People in Glass Houses

by Shirley Hazzard

  Yes, Mr Pylos had an appealing manner, and he used it for that purpose. He aimed to please, and his aim was directed to the highest circles. After a while he developed a posture that had always been latent with him — an excessively upright posture verging on a strut. He walked as if he were bending over backwards.

  Miss Graine’s responsibilities having increased, she was provided with the help of a typist, who was accommodated in an inside office that had been — and continued to be — used for hats and coats. The makeshift setting was well-suited — and perhaps contributed — to the constant turnover of the girls engaged. One of these girls, it is true, made an attempt to relate the story of Miss Sadie Graine to the Department of Personnel during the third year of Mr Pylos’s administration. The tale, told with earnest lucidity, moved her hearer — a personnel officer of mature years and large bun — to send subsequently for the Confidential file on Miss Graine. But on finding this to be a veritable treasure-house of testimonials lavishly endorsed by the upper echelons of DALTO, she returned it unmarked to the registry and requested in its place the file on the typist — in which she entered a brief account of the typist’s appeal, adding a notation with respect to paranoid tendencies. Shortly afterwards the girl was sent to assist the less technical in rugged country northwest of Kabul.

  The environs of Kabul were not the only locality to benefit in this way. Those who served the Organization in DALTO projects throughout the world soon began to give an impression of being divided into two groups: those who had volunteered for such service, and those who had displeased Miss Sadie Graine. The senior officers of Pylos’s staff were dedicated men; in order to conserve their efforts the more completely for the far-flung needy of the world, they took the precaution of doing nothing for those close to them. One or two who fell below this lofty standard and intervened on behalf of their subordinates were quickly eliminated by Miss Graine.

  Of the more junior staff, some — and particularly those who foresaw a sojourn in Kabul — condemned Pylos. Others, of larger nature, contended that he was a weak man but a man of goodwill. Whatever their view, not a day passed without their taking some stock of the situation. Over their typewriters, over their desks, over their morning coffee, over a period of five years, the staff of Pylos recounted to one another, week in, week out, successive chapters in the tale of Sadie Graine.

  With regard to the less technically oriented, all the efforts of Miss Graine were required to shield Pylos from troublesome ambiguities. He sincerely wished to assist the laggard lands commended to his care. Yet he looked about him at the fully oriented, and in his heart he wondered. Was this the state of mind one sought to purvey to the less privileged? It was true that the grievous condition of many of the countries assisted by DALTO seemed to justify almost anything that was done to them — providing, as it were, a mandate for any change, the bad along with the good. About this development process there appeared to be no half-measures: once a country had admitted its backwardness, it could hope for no quarter in the matter of improvement. It could not accept a box of pills without accepting, in principle, an atomic reactor. Progress was a draught that must be drained to the last bitter drop.

  Once, after a day-long conference on Civic Coordination projects, it occurred to Pylos that progress might have taken different, unimagined forms; but he soon dismissed this idea for what it was, the result of mental strain. Occasionally he wondered if more thought might not have been given to the ultimate consequences of technical change — change about which, indeed, the word ‘impact’ was frequently used. More thought — but by whom? Not by Pylos. Pylos was intent on staying on top of things, not getting to the bottom of them. If there was one thing Pylos didn’t go for it was being asked to consider complexities at any length and for their own sake. He could turn quite nasty if pressed to do so.

  Achilles Pylos could only hope that the backward nations, once technically oriented, would make some happier use of this condition than their mentors had.

  He found himself obliged to participate in what were called far-reaching decisions concerning countries of whose language he was ignorant, whose customs he had never studied, whose religion was a puzzle to him, whose politics a labyrinth, whose history a mystery. For this purpose he was provided with advisers whose qualifications did not in every instance exceed his own capacities — and with documents whose abundance invariably did. And at intervals he made headlong journeys to inspect the work of DALTO around the world.

  When in this way he visited DALTO projects in the field — to gain, as the saying goes, first-hand knowledge — he was generally received in spacious offices and whisked about, to institutes and farms, to factories and dam-sites, in large cars. He stayed in air-conditioned hotels and was entertained in important houses. He could not quite convince himself that this led to first-hand knowledge. But since he did not believe in useless suffering he was also displeased when he came upon a DALTO mission existing without such amenities, and would depart promising to rectify the situation.

  These contradictions caused him dismay, but Pylos suppressed his misgivings, with the help of Sadie Graine — who urged upon him matters of more immediate importance, such as jurisdictional disputes with fellow aid-agencies over specific rights to assist the needy. Any important deviation from established Organization practices would have necessitated a character very different from his. Faintly he trusted to the larger hope — that something less than ill would be the final goal of good. Sometimes he consoled himself with the simple fact that he, one of DALTO’s own officers, was aware of such inconsistencies. This seemed to help somewhat.

  On the fifth anniversary of Pylos’s arrival at the Organization, a new leaf, turned by an unexpected hand, was opened in the story of Miss Sadie Graine.

  That evening, for the first time, Sadie Graine came to dinner at the Pylos apartment. Mrs Pylos had often spoken with Miss Graine on the telephone, and had glimpsed her occasionally in her husband’s office. Once in a while she had said to Pylos, ‘Shouldn’t we ask your secretary to dinner?’ Pylos, from some instinct which he could not then explain but which was later vindicated, had repeatedly turned the suggestion aside. At last the anniversary celebration presented itself, and Mrs Pylos, saying ‘Achilles, don’t be ridiculous,’ had telephoned Miss Graine and invited her to dinner.

  The evening seemed to go well enough. There were several other guests, and along the table Pylos saw his wife talking in her usual charming way with Miss Sadie Graine. He even heard her say, ‘Do call me Ismene.’ It was unnecessary, even indecent, to contrast his wife, with her elegant golden head and great grey eyes, with Sadie Graine, with her tight little lips and tight little dark blue dress; but Pylos was touched to observe that Sadie Graine had a new permanent wave for the occasion.

  When the guests had gone — and, being official guests, they left early — Mrs Pylos put her feet up on the sofa while her husband went around opening windows and replacing a chair or two. They remarked how So-and-So had put on weight, how his wife had been wearing a wig, how someone else had been allergic to the mousse. And at last the conversation reached Miss Sadie Graine.

  ‘Really darling,’ said Mrs Pylos, taking off her bracelet and laying it on the coffee-table beside her. ‘What an .’

  Pylos was startled. His wife was a kind woman — in fact, as beautiful women go, a very kind woman. It was not her habit to take strong dislikes or to use strong language. He opened a window he had just closed. ‘How is that, my dear?’

  ‘I should have thought’, his wife went on, ‘that you might just as well have kept the first one.’

  Pylos now came and sat down. ‘Ismene, I don’t understand you at all. What first one?’

  ‘Why Achilles, don’t you remember? When you first joined the Organization they gave you an impossible secretary — some nasty old thing, you told me — and you sent her away and asked for a different one. Now, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. All I’m saying is — she couldn’t have been much worse than
this one.’

  Pylos lit a cigarette. He looked so concerned that his wife concluded he must be thinking of something else. Eventually he said, however, ‘I suppose it does come to much the same thing.’

  The following morning, Choudhury had an early appointment to see Pylos. The two men sat down together, freshly shaven and smelling faintly of cologne, in Pylos’s office. The morning light was particularly brilliant, and Pylos was taken aback to notice a change in Choudhury. Choudhury was looking seedy. His eyes were circled, his cheeks sunken, his black hair coarsely threaded with white. Pylos realized that, although he saw Choudhury almost daily, he had not really looked at him for some time. Ah well, he told himself, we’re all getting on, I suppose, and there’s nothing we can do about it. ‘How are you getting on, Yussuf?’ he inquired pleasantly. ‘And what can I do for you?’

  ‘Mr Pylos,’ said Choudhury, leaning forward in his chair and putting his hand earnestly on the edge of the desk, ‘you may remember that I once spoke to you about my promotion.’

  Pylos responded, ‘Of course’ — not because he remembered at all, but because it really was a matter of course: it seemed to Pylos that scarcely a day passed without some member of his staff raising the question of their promotion, and there was no reason why Choudhury should have been an exception. Like most department heads at the Organization he had come to regard these petitioners as neurotic nuisances — and in fact by the time they reached Pylos they were often acting pretty queerly. In each case he received the applicant with a sense of long-suffering, even of martyrdom.

  ‘I know you have a lot on your mind,’ Choudhury went on, ‘and I haven’t bothered you again until now. I kept hoping that something would develop. But I wonder — it’s been so long — can you tell me how my case stands?’

  Pylos saw that he would have to deal more or less frankly with Choudhury. The Director-General was at that moment discouraging promotions — due to a severe financial crisis — and the prospects of advancement for someone like Choudhury were distant indeed. Pylos leant his elbows on the desk and brought the tips of his fingers together. He looked hard at Choudhury, and it struck him again how worn Choudhury was looking. Taking his cue from Choudhury’s appearance, he spoke.

  ‘Yussuf,’ he said, ‘as you know, we now have a new Director-General — a younger man, a man of great energy and — I say it in no pejorative sense — ambition. He has made it known that he will want the upper positions of the Organization to be filled increasingly by men and women of youth and vigour like himself. Naturally, he respects the abilities — I may say, the devotion — of’ (here Pylos gave a rueful smile) ‘old-stagers like ourselves. But I would be less than honest with you if I did not mention that this new emphasis on a younger staff may hamper your prospects for the immediate future.’

  As Pylos uttered these words and leant back in his chair, not displeased with himself, Choudhury’s hands convulsively grasped the edge of the desk, and Choudhury himself turned grey. He got to his feet and, still gripping the edge of the desk as if he would tip it over, uttered a stream of agitated words in his own language. Pylos, greatly shocked, remained seated with an effort, looking up into Choudhury’s wild eyes. Such a thing had never happened to him before, and fortunately it did not last long. In a moment or two Choudhury subsided, and sank down trembling into his chair. His breath came and went sobbingly; his forehead was wet, his hands quivered. He murmured a distraught apology.

  Maintaining a certain reserve, Pylos reassured him. ‘You must have been over-working,’ he said. ‘Letting things get you down.’

  But Choudhury, doubtless not wishing to compound the impression of decrepitude, denied this. Limply he asked leave to go. Pylos saw him to the door. He put his hand on Choudhury’s arm. ‘We’ll have to see what can be done about your future,’ he said — his thoughts already turning towards Kabul.

  When Choudhury had gone, Pylos sat down again. He wanted to forget what had just taken place, but he could not face the contents of his In-tray so he simply sat there for a while, feeling uneasy. It wasn’t so much Choudhury’s going to pieces that bothered him: it was what Choudhury had said. Not that Pylos understood a word of Urdu, of course. But he knew well enough when he heard the name of Sadie Graine.

  Once in a great while, it happens that a scholarly book, a large, difficult and demanding book, a book not devoid of footnotes and statistics, will by its very erudition engage the public interest. It was so with Gibbon’s first volume; it has happened more recently with the respective works of Professor Myrdal and Doctor Kinsey. And thus it was with the work of Ashmole-Brown.

  The Organization had forgotten Ashmole-Brown. Five years earlier, Ashmole-Brown had been handed his final pay-cheque, an envelope containing his travel authorization and steamer-tickets, and a receipt for his relinquished laissezpasser. He had got into the Down elevator and gone out through the Organization’s revolving doors, and there had been no reason to think of Ashmole-Brown ever again. Ashmole-Brown had been terminated. What, then, was Ashmole-Brown doing on the inside page of the morning newspaper, grinning broadly as he stepped ashore on the very pier from which he had been summarily dispatched? According to the legend beneath the photograph, he was arriving for the publication of his book Candle of Understanding, which had recently created a sensation in England.

  The photograph was indistinct, the legend brief. But it was Ashmole-Brown all right. The same eyes beamed through (intact) spectacles, the same shaggy tweeds were furled around ungainly limbs. Those at the Organization who saw the photograph were subtly troubled by this breakdown in the natural order of things. It was as if an old film had been run through the projector in reverse, and Ashmole-Brown were seen descending instead of mounting the gang-way of his out-bound vessel. It gave them a sense of witnessing some act of prodigious insubordination.

  A few days later, glancing through a picture-magazine in the Organization barber-shop, Pylos came upon the same photograph of Ashmole-Brown — this time, large, sharp and glossy and followed by several others. ‘Great to be back,’ Ashmole-Brown was quoted — somewhat improbably — as having said. The caption proceeded to explain that he had been to these shores before and that he had at one time worked for the Organization. In a brief interview on the facing page, Ashmole-Brown was reported as having, among other things, modestly brushed aside the assumption that he had resigned from the Organization in order to devote himself exclusively to the completion of his great work. ‘Resigned? Not a bit of it,’ he exclaimed (with, so it was recounted, a genial guffaw). ‘Dismissed, more like it. Turfed out. Jolly well turfed out.’ No particular importance was attached to this revelation, and the sequence of photographs went on to depict a series of genial guffaws.

  During the weeks that followed, Pylos saw much of Ashmole-Brown. His guffaw, along with innumerable copies of his immense and expensive book, was to be seen in bookshop windows, in railway carriages and on coffee-tables. Candle of Understanding was advertised, lyrically and at length, in newspapers which also reviewed it with no less lyricism and no greater brevity. It was praised by specialists and laymen alike. One learnt that Ashmole-Brown was lecturing to various august assemblies, and that he would discuss his book late at night on a television programme called ‘Last Gasp’. Finally Pylos came home one evening to find the book in his own living-room. The next day he took it with him to the office.

  There he placed the book before him on his desk and examined its black and white jacket. ‘A Study in Technology and Humanism’ was printed below the title. From the front flap Pylos learnt that Ashmole-Brown had spent eight years compiling this examination of what was called ‘the diverse traditions, merging present and common destiny of men’. Ashmole-Brown, so the paragraph said, had concerned himself with the historical and current effects of technical change on indigenous cultures; had based himself on the ingenious premise that there was something to be learnt from the sum of human experience. There followed a brief summary of the author’s background, with a me
ntion of his four years at the Organization. Ashmole-Brown was married, had a grown daughter, and cultivated his garden near Colchester. Pylos turned the preliminary pages and began Chapter I.

  Half an hour later he closed the book and laid his hand upon it. Between his fingers the jacket interjected ‘Literate’ and ‘Illuminating’. He could not deny it. Ashmole-Brown had obviously written an extraordinary book. Here were the contradictions which Pylos had failed to confront during his years with the less technically oriented. Here — but presented with what sympathy, what grace, what goodwill, and yet with what authority — were just such insights as Pylos would have wished to have; just such solutions as he would have wished to propose. It was undeniable: the book was masterly.

  There was something grotesque, even terrifying, about the idea that Ashmole-Brown’s great work had all this while been accreting, like an iceberg, for the good ship Pylos to founder upon. Pylos groaned, and opened the back flap of the jacket.

  From this he learnt that Ashmole-Brown had taken his title from the Apocrypha. Well, why not? Was not Ashmole-Brown himself out of the Apocrypha, in a manner of speaking? But why the devil had the man not said his work was this important? ‘Sound,’ he had said; Pylos could just see him saying it: ‘I should call it sound.’ Did he not realize that no one talked like that these days? One did not minimize one’s achievements — indeed, such diffidence was open to damaging psychological interpretations. It wasn’t done. And yet — Ashmole-Brown was exactly the type who would do it, and Pylos felt he should have known. Damn the man, had he not even written some pamphlet — now it all came back to Pylos — yes, a pamphlet on the abuse of the superlative? (This work appeared in paperback shortly afterwards and, advertised as ‘Early Ashmole-Brown’, sold extensively.) Pylos groaned again, and he turned the book over on its face. From the back cover, Ashmole-Brown’s round face looked up at him, creased for a mild guffaw.