To the Dark Tower

by Francis King

  April 5th, 1937

  S. N. G. once said in exasperation: "You are incapable of tenderness." That is not true. The other night—with Judith beside me—it was tenderness that kept me awake, watchfully, fearing another nightmare. Youth has this effect on me. The epileptic boy in the theatre, when everyone was filled with revulsion...

  April 7th,, 1937

  Up to London for a big function at the Guildhall. Public faces in public places—how I hate them. This is the last invitation that I shall accept. Judith says: "May I come with you?" I wish she could. But perhaps it is as well for her to keep her illusions. This, to my mind, is the pathos of youth: all the dull events that beset us when we grow up—dinners, love-affairs, committee meetings—seem so romantic, so desirable. What a shock it is to discover the truth! "But there must be something more to it," one thinks. "This can’t be all. I must have missed something." One day Judith will learn that it is more interesting to swim in the cove than to stuff oneself at a public banquet.

  From SHIRLEY FORSDIKE

  April 12th, 1937

  MY DEAREST,—I have put off writing to you from one month to another, always hoping for some answer to that letter of mine in which I told you that I loved you. Anything would have been better than your silence—anger, a letter to the headmistress, anything. To feel that I am simply beneath contempt—that is intolerable.

  As you may have heard from Judith, I have left the school for this restaurant. I imagined that it might help—might make me forget you among faces and noise and bustle. But it hasn’t. I am still where I started from. I wonder if you realise what this obsession means: to treasure a newspaper paragraph in which you are mentioned—only your name perhaps; to read over and over again one of your articles, until I know each trick of style, the exact way in which you will say a thing; and then, when I get back to this horrible boarding-house and sit down to dinner, to try and turn the conversation in such a way that you will be mentioned—the last war, generalship, South America. Hearing two people discuss you on a bus I stayed on long past my stop. I think I would have joined in if they had not left before I could reach them. And the news-reel: you only appeared for a moment, watching an inter-services football match, but I went again and again. And always I felt the same intolerable excitement—the dryness of the mouth, the singing in the ears—when the camera flashed to you, in an old macintosh, your hands deep in your pockets.

  Can you understand this? Can you see what I suffer? Can you see that anything that does not concern you does not exist? What happened yesterday, what will happen to-morrow—nothing matters, unless someone mentions your name, or I read about you, or I see you come out of your Club and get into a taxi, or you have an article in one of the papers. I live only at these moments. These moments are my life. There is nothing else.

  Oh, I know what you think. "A repressed spinster. Crazed. Man-starved." But it isn’t as simple as that. When I was still at the school it might have been so. It might simply have been that I needed someone to sleep with. But it can’t be that now—or I should have cured myself by coming here. Certainly, I hoped to cure myself. But it hasn’t made any difference.

  I could have any of these men if I wanted them. But I don’t. After Danaë had been visited by Zeus in a shower of gold, do you imagine that she could then tolerate the caresses of mere mortals? I am for you, and of you. If you will not have me, then no one shall.

  I was so happy yesterday; and even to-day the glow has not left me. Yesterday I saw you, the first time for so many weeks. I read in the papers that you were a guest at a banquet at the Guildhall. So I overstayed my lunch-hour and joined the little crowd who were waiting outside. I thought I should faint from the anticipation. One man looked at me and said: "Aren’t you feeling well?" But I nodded my head and moved on.

  Then the moment when the doors were thrown open, and between the slouching, apathetic crowds, all waiting for some sort of revelation, there moved the smiling public figures—the privy councillors and their wives, the ministers of this and that—all strutting and chatting and nodding, all seeking for acknowledgment of their own importance. Stupid, smiling faces, mildly cheered as they vanished into their cars.

  Then you, striding erect, your forehead creased as though in perplexity, your eyes preoccupied. Can you see the contrast? Are you surprised that the crowd which had cheered halfheartedly at its ministers of State should now roar at you in a frenzy of enthusiasm? Yet few of them knew who you were.

  That is a proof of your power. Those people knew the falsity, the emptiness of all the figures that had preceded you. They knew that the smiles and nods were a frank request for honour. They could see the smallness beneath.

  But you—they could see that you were real. There was no fraud with you. They knew that their love or hate meant nothing to you. You did not want their respect. You did not care about them. The day-to-day popularity of alderman and M.P.—you rejected it. You were grand in your self-sufficiency.

  I saw then what you could achieve if you wished. Those apathetic faces—sickly, worried, perplexed; the City clerks, the women out shopping—you were the figure they had been subconsciously waiting for. They were tired of the demagogues and the yes-men. If you had stopped then on the steps of the Guildhall you could have told us to do anything and we would have done it.

  Do you doubt your power now? Do you wonder why I called you a god?

  Oh, you can save us, all of us. You can take away the ordinariness and the stupidity and the meanness of life. You can make men and women out of us. You can give us a direction, an aim. You can lead us.

  Believe me when I say this. In my last letter I wrote, "For thine is the kingdom..." That is true.

  Use me, do what you want with me. I know that I cannot hope for your love—if I had it, it might perhaps kill me or drive me out of my mind; it would be tremendous, superhuman—but let me come and be your servant, let me be near you. I would expect nothing. I need nothing. You would not have to pay me. This is all that I ask. And if not this, then find something else for me to do for you—anything, anything at all. If it is for you then it will be sufficient. At the moment life is a matter of aimless waiting—a preparation, perhaps. When will the tongues of fire descend? When will you reveal yourself?

  Answer this letter, I beg of you. Acknowledge my existence. If I do not exist for you, then I do not exist at all. I exist only in your eyes.

  This letter gives me a sad feeling of peace. I have said so little of what I should like to say: but the thought that you will read it is enough. Will you forgive me?—Always, always yours,

  SHIRLEY.

  Of this letter he wrote in his diary: "She is mad. How can I answer her?” But several days later there is a further entry:

  I have been re-reading that letter from Miss Forsdike. For some reason it disturbs me. I have brooded on it all this evening. She is unbalanced, of course—it would be wrong to make too much of it. And yet . . . I go back to it again and again.

  It is as if she were the devil, taking me up into a high mountain and showing me all the kingdoms of the world in a moment of time.

  She talks of my power. "You can lead us. You can give us a direction, aim." I have felt that myself. I have thought that, and put away the thought.

  Often I have felt that if I wanted to I could do anything with men. But I am afraid of this power. It is something that I dare not, must not use. Often I have felt what she describes in her letter—that people are waiting for some divine intervention from me. Perhaps I should give it to them. Perhaps it is wrong of me to hold back.

  "The smiling public figures." How well I know what she means by that. But is their deceit any worse than mine? Are they greater impostors? The difference is that they are satisfied with the esteem of the many, while I want the esteem of the few. Mine is the larger ambition. The few—S. N. G., for example—are not taken in by public speeches, and honours, and decorations
. They see these things for what they are—a pretence. But is not the "integrity" which they admire in me also a pretence? In their fear of being imposed on by politicians—in their reaction towards someone like me, apparently without ambition—are they not being imposed on by a force more subtle? I am cleverer than the public figures; I want more. That is the only difference.

  This woman reads my thoughts. She is prompting me—crudely, ludicrously—but prompting me, always prompting me.

  I will not give in.

  A letter from S. N. GEORGE (extract)

  May 6th, 1937

  ...Two women bicycled over from Somerville to-day to see me. I gave them tea in the garden. How I love sitting behind my silver teapot, civilised, comfortable, with my roses around me and a cat on my lap! I know you despise this; and I myself feel furtively ashamed about it all. But old ladies, and Kensington hotels, and the Army and Navy Stores—these have for me the same romance, the same nostalgia that you find in the Aztecs. This world of Daimlers, and modesty-vests and Queen Mary toques—as I grow older, I feel more and more that I belong to it.

  The two women were intelligent but rather dreary. Of course they asked the expected questions: Is it necessary to have a knowledge of Orphic rites to appreciate The Effigy? What are you working on now? Would you please explain that line?... etc., etc.

  Then we somehow moved on to politics, and one of the women began talking of the equality of the sexes. H. W., why do they do it? Do they really believe that such a thing exists? I didn’t give my opinion because I was afraid of shocking them. But what I should like to have said was that so far from Nature creating the sexes equal, she seems to have taken a perverse, an almost fiendish, delight in their inequalities.

  On the physical side man has it all his own way—pragmatically, æsthetically. Nature has given him abundant energy, the pleasures of concupiscence, health; but woman is a sickly creature, slave to a monthly ritual, incapable of true orgiastic frenzy (she would like to think she is; in this she imitates man). Then the æsthetics of the question. Women artfully conceal their deficiencies under clothes, and corsets, and paint, and jewellery. But compare the sexes naked...

  Is this equality? But take the spiritual side. Here women have it all their way. Men are for the most part brutes: savouring their physical sensations, making money, acquiring possessions—wives, children, houses, honours. You must turn

  to women if you want true Christian virtues. It is women who are weak, and humble, and selfless, and loving. (That, incidentally, is why so many of my best friends are women.) The equality of sexes! Nonsense!

  Of this letter the General wrote in his Diary:

  Certainly! There is no equality of the sexes. Thus far I agree with S. N. G. But when he talks of men lacking the Christian virtues, then I say, "Thank God!" This does not seem a deficiency to me: rather it is the glory of our sex. I hate these Christian virtues which S. N. G. talks about. They are fit only for women. Why do men covet them?

  April 22nd, 1937

  Judith has been out to a dance with the cadet we met in the cove. I ask her when she is going to see him again. She blushes: "Never—I hope."

  "Good heavens! ...What’s happened? Have you had a quarrel?"

  "No. I think he’s rather a cad, that’s all."

  She won’t be more explicit. But one guesses. She reminds me of her mother in this. And Judith, too, will be passionate once she overcomes her revulsion.

  May 2nd, 1937

  The disturbance still goes on—ever since that letter from Miss Forsdike. I seem to be losing self-discipline. I say, ‘I will not think of this’: and then my mind reverts. ‘If I have this power... Shouldn’t I use it? Am I not destined to be a leader? etc., etc.’

  I am trying to curb my ambition, In every way I try to humble myself. I have refused the invitation to lecture at Oxford, the presidency of two societies, birthday honours. This sort of renunciation is the proof of merit. It is better than the achievement.

  How I sympathise with Lawrence, hiding away in the Air Force! It is self-discipline that counts. But we are in a dilemma. Each renunciation of power brings power. The more we humble ourselves the more others respect us. There is no escape from our destinies. Our ambition works through each relinquishment of ambition. That is the tragedy...

  May 5th, 1937

  When I go down to the cove this morning, who should I see reading under the shadow of a rock but the analytical friend of the cadet—alone! He is still in the alpaca coat, and he reclines in exactly the same way, humped forward, head tilted on to his shoulder. I greet him with a mixture of repugnance, affection, and surprise. But he looks up calmly, slipping an envelope between the pages of his book to mark the place. "Hullo."

  I feel rather foolish at this drawled greeting. "I didn’t expect you here so soon. It’s only a few months since you went. They give you good holidays."

  "I’ve left."

  "Left the bank?"

  He turns over on to his stomach, and then looks sideways up at me. "Yes. I’ve saved twenty pounds. That will keep me for about six weeks. By that time I hope to have finished my book."

  "Was that why you left—to finish it?"

  "Partly. I’d got stuck. In any case, I doubt if I could ever produce anything worthwhile if I stayed on."

  "Are you staying with your friend—the cadet?"

  He gives me an odd smile, knowing, almost patronizing. "No. He’s away. Didn’t you know?"

  "I haven’t seen him for months." It is as though I want to defend myself. Hurriedly I ask: "Where are you staying?"

  "I have a room the other side of the river."

  "And you decided this was the best place to write in?"

  "I came here to study my subject."

  "Your subject?"

  "The subject of my novel. I felt I was losing its essence. It was leaking away. So I came here to recapture it—to get its full force, so to speak." He rises to his feet, stretching, yawning, and moves away. "And now I must go."

  "Good-bye."

  "Good-bye."

  He slouches as he walks, his book under his arm. He is still smiling.

  I feel vaguely uneasy. I am used to summing people up: but I can’t do it with him. Each time I meet him it is as if I were exploring a different level of his character. But there is nothing to grasp. He is everything—and nothing...

  May 6th, 1937

  The analytical friend is called Frank Cauldwell. At first he takes no notice of me. But then he puts down his book suddenly and begins asking questions. Not even amusement behind the glasses. Impossible to tell what he is thinking. But I answer him as best I can.

  At last, rather crossly: "You seem very interested in me."

  "I am. I am interested."

  "But why?"

  "I’m sorry. Do you mind all these questions? Am I being rude?"

  "No. But it puzzles me. Why should you bother yourself with what I think?"

  "You’re—a—Person who Matters."

  (Is there mockery in the words? It is difficult to tell. I must be careful.)

  "I see."

  "To be frank, your personality obsesses me. I feel I must try to understand it. There’s some sort of answer there."

  "Answer? I don’t understand you."

  "It’s difficult to explain myself. But often I feel this with people. I am obsessed with their personalities for weeks or months or years on end." (Why do I instinctively think of Miss Forsdike?) "I suppose that’s why I want to be a novelist."

  "But why my personality? Is it so very strange?"

  "No—o." He is doubtful. "I really can’t tell you why one personality should obsess me and another not interest me at all. There was a man at the bank who was had up for kleptomania and self-exposure. I suppose the majority of people would consider him an ‘interesting’ personality. But no—I couldn’t interest m
yself at all in him. And yet I had known him better than anyone else there."

  "That’s hardly flattering to me."

  He laughs, then looks serious. "You see, I know that your character is vitally important. I know that, I am certain about it. It has an enormous, a profound interest, for me. But why this should be so I can’t say. And this ignorance in its turn intensifies my obsession. I want to find out. Curiosity. Nothing is stronger."

  "But you really cannot see why I interest you?"

  "Partly, yes. You’re a military genius—one reads that in the papers and one believes it to be true. I think you’re a great man. But that doesn’t entirely explain it. Your life is a sort of myth. If one could see the implications of the myth, one would understand much. But the myth is powerful whether one understands it or not."

  I think: "He is talking nonsense." I feel suddenly irritated. Myth, personality! He is worse than Miss Forsdike!

  I say: "Yes, I think I see what you mean."

  "Do you? Do you really? I didn’t imagine that you would... Take the Oedipus myth. That story has obsessed generations of poets—and not poets only. It has had a universal application. But it is only in the last forty years that Freud has come along to explain it to us."

  "And I am a myth?"

  "I think so—yes. One can’t be sure."

  I rise to my feet: "Can you swim yet?"

  He shakes his head, smiling: "Not yet."

  "Well, I’m going in again."

  Sting of water, washing all his nonsensical theories out of my head.

  May 26th, 1937

  Cauldwell has been here for three weeks now, and still I feel that I do not know him. He will never betray himself—while I have been stupidly indiscreet. Why, why? He is the only person to whom I have told so much—apart from S. N. G.