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The beard was the first fact about Buxton that Buxton’s biographer
had acquired for himself. No one had happened to mention to him that
Jorris Buxton wore a beard. Out of the haze of other people’s attitudes
this immediate fact emerged with a happy, bristly reality.
And now that he had Buxton’s beard to hold on to, he understood
that he had been shrinking, all unconsciously, from the sight of the aged
face, imagining it to be shrunken and wizened. But the beard was all
alive, it was the great classic symbol of strong age, of masculine power
not abdicated.
Buxton was not a tall man, but he was satisfyingly bulky, he filled his
jacket of light gray flannel. There was no need of Garda’s introduction,
for when the two little parties met midway on the lawn, Buxton said at
once, “Hammell, I’m glad to see you.”
The hand with which he grasped Vincent’s was warm, strong and
pleasantly calloused. But it was not only the sentiment nor the friendly
hand that gave Vincent his pleasure. It was the form of address, the use of
the simple surname preserved by Buxton from a past in which manners
were less intimate and more masculine. What had once been the accepted
form of address among men, had come, among Americans, to seem cold
and even unkind. Any company was quick to reduce itself to the anonym-
ity of the given name. If Vincent had an impulse to be abashed at being
dressed only in swimming trunks on this notable occasion, his impulse
did not complete itself—at the sound of Buxton speaking his family name,
he felt adequate in his naked youthfulness. He thought dimly that some
day, if he were lucky and virtuous, he himself might be bearded and gray-
flannelled and give to a young man, as yet far from being born, the same
sense of established and continuing life that he was feeling now.
Brooks Barrett hovered over the meeting, a sad presence in a black
alpaca coat. He acted as if he had a function. With one hand he sponsored
Vincent to Buxton, with the other hand he indicated Buxton to Vincent.
He used the vague ghosts of gestures that people make in introducing
guests at a large party. There was a great appreciation of the event shin-
ing in his face.
“Is it—is it Doctor Hammell?” Brooks Barrett said in a delicate whis-
per of huge tact.
“No,” Vincent replied, and stared in astonishment. “No, it is not.”
The haughtiness of his own voice almost shocked him. This man
invited condescension. His eyes were so ready to perceive offense, his
lips to smile it away. And the whole long, spare body seemed prepared at
an instant’s notice to hunch into the smallest possible space. He made a
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gesture to Vincent as of one man of the world to another, indicating that
it was well known how vain and empty academic titles were.
Garda Thorne said, “Jorris, you’ll want to talk with Vincent Ham-
mell—I’ll run along and dress and see you later at dinner.”
Buxton looked at her with a large paternal mildness and said, “Yes,
do, my dear.”
But she did not go. She wished to be released from this confronta-
tion of the old man and the young man which bracketed her life so much
too completely. Yet she could not leave. She stood there silent and am-
biguous, touchingly at a loss. In the gentle abstraction in which Buxton
seemed to move, he could scarcely have perceived her difficulty, yet it
was he who extricated her. He took her arm and walked away over the
lawn with her in the direction of her own little house.
Brooks Barrett waited for a moment after their backs were turned
and then said to Vincent in eager explanation, “I asked if it was Doctor
Hammell because I seem to have heard of a university connection. Not
that I consider that the doctorate is any guarantee of scholarship.”
And he offered Vincent the additional placation of a disdainful sniff
in the direction of the doctorate. Even the whites of his eyes and the
darkness of his lips were toned to the strange pallor of his face. “I do not
know,” he said, “if my position has been explained to you. I stand in the
position of—that is to say, I am Dr. Buxton’s assistant.”
There was nothing of the scientist about this man. He suggested
the back-office of a counting house in the English nineteenth century,
or some small religious conventicle. He appeared to enshrine every out-
worn gentility. Yet if he was Buxton’s assistant, his foolish manner must
be merely an eccentricity which cloaked his intellect.
“I want you to know, Mr. Hammell,” he said, “that I consider it a priv-
ilege to meet you. And I want you to know that you can rely on Brooks
Barrett, you can rely on him for any help he can give, of any kind.” He
seemed to get pleasure from speaking of himself in the third person, as
if he were someone else.
Reaching beyond the impossible manner of the man Brooks Barrett,
Vincent addressed himself to the scientist. “Thank you,” he said, “it’s
kind of you. Perhaps you can be especially helpful to me. You see, I know
so very little about science.”
Whatever sense of Barrett’s inferiority Vincent had at first now van-
ished as he abased himself in his confession of scientific ignorance and
experienced the somewhat complacent guilt of the literary man. He felt
relieved that Barrett was now established on a better basis.
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Barrett said, “How I wish I could. But alas.”
“Alas?” said Vincent.
“Yes. Alas. I am entirely ignorant of the subject. Indeed, I am more
like you, more the literary type.”
“But you said—didn’t you say that you were Mr. Buxton’s assistant?”
“Yes. That is to say, I assist him. But in small matters. Oh, in the
larger aspects of his life I have no part. I suppose ‘secretary’ would be
more accurate. That is to say, I help with his correspondence—and in a
general way I look after him. In that sense of the word, an assistant. He
is an old man—I assist him.”
And then, as if he were not sure that be had sufficiently persuaded
Vincent of the truth and cleared himself of any appearance of false pre-
tence, he said, “But not in the larger aspects.”
He went on. “But my help can be given in other ways, I am glad to
say. Or I should say, ‘sorry to say.’”
He spoke lower and faster and drew closer to Vincent as Buxton,
walking toward them, came nearer. “There are other ways than science,”
he said. Then he said in a piercing and significant whisper, “Human
relations!”
“Thank you,” Vincent said in confusion. “Thank you very much.”
There was nothing else for him to say and he was glad to give his atten-
tion to Buxton who by now had completed his slow, sturdy return over
the lawn.
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chapter 16
The old man lowered himself slowly into a lawn chair and with a ges-
ture he invited Vincent to sit opposite him. There was a third cha
ir and
Brooks Barrett eyed it. His body was in a hover, signalling that he could
as well go as stay, as well stay as go. But it was clear that the direction of
his shambling, strong will was all toward staying.
“Sit down,” Buxton said to him, and Barrett fairly pounced upon the
third chair. He leaned back to be inconspicuous, but he sat alert to be a
witness. A flush of cruel impulse rose in Vincent against this dreadful
man. That he should be included in the company substantially lessened
the value of the occasion. It was thoughtless of Buxton, even unkind.
Buxton took the old man’s privilege of delayed speech and looked
long at Vincent. He said what he had said before, “I am very glad to see
you, Hammell.” Then he said in a deliberate way, “Hammell, you are
my biographer and your job, as you know, is to learn to understand me.”
His voice had a gruff texture, a good timbre, and it expressed very well
the irony that was in Buxton’s intention at the idea of his being “under-
stood.” Vincent smiled.
the unfinished novel
“So your first act of understanding,” Buxton went on, “ought to be
what it means to a man to meet his biographer face to face.” His smile to
Vincent was very winning, so direct was its intention of friendliness. But
his eyes did not smile. They were living a life of their own.
“Hammell,” Buxton said, “in a man’s life there are very few people
who are unique, who perform functions that are not repeated. A man
can have several wives, many mistresses …”
He paused, seeking further examples of multiplicity.
“Numerous children, friends, relatives,” he said.
“But—” and now with his left hand he counted off on the fingers of
his right hand the instances of uniqueness. He began with the thumb.
“Only one father,” he said.
Then the forefinger: “Only one mother.”
He held the third finger and considered it. “Many physicians but
only one obstetrician,” he said.
“Then only one undertaker.” This was the fourth finger and he
paused over it. “I suppose there might be more than one—they no doubt
work in crews.” But he shrugged off this modification and took hold of
the little finger. “And then there is you, Hammell, the life-and-letters
man, the proto-biographer, the official one, the only one I shall ever set
eyes on. Do you understand why you frighten me, Hammell?”
If it was a little garrulous or a shade too insistent, it was nevertheless
most engaging. Vincent smiled as Buxton meant him to. Brooks Barrett
squirmed with delight at the speech. He looked at Vincent to see if its full
value was apparent.
As the white beard wagged with the words Buxton was speaking,
Buxton’s eyes were involved in some other activity. Under the heavy
brows, the eyes lived with the life of the contemplating mind. There was
nothing abstracted about Buxton’s manner as he made friends with Vin-
cent. The fact that his eyes were engaged in some other order of activity
did not make his words seem insincere or like a social “effort” or a mere
politeness. Vincent thought that it was as if the connection being made
by the friendly words was supplying the vital energy for the eyes and the
mind. For the eyes showed, or so Vincent felt, a life beyond the words
that Buxton was speaking. And, far more than the words, it was the eyes
that were giving Vincent his strange new sense of well-being.
Vincent had read of the kind of life the eyes were living. On more
than one examination paper he had repeated what Aristotle said, that
true happiness consists of the intellectual activity of the soul. Like many
things that are confidently stated on examination papers, this had little
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meaning for Vincent, as it can scarcely have for a very young man. But
now he knew its meaning, for he could see it.
And seeing it, he could correct the description of it as given by the au-
thority on the matter. For the philosopher had remarked that intellectual
activity transcended in the human scale even the activity of morality. But
what Vincent saw was that from this movement of intellect came some-
thing very like morality itself. For why had Buxton invited Brooks Barrett
to remain as an intrusive third at this interview? Not because he had the
wish to be good to this poor servant of his. It was simply because the
contemplating mind had gone beyond the awareness of Brooks Barrett’s
striking repulsiveness. Vincent Hammell, all aware and too aware of hu-
man differences, could immediately see and judge the man’s weakness
and servility. But the contemplating mind was not aware of the existence
of these qualities. It was not that Buxton forgave Barrett, it was simply
that he saw no fault to forgive.
Nor had he seen the fault in Vincent himself that made him want
privacy and the undisputed possession of the old man. Barrett was wor-
thy to be present. Vincent was not so unworthy as to wish Barrett to be
away. So it appeared to Buxton.
It could of course be said that the contemplating mind had been in
error. For Brooks Barrett was, in point of fact, a pretty sad specimen.
And in point of fact Vincent Hammell had actually wished him away. But
Vincent, looking at Barrett now, seeing the intensity of his concentration
upon his master’s face, felt suddenly that this was reason enough for
Barrett’s being here. By wanting to be here, he deserved to be here. In
this acceptance of Barrett’s presence by Vincent there was no kindness
or moral choice. It was simply that it suddenly seemed to him that there
was no reason to fight for the possession of Jorris Buxton. Possession, in-
deed, was impossible. For it seemed to Vincent in that strange moment
of perception, that the mind of Buxton contained them both and brought
them to a strange equality.
Later, with a notebook before him—for it seemed necessary to record
this first experience of Buxton, not only for itself but to give point to the
more striking experience that followed it—Vincent tried to give words to
the emotion he had felt. It was, he could say, the emotion of pure disinter-
estedness, the emotion of contemplation. It was like being drunk with so-
briety itself. He had had it before, but never without the stimulus of music
or Shakespeare. Vincent made use of the word “pure” because that word
best suggested the sensation of crystalline, translucent being that he had
felt. He eventually hit upon another word, “peace,” remarking that what
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was probably meant by that word was a perfect poise of the energies with-
out the alloy of personality. He reminded himself that the ancient philoso-
phers, when they spoke so passionately to recommend death, probably had
these conditions in mind. They obviously could not mean non-existence.
They must have meant an existence in this perfect equilibrium of the im-
pulses and powers, with no element of that greed which they identified as
the personality. This condition o
f being was sometimes permitted by life,
but life was always presenting demands that brought the experience to an
end. Hence, Vincent supposed, the recommendation of death.
There was a considerable difference between what Vincent wrote
in his notebook about his first meeting with Buxton and what he later
wrote to Kramer. The notebook was open on his table as Vincent wrote
the letter and naturally a few phrases from the first account did reach
his friend. But what he had written for his own eyes alone, or for what
was much the same thing, the eyes of posterity, seemed both too private
and too pompous to communicate to Kramer. And so Kramer received
a description of Vincent’s feelings which was certainly not without its
truth but which certainly did not convey the truth in its fullness as Vin-
cent felt it. “I felt for him,” Vincent wrote, “that he stood like a denial
of every vulgar modern assumption, like a rock of refuge from every
contemporary cheapness.”
In writing so he could not help knowing that he was trying to reas-
sure Kramer that his student still thought of the important things. And
his affection moved him to bring Kramer into the scene. “You would find
him, as I do, the negation of everything you have ever fought against.” It
was only at the moment of writing that he felt Kramer had anything at
all to do with the situation. If there was a kind of generous insincerity in
bringing in Kramer at all, there was the same insincerity in reducing the
matter to considerations of “vulgarity.”
For all its pompousness, the notebook account was the truer one.
Still, the account which he wrote for Kramer was not untrue. One could,
if one wished to, think of the old man in that way. Outram thought of
him so. And Kramer would most easily comprehend him from such
language. Yet the impulse to bring in Kramer did have its illuminating
outcome. Vincent, in his generous insincerity, sought in his mind for
ways of continuing the connection between Kramer and Buxton, and he
found it in a recollection of his sophomore year. “Do you remember,” his
letter continued, “in that Wordsworth poem about the leech-gatherer of
which you are so fond, how the very old man beside the stream seems
to be a rock, a great boulder, and then the rock begins to seem like a
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The Journey Abandoned_The Unfinished Novel Page 22
