The Road from the Monument

by Storm Jameson

  ‘Arbor sent them to me,’ she said gaily. ‘Absurd of him, but so kind.’

  ‘They should really have been sent to you, my dear boy,’ Arbor said, with his smile. ‘For your Mott mis à nu. Beautiful, a beautiful piece of vivisection. Better than I remembered.’

  ‘I did a little work on it.’

  Frank Beasley’s face darted with the suddenness of a ferret. The ends of his mouth were pulled far down in an effort to be both admiring and severe. ‘A beautiful assassination,’ he said sternly.

  ‘Our friend Lambert is dangerous,’ Arbor said. ‘In future we shall all have to treat him with the greatest respect.’

  He had spoken as though he were amused, but there was more than amusement in his graceful precise voice — surprise, interest, and, yes, nascent respect. Lambert felt a trickle of unfamiliar warmth, a taste of honey on his tongue. He grinned.

  ‘As my wife always says…’

  Chapter Four

  Two days later, on Saturday, Gregory had got together the figures he needed to draw up his accounts. He had a list of his investments, and their yield in dividends, and another list of the monies due to him from his English and American publishers, and from the agent who handled his foreign rights: the last, except for the large sales of his books in France and Scandinavia, was not an income he took seriously. Without knowing it, he had absorbed from the old captain a view of foreigners as unreliable and potentially shady characters, and he looked on cheques from these sources as bye-blows, not to be counted on.

  He was trying to reckon what, if he sold all the investments, called in all sums due, he would have in his hands. It was an impressive enough total.

  The door opened. William, breathing noisily and resentfully after his climb to the top of the house, said,

  ‘Will you see Mr. Arthur?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  He was surprised to find that he felt no emotion at all, no nervousness, not even curiosity.

  Arthur Blount had not come alone. Behind him, wearing his grave courteous manner like a vestment, was Pulmer. Earlier in the day William had decided that it was time to lower the sun-blinds over all the south-facing windows: a dense yellow light filtered through them, accentuating the lines of weariness — a purely spiritual languor — on Arthur’s long concave face, and darkening the film of powder over Pulmer’s chins and neck.

  Both men greeted him with a discreet warmth, like the glances exchanged after a memorial service. Pulmer took his hand between both his and pressed it, then seated himself, again a little behind Blount, at whom he glanced as if begging: Do strike first.

  ‘Gregory,’ his brother-in-law said in a gentle voice, ‘do you know — you probably don’t — that Corry came to see both of us yesterday — he must have made it his business to find out that Pulmer was in London this week. He said the same thing to both — that he intends to resign his deputy-directorship unless — forgive me for not softening it — you resign. He also — if he resigns — intends to see the other members of the Board of Trustees, and explain why he is no longer able to work with you.’

  Gregory had the greatest difficulty in holding back a smile, unsuitable at this moment. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Well?’

  ‘We could, of course, tell him to resign and be damned. I must say I don’t enjoy having a pistol pointed at me. On the other hand, the pistol is undoubtedly loaded. Once several persons are in possession of the story he would tell, I am sure, in as portentous a way as he could — a grossly portentous fellow — the chances of its reaching the press, the gutter press, in some form, lurid enough to do damage, are multiplied, if I may say so, infinitely. Think of it. An Institute devoted to wasting money on the arts! We should be fair game…. In short, a singularly unhappy situation.’

  ‘You would like me to resign?’

  ‘My dear fellow —’ Pulmer began. He fell back into silence.

  Arthur Blount’s voice quavered noticeably. ‘You know I’m attached to you, my dear Gregory. You know how much I admire you, your work, your great gifts. You won’t imagine that it’s easy for me to face the idea of ending a relationship — our work together for the Institute — after so many full happy years.’

  Gregory looked at him with an ironic interest. He had known his brother-in-law overcome by emotion, many times: his affection for his friends was his most beguiling habit. He had never known, never before realised, that when he thought it useful Arthur could put up a superb show of emotion — as now — with the coldest most complete detachment. He thought: But he’s quite ruthless, and I never knew it.

  A mischievous impulse to annoy the other man by arguing made him say,

  ‘But which of the trustees do you believe capable of running to the press with the story?’

  ‘None,’ Arthur said coolly. ‘And all of them are capable of telling someone, a friend, a wife, or of gossiping in the club after dinner. The itch to be interesting and amusing is a far commoner disease than the common cold.’

  ‘So,’ Gregory said, smiling, ‘I’ve become infectious?’

  Pulmer moved uneasily in his chair. In a voice less urbane than usual, he said, ‘Since we had our talk — when was it? — six weeks ago? — I’ve given endless thought to your problem. Thought and prayer. I still feel as I did then — that a man as sensitive, as intelligent, as profoundly religious as yourself, cannot allow himself to become a stumbling-block. I… I wish I could say something less painful. But I believe, I believe firmly that I am right.’

  He is all the same, Gregory thought, genuinely grieved. Not like Arthur. ‘You couldn’t feel anything else,’ he said coldly.

  ‘Not that I am judging you,’ said Pulmer. He spread his hands, as if deprecating himself. ‘The sins of the flesh—’ he hesitated: as it had done before, his expression made clear that he could see nothing in the affair but a sexual itch, very distasteful. ‘My poor Gregory, you must pray.’

  ‘Not a remedy,’ Gregory said.

  ‘It’s your only chance of peace,’ Pulmer said kindly.

  Gregory turned to look at his brother-in-law. In spite of himself, he felt a prick of dismay. ‘You are certain I must resign?’

  Arthur sighed. ‘Yes. And at once. Giving some really good reason — illness — you are ill, you know. You had better go abroad at once, too — which will make it seem more likely that your health…’

  He did not trouble to finish the sentence. He made a light gesture, holding up one hand, fingers apart, as though letting something slip between them to the floor. Nothing, no raising of his voice, no violence, could have made plainer his absolute determination to erase Gregory, as a danger and an offence.

  Gregory did not speak. He was discovering something — about himself? — about any creature? A great loss is no protection against the pain of a lesser one: in the last weeks he had lost things infinitely more necessary to him than the friendship of these two men, and he ought, surely, to have been able to drop it lightly, one more rag on his way to being stripped naked. In fact this was one of his worst, most humiliating moments. For both these men he had ceased to exist… no, the truth was more humiliating than that… when they looked at him they saw, Arthur a roturier, an ill-bred climber whose foot had slipped, Pulmer a man unable to control his bad habits. No doubt, he thought coldly, they are both convinced that I make a habit of casual lechery and have been unlucky for once. And neither feels that my usefulness — as a writer who believed in their world and its traditions and values (including its value to the country) — is such that they need support me through an unpleasant episode; neither of them has any compunction about dropping me the instant I cease to be useful…. He pulled himself up. There was compunction in Pulmer, even charity — not the same thing: but his charity, for all it was real, took bad second place to his instinct for social order; what had once been only part of his faith as a Christian had become its whole raison d’être, its meaning: he had become the urbane administrator of his faith.

  As for Arthur… He was too chi
lled by his brother-in-law’s indifference to him to want to justify him. All one can say, he thought mockingly, is that he’s a sagacious fellow, a man whose breeding and sceptical mind set him apart and allow him, no, make it his duty to look on himself as a delicately fine flower, to be saved at all costs…. His mockery turned on himself. Exactly what I used to feel about him….

  He looked at them. Arthur met his glance with quiet assurance, Pulmer’s eyelids flickered, and dropped, hiding his fine eyes.

  ‘Very well. I’ll resign.’

  One of his charming smiles softened Arthur’s lips. ‘That’s very good of you,’ he said in a calm voice.

  ‘My dear fellow,’ said Pulmer, ’you’re behaving nobly. Never think we don’t know what you’re doing. We do indeed — and respect you for it, you know.’

  Gregory turned the pages of his desk calendar. ‘There is a meeting of the Board in two weeks’ time. June the 22nd. I’ll resign then.’

  A trace of uneasiness roughened Blount’s perfunctory friendliness. ‘You think that wise? A letter…’

  ‘I prefer it.’ Gregory smiled with one side of his mouth. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do it in the most suitable way.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you will.’

  Pulmer said anxiously, ‘One thing alarms me. The Conference in September — without you——’

  ‘I take it,’ Blount interrupted, ’that the arrangements are so far advanced that your Deputy can take your place.’

  ‘But not with our friend’s distinction and brilliance,’ said Pulmer softly.

  An agony of regret closed Gregory’s throat. He waited. Dry-mouthed, he said, ‘Yes. Yes, he can do it. The details have been worked out and he has all the strings in his hands.’

  Reflecting aloud, Blount said, ‘We must of course let him act as Director until that’s over, we can’t do anything else. But perhaps… we can’t decide anything now… whether we make him Director after that depends on a great many other things. He’s not — this is only my unthought-out opinion — not quite the size for it. A climbing fellow, of course. Not that that’s fatal. Merely uninviting.’

  It would do Lambert no good, Gregory thought, to say that we started climbing at the same time, from the same place. ‘You won’t find a more capable administrator. And he’s had ten years’ experience of the machinery, and the people — and countries — we deal with.’

  His brother-in-law stared. ‘Generous of you.’

  Gregory thought: Is it generous? Or my vanity — the instinct to show myself a fine fellow, too noble to bear grudges? Or too indifferent? ‘No one knows Lambert Corry as well as I do,’ he said in a detached voice.

  ‘He’s certainly what they call a safe man,’ Blount drawled.

  ‘Yes. He won’t give you any trouble. No risk of his developing imagination.’

  Blount glanced at the papers spread over the desk. ‘You were working. We’ve taken up enough of your time. We’ll go.’

  A brief silence. The warmth, the heavy light, the confused noise of traffic outside, became tangible, like a pressure, like the sounds of ordinary life breaking in on a room where something which has been taking place, a birth or a death, has shut them out. Gregory stood up.

  At the door, his brother-in-law shook his hand warmly and briefly. ‘Thank you, my dear boy.’

  Pulmer’s lower lip, curiously softer and longer than the other, was thrust forward and had begun to quiver slightly. He controlled himself and said with real kindness,

  ‘Will you send for me if you need help? I’ll come anywhere you are, at any time. You have only to send for me.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Gregory said.

  He was grateful for the kindness, and could not conceive himself ever, in any circumstances, at any moment, wanting help that this good urbane elegant upright fellow could give him, priest as he was.

  Chapter Five

  He remained alone for some time, not so much thinking as feeling his way forward in his new life as a man without the cover of a position of power, without friends (or none he cared to call on), without confidence. What could he rely on now? Or on whom?

  He was astonished to discover that he relied — if you could give the colour of reliance to what was little more than a blind groping towards the human being nearest to him — on his wife’s loyalty; on what, fumbling for the right word and not able to reach it, he thought of clumsily as her ’real’ kindness. At this moment he knew what it was he respected in her: that behind everything else, behind her malice and biting vinegarish tongue, she was good-natured, simple, kind even to sentimentality. And the malice was his fault. He looked coldly at what he believed he had made of her, and promised himself to do everything possible to make friends with her (the childish phrase fell into place naturally), treating her, for the future, with the most complete honesty and complete trust. Treating her, in short, as a woman.

  After a time he went downstairs and knocked at her door.

  ‘I know you want to dress for dinner,’ he said, ‘and you’re probably tired, but I want to talk to you.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes, now. There is something I have to tell you before anyone else does… your brother… I don’t know how much you’ll mind.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m resigning from Rutley. At once.’

  She looked at him. ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘So that there will be no scandal. To satisfy your brother and Pulmer. I shall say I’m ill. Overwork. Heart. Anything.’

  ‘Why at once?’

  ‘I must give my successor — Lambert — every chance to gather up the threads of the Conference.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said, ’your Conference. How much do you mind that? You… you have put a great deal into it.’

  ‘I was going to ask you that.’

  ‘Why should I mind? It meant nothing to me.’

  ‘It would have been an occasion. Brilliant.’

  ‘I leave brilliance of that sort to Lambert’s wife. She will make full use of it…. Gregory, you haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘How much I mind not showing myself off at the Conference?’ He hesitated. His will to trust her met and was smashed by a deeper impulse: not to show a hurt. He said lightly,

  ‘Oh, of course I’m sorry — I had my speech almost ready. An absurd waste of time, unless I can use it in print. We’ll see.’

  Beatrice gave him one of her fixedly sharp glances. ‘Well… oh, never mind, you’ll have other triumphs. What will you do? Now?’

  ‘I thought — your brother advises it, by the way — go abroad. France or Italy. One can still live there, and be simple and comfortable, on half what I make as a writer. On less than half.’

  She said quickly, ‘Alone? You’d go alone?’

  ‘I hoped you would come.’

  She did not answer.

  ‘If you dislike the idea of France,’ he said gently, ’where would you like to live?’

  For the first time since he came into her room, she let him see that she was disturbed. Her face contracted. In a low voice, a voice that seemed meant for herself, she said, ‘Can I be sure of you?’

  He chose his words. ‘You can be sure of my respect, affection, gratitude. We can make a life together.’

  She gave him an ironical smile. ‘Do you believe that?’

  Do I? he asked himself, startled. ‘Why not? We’re not, not yet, old.’

  ‘Does that make it any easier? Not for you, my friend.’

  He made an effort, and said, ‘I need you.’

  She was silent for a long time. She sat with her hands folded, her spare restless body rigid, so sunk that he was able to watch her with no fear that she knew he was doing it. In this moment of attention he saw her with extreme distinctness, as if Vermeer had painted her and set her in this room filled like a museum with fragments of her richly orthodox past: her small blue eyes, hard, often disquieting, her thin nose, a little too long for its parakeet curve to be attractive, her thin dry lips: the fine sk
in with its mauvish tinge was not that of a healthy woman, but he was convinced that most of her ailments were imaginary, the result, not the cause of her capricious temper. He tried to guess what she was considering with this rigorous intensity. Their marriage? Its first months — or the past ten brilliant years of entertaining and being entertained, the box at Covent Garden, first nights, the friendship of men and women eminent in the nobler professions and in all the arts? The fixed stare of her eyes gave nothing away.

  When she spoke her voice had the raucous note that so disconcerted people who heard it for the first time.

  ‘No, Gregory. To live with this story tied to our heels. Utterly dependent on the discretion of Lambert Corry and that sharp-witted wife of his. And knowing — on the day our friends begin being careful, or maliciously sorry — that she has begun to make an amusing story of it…. No, my dear boy. Impossible.’

  ‘What is impossible?’

  ‘The frightful vulgarity of it.’ She looked at him with an almost pitying distaste. ‘My poor friend, if you had killed someone, or fallen in love with an actress or a woman of that sort… but this sordid little scandal…’

  He waited.

  ‘This stupid unsavoury story. You must have been mad.’

  Weariness made him say, ‘No.’

  ‘Then — ’ she moved one of her lined old-looking hands — ‘I don’t understand it.’

  ‘And you don’t forgive it.’