubunkin, ‘intend to make a scapegoat of aunts? I mean, long ago we had wicked stepmothers and villainous uncles and are only now emerging from a period of intolerable fathers. Is Dr Bitterling now attempting to concentrate man’s hostility upon his aunts?’

  ‘I think not,’ said Dr Bitterling. ‘The function of an aunt has always been to be distressed by the negligence of the mother, her sister, and, in compensation, to make handsome presents to the mistreated nieces and nephews. I am not inclined to deprive aunts of this enjoyable role, nor nephews and nieces of its fruits.’

  ‘Does the speaker not realize the danger of leaving such a vacuum in the sphere of blame?’ asked Dr Shubunkin. ‘Surely it is his responsibility, as a man of thought, to give the man-in-the-street some idea of whom he may fashionably blame for his shortcomings? Since fathers became innocuous, the situation has become desperate. A few more years and people will start blaming themselves. The human conscience will resemble an ingrowing toe-nail.’

  ‘I think we need have no fear of that,’ replied Dr Bitterling. ‘The wonderful thing about human progress is that when a moral situation becomes intolerable something always turns up. It would be foolish, in my opinion, to force aunts to be answerable at a time when promiscuity is providing far better solutions. The obvious key to blame in the modern world is “ex”. Most up-to-date people can point to at least one ex-wife or ex-husband who has ruined them permanently. There are men alive at this very moment who can point to four and even five ruinous ex-mothers-in-law. There are children growing up who have known nothing but ex-parents. You may be sure that in a world where ex is so abundant it would be idle to press for aunts.’

  ‘Has the speaker given any thought to the relation between ex and grasp-of-self?’ inquired Dr Musk. ‘Clearly, any man who has been parcelled out among five women, each of whom has taken his very name, is going to feel uncertain of what, precisely, remains to him. Will he be, for instance, but one-fifth of his former self?’

  ‘That is rather outside the subject of my paper,’ replied Dr Bitterling, ‘but I will say
that experience leads me to believe that he retains all five-fifths. He says: “With Shelia, I was quite a gay dog, but with Betty I sobered up considerably. When Angela came along I was rather of two minds, but Cynthia soon put a stop to that. Thanks to Sybil, however, I now see how immature it all was.”’

  ‘I must call a halt,’ said the President. ‘Questions of ex are not pertinent to the case-history of a man who laid down his life for a badger.’

  ‘I’d like to mention just one more ex,’ said Mr Jamesworth. ‘I refer to the ex-alimony relation, which leads ex-wives who have re-married to say: “I was much better off divorced from Hugo than married to Paul.” And also, now I come to think of it, the relation of ex-children. Do these have any claim to aunts whose validity has been liquidated by the remarriage of the parents?’

  ‘The motion,’ said the President, ‘is that we are moving out of an era of sex into a period of ex. All those … What is it, Mr Stapleton?’

  ‘I wished only to raise a human point,’ said Stapleton. ‘The history concluded with an application by the patients for membership in our club. Do we intend to admit them?’

  An awful silence collected about his standing figure and spread to every corner of the room. In a moment, every eye was fixed accusingly on the President, who could not hide a guilty look. Dr Shubunkin said: ‘I think this most irregular.’

  ‘In all my years in this club,’ said Dr Musk, ‘I cannot recall such a situation.’

  ‘Mr Stapleton,’ said the President firmly. ‘In spite of what I said before Bitterling began, you are under the illusion that these patients exist. They do not – and even if they did they would not have the vaguest resemblance to themselves as represented by a man of Dr Bitterling’s ingenuity.’

  ‘Poor Stapleton is a complete novice,’ said Dr Shubunkin, ‘and cannot be blamed for his stupidity. Whoever instructed him in the great theory must take the blame.’

  ‘That is certainly the root of the matter,’ said Mr Jamesworth.

  ‘It would also be the classical ruling,’ said Mr Harris.

  ‘Symbolically,’ said Dr Musk, ‘one would depict the error in the image of the teacher. The actual perpetrator would get off scot-free.’

  ‘It is all above my head,’ said Mr Harcourt, ‘but a little bird tells me there has been a mistake.’

  ‘That is perfectly correct,’ said the President. ‘However, it is not for presidents to make apologies for blunders made by them in their teaching roles. I am sure this idea will be supported by those of you who believe that a man can have more than one personality.’

  ‘If that refers to me,’ said Father Orfe, ‘I shall be happy to defend myself, if I can find my feet.’

  ‘I suggest you reserve your defence, Orfe,’ said Dr Shubunkin. ‘He has only challenged you in the hope of changing the subject.’

  ‘I think that’s jolly clever,’ said Mr Harcourt. ‘Such a stratagem would never occur to me.’

  ‘I think we should have more respect for the excellent Bitterling, gentlemen,’ said the President. ‘He has delivered one of the most brilliant papers ever heard in this Club and will not, I am sure, wish to see it pushed aside merely because I failed to impress something upon Mr Stapleton.’

  ‘That is entirely correct,’ said Dr Bitterling. ‘The president’s calibre is of no interest to me, except that I am pleased to see that he has unexpectedly developed a warm, unselfish side.’

  ‘I am sorry to see Bitterling fall into such an obvious trap,’ said Dr Musk.

  ‘I would hardly call it a trap,’ said Dr Bitterling urbanely. ‘It is more a happy coincidence of interests.’

  ‘I am bound to say,’ said the President, ‘that if this squabbling continues, I shall have to declare the session closed. This will make Bitterling furious – and not with me.’

  ‘I must say,’ said Mr Jamesworth, ‘that when one’s venom has been distracted in the direction of another victim, it is hard to direct it back on the original one. I had many spiteful criticisms to make of Bitterling’s paper; by now I have forgotten what they were.’

  ‘Then, clearly,’ said the President, ‘Bitterling must read his paper again.’

  ‘Gladly, gladly,’ said the doctor, reassembling his manuscript.

  ‘I am sure we would all like to hear it again,’ said the President. ‘If there is anyone who would not, will he kindly stand up and say so?’

  There was gloomy silence. At last, Dr Shubunkin said: ‘There is nothing I would enjoy more than a second reading. But is it wise? Bitterling is one of our most talented members. We must guard his health.’

  ‘That’s the essence,’ said Mr Jamesworth. ‘He’s a delicate instrument.’

  ‘Gentlemen, I could do it three times if necessary,’ said Dr Bitterling. ‘After all, I am the author.’

  ‘In that case,’ said the President, ‘I will ask you, in this reading, to include the hundred pages on adolescence which you forwent in the previous one.’

  ‘Gladly,’ said the doctor. ‘East, west, adolescence is best.’

  ‘And should you, Orfe,’ added the President, ‘need to fortify yourself against the second reading, will you kindly do so quietly? The gurgling of your hip-flask spoilt much of the first reading.’

  ‘Since when,’ cried Mr Harcourt, ‘has Orfe taken to drink? I thought he was a priest.’

  There was general laughter, under cover of which, like a goose rising from swaying reeds, Dr Bitterling began again: ‘I was the third of eight children, born into an upper-middle-class milieu.…’

  *

  ‘Surely, Mr Jellicoe, they are not still talking?’ asked Mrs Paradise. ‘What about? And what about their tea?’

  ‘It’s badgers, Mrs Paradise.’

  ‘Badgers!’

  ‘Yes. A funny thing happened. A couple of hours ago I paused at the keyhole and heard the words “badger on its silken cords”. A couple of minutes ago, I again paused at the keyhole and heard the same words in the same voice. What do you think of that? It took me a moment to remember that that sort of thing often happens. You return to a place where something has occurred and it seems to occur again. I remember in the Navy–’

  ‘Please, Mr Jellicoe, not one of your Navy stories. I know you are ashamed of your past, but remember that I am still wearing black for a very dear memory of my own.’

  ‘There is no woman in this anecdote, Mrs Paradise. It was all between men.’

  ‘I distrust it the more, Mr Jellicoe. Kindly tell me instead why the gentlemen are on about badgers.’

  ‘They are sportsmen, Mrs Paradise. I expect they are framing new rules against gin-traps. You mark my words: what they decide today will be what everyone will be thinking tomorrow. That’s how the world works. To me and you, and to millions like us, a badger is a mystery. But tomorrow, thanks to what is going on upstairs, we shall know all there is to know about badgers. It fills me with pride to think that I polish the shoes of men who lead the way into the unknown.’

  ‘Even when it’s only for badgers?’

  ‘I don’t care what it’s for. The shining shoe doesn’t ask what for, and nor do I. It’s being led that matters. You lose your head if people aren’t sitting on it.’

  ‘You are too excitable, Mr Jellicoe. You tire yourself out with your passion for thought.’

  ‘I am rather tired. There seems to be so much work. Somehow there seem to be more gentlemen this year.’

  ‘Just twice the usual number.’

  ‘Are you quite sure? You are not imagining it? If you are right, I shall feel much happier, with a fixed number to grasp.’

  ‘Actually, if my memory serves me right, it is not exactly twice as many. There is one odd.’

  ‘More or less?’

  ‘More.’

  ‘Thank God! I shall enjoy calling it twice as many and then enjoy the little extra pleasure that comes from knowing that the total pain is actually a shade greater. Say what you like, Mrs Paradise; I’d rather have a thing with a number than even a
thing with a name, if I’m going to really know myself.’

  ‘You don’t find it makes you complain?’

  ‘On the contrary. The other day, I tried to think when exactly I last complained. I went back over the years and couldn’t find a single occasion, though I was able to revel in a thousand episodes which would have justified complaint. Would you not find the same hardiness in your life?’

  ‘Certainly. But I never dwell on the past. Instead, it hangs on me. You are making-up for a wicked past. I am trying to forget a beautiful one, shared with a blameless partner.’

  ‘That’s what makes you such an unusual woman, Mrs Paradise. Now, my former wife, poor Phyllis, constantly dwelt on the past. Once, in a single day, I counted 86 dwellings. Now, 86 is not a number to carry about comfortably, so I provoked her very slightly and she at once produced another four. I have never forgotten that 90 – particularly as I prefer the 90s to 100 any day. Something meaningless creeps in after 99. One shrugs one’s shoulders and loses interest. Perhaps it would be the same in dealing with sums of money. But as I have never had any money I cannot say.’

  ‘I am like you, Mr Jellicoe. I am the happier for being penniless.’

  ‘I must say I grieve for your happiness, Mrs Paradise. I should have thought that after so many years of thrifty service, plus possibly something inherited from your late husband, you would be quite comfortably unhappy.’