Tempest Tost tst-1

by Robertson Davies

  “Excuse me,” said Cobbler, turning toward him, “but I must contradict you. A pretty girl is nothing of the kind. A melody, if it is any good, has a discernible logic; a pretty girl can exist without the frailest vestige of sense. Do you know that that great cow of a girl they call The Torso—a pretty girl if ever there was one—came to me the other day and told me that she was musical, indeed surpassingly musical, because she often heard melodies in her head. Her proposal was that she should hum these gifts of God to me, and that I should write them down. She then hummed the scrambled fragments of two or three nugacities from last year’s movies. There were two courses open to me: as a musician I could have struck her; as a man I could have dragged her into the shrubbery and worked my wicked will upon her.”

  “As a matter of curiosity, which did you do?” asked Solly.

  “Curiosity killed the cat,” said Hector, who was a little embarrassed by the turn the conversation had taken; nevertheless, he wanted to show himself a man’s man, and something witty seemed called for.

  “I deny that,” said Cobbler; “the cat probably died a happy martyr to research. In this case I was spared the necessity for decision; Mrs Forrester called me away at the critical moment to ask if it would be necessary for the musicians to have any light, or whether they could get along with the few rays which might spill from the stage. When Nellie is in one of her efficient moods all passions are stilled in her presence.”

  “She’s a damned efficient woman,” said Roger. There wouldn’t be any show without her.”

  “I’d like her better if she hadn’t such an insufferably cosy mind,” said Solly.

  “What do you mean by that?” said Roger.

  “Oh, you know; she makes everything seem so snug and homey; she wants to be a dear little Wendy-mother to us all. Not being a Peter Pan myself, I don’t like it.”

  “Peter Pan, the boy who never grew up,” said Hector, to show that he was following the conversation, and also that he was as keen in his appreciation of a literary reference as anybody.

  “Funny, I would have thought that Peter Pan was a pretty good name for you,” said Roger.

  “Would you,” said Solly; “and just why would you think that?”

  “Take my advice and don’t answer that question,” said Cobbler. “You two are bound to quarrel eventually, but if you take my advice you won’t do it here.”

  “And why are we bound to quarrel, may I ask?” said Roger, very much on his dignity.

  “Because, as everybody knows, you are both after the Impatient Griselda. It’s the talk of the company. At the moment, Tasset, you are well in the lead, but Solly may leave you behind at any moment. Your fascination—I speak merely as an impartial but keen observer, mind you, and mean nothing personal—is beginning to wane. At any moment Griselda may weary of your second-rate man-of-the-world manner, and turn toward our host’s particular brand of devitalized charm.”

  This was sheer mischief-making, but Cobbler liked mischief and had had enough to drink to make him indulgent toward his weakness.

  “I had not realized that we were so closely watched,” said Solly. He and Roger were both caught off their guard by Cobbler’s words. But they were not so startled as Hector. So intensely had he concentrated on his own passion that he had not observed anything unusual in the attentions which Roger had been paying to Griselda; nor was he acute enough to have noticed anything significant about the way in which Solly avoided her. And here he was, confronted with two unsuspected rivals, both younger and more attractive than he, whose presence had been unknown to him! He had not drunk much, but his stomach heaved, and he felt cold within. He had no time to consider his plight, however, for Roger turned to him.

  “That’s a lie, isn’t it, Mackintosh?” said he.

  “What? What’s a lie?” said Hector, startled.

  “A lie that everybody is watching Griselda and me. I’ve been giving her a mild buzz, of course. Got to pass the time somehow. But nobody’s been talking about it.”

  “I don’t know,” said Hector.

  “Of course you don’t know. Nobody’s been talking and nobody cares. You’re lying, Cobbler.”

  “Nobody says that with impunity to a Fellow of the Royal College of Organists,” said Humphrey. “Floreat Vox Humana!”

  “And exactly what do you intend to do about it?”

  “Nothing at present. But I’ll embarrass you some time in public, and make you sorry.”

  “I never heard such nonsense in my life,” said Solly. “I couldn’t be less interested in Griselda Webster. I’ve known her, man and boy, for years. She has a heart like an artichoke; one man pulls off a leaf, dips it in melted butter, and consumes it with relish; another does the same. Anybody can have a leaf, but nobody gets them all, and nobody touches the core. I’ve had a leaf or two; why should I grudge Tasset his turn?”

  “Perhaps that’s the way you talk about women in the universities,” said Roger. “In the Army we’re a little more particular.”

  “In the great shrines of humanism we don’t need arbitrary rules to keep our manners in order,” said Solly, bowing rather drunkenly over his glass.

  “Come, come, gentlemen,” said Cobbler. “Don’t go all grand on us. You must admit, whatever you say about Miss Webster’s character, that she is an unusually personable young woman.”

  “Handsome is as handsome does,” said Solly owlishly. “Griselda is attractive—damnably attractive. But it’s all on the surface. If I may so express it, she is like a fraudulent bank which advertises a capital of several millions, and has perhaps five hundred dollars in actual cash. She is lovely; I repeat it, lovely. Because I am peculiarly sensitive to beauty I admit to a certain tenderness for her on that account; but her heart is cold and empty.”

  “Horse feathers,” said Roger, with heat. “She’s just a kid—a damned nice kid. She has to be taught what life’s all about, and what love is; just because you couldn’t get to first base with her you say her heart is cold and empty. I know better.”

  “Ah, I knew that we could rely upon you, Lieutenant,” said Cobbler. “Our host is a man of theory, you, a man of action. From your remarks I deduce that you have already bruised the teats of her virginity?”

  This was greeted with a moment of silence. Then—

  “What the hell do you mean by that?” demanded Roger.

  “Three guesses,” said Humphrey, smiling. “It is a rather delicate phrase from the Prophet Ezekiel—one of the nicer-minded prophets. In my capacity as an organist I hear a lot of Scripture; it’s an education in itself.”

  “Listen, Cobbler,” said Roger, “I’ve lived a rough life—a soldier’s life—but I have no use for raw language, particularly when applied to women. Just be careful, will you?”

  “But I was careful,” said Humphrey, smiling; “I could have put it plainly, but I chose a Biblical phrase to suit the solemnity of the occasion. And from what I know of your past history, Lieutenant, your objection to raw language has never stood in the way of your fondness for what fussy people might consider raw conduct.”

  “I’ve been around,” said Roger; “and I’ve known a lot of girls.”

  “It was said of that great and good monarch Henry VIII,” said Cobbler, “that his eye lighted upon few women whom he did not desire, and he desired few whom he did not enjoy. Would you consider that a fair description of yourself?”

  “I don’t say that I haven’t taken my pleasure where I found it,” said Roger, “but it was usually a fifty-fifty deal. Girls don’t get laid against their will. But don’t get any wrong ideas about Griselda. She’s different.”

  “Aha, then you are in love!” cried Humphrey. “There is nothing men like so much as generalizing about women; all women are alike, except the one they love. She is the exception to all rules. And there is no lover so pure and holy in his adoration as a reformed voluptuary. You love her, Tasset!”

  “Very well then, I love her. I’m man enough to admit it,” said Roger and was
startled and somewhat alarmed to hear himself.

  “Spoken like a man!” cried Humphrey.

  “I don’t believe you,” said Solly, heatedly. “Just a few minutes ago you described your attentions to her as a mild buzz.”

  “Well, did you expect me to blab out my private feelings?” said Roger.

  “That’s what you’ve just pretended to do,” said Solly, “but I don’t believe you love her. How could you love her? You haven’t got it in you to love anybody. The only thing that a crass, ill-conditioned yahoo like you could want with a girl like Griselda is-is-is her body.” He finished weakly, for he had wanted a strong word, and could not immediately think of one which was not also too coarse for the occasion. “You just want to seduce her,” he said, and sat back in his chair looking hot and rumpled and somewhat wet about the eyes.

  Roger stood up. “By God, Bridgetower, there are some things I won’t stand,” said he. “Get up on your feet.”

  So it was to be a fight! Solly was no fighter, but he did not lack courage; he would let Tasset hammer him to a pulp before he would take back a word of what he had said. He stood up, throwing off his coat as he did so, and confronted Roger. Humphrey Cobbler skipped nimbly behind a table, and Hector, his heart in his mouth, followed him.

  The ceiling was low, and dipped at the corners of the room, for it took the shape of the roof of the house; the light was bad, for it came from a single lamp which threw a patch of brilliance on the ceiling and a poor light everywhere else. There was a small rug on the slippery floor, and a good deal of furniture everywhere. It was not an ideal battleground.

  Roger was in good condition, and knew how to box. But when he took a boxing posture he found that Solly had placed himself just out of reach, and was holding his fists at waist level, and clearly intended to do nothing. Who was to strike the first blow?

  They might have stood glaring at one another until good sense took hold of them if Solly had not been so frightened. But he was convinced that Roger would do him desperate harm—might indeed kill him—and he was determined to make one gesture, one final Heine-like act of defiance, before the slaughter began. So he drew up his lip in a sneer, and laughed in Roger’s face.

  This had the desired effect. Roger stepped lightly toward him, and hit him on the nose, twice in the ribs and once on the jaw, with such speed that it seemed to Solly that the blows all landed at once. But with a great effort he struck at Roger’s diaphragm, having some dim notion that a blow there would be very telling. The treacherous rug slipped, and as he fell he jerked up his head and struck his adversary under the chin with it, causing Roger to bite his tongue painfully. They fell to the ground with a crash, and lay there, moaning from their injuries.

  As the noise subsided a sound from below made itself heard; it was not loud, but it was persistent; it was the tapping of a stick.

  “Oh God,” said Solly, getting up; “it’s Mother.” He hurried to the door. “It’s all right, Mother,” he called; “something fell down; nothing wrong.” And then, foolishly inspired, he added, “I hope we didn’t wake you?”

  His mother’s voice came tremulously up the stairs. “Oh, lovey, I’m so frightened. I thought the whole roof was coming down.”

  “No, no, Mother; no trouble at all. You’d better go back to bed.”

  Even more tremulously came the reply. “I can’t; I’m on the sofa in the hall. I feel so weak. I think I need one of my white tablets.”

  “I’ll have to go to her,” said Solly.

  “Better clean the blood off your face, first,” said Humphrey.

  It was Hector who acted. He dipped his handkerchief in the cold water in the bottom of the bowl which held ice for the drinks, and cleaned away the jammy ooze which had gathered under Solly’s nostrils.

  “We had better go home now,” he said.

  “No, no, that would convince Mother that something dreadful had happened. Anyhow it will take me some time to get her to her room if she has one of her weak spells. Stay here and keep quiet till I come back.” Solly hurried down the stairs on tiptoe.

  Roger had risen from the floor and was sitting with his tongue held between two cubes of ice, like the meat in a sandwich. Humphrey made as though to prepare him another drink, but Roger shook his head; a man who has bitten his tongue shrewdly feels a sickness all through his body which demands rest and quietness, not drinks. So Humphrey made a drink for himself and one for Hector, and sat down. Although they could not see it, all three were oppressively conscious of the pill-taking, the laboured breathing, the mute reproach, and the mordant old comedy of mother-and-son which was being played out at the foot of the stairs.

  For some time nobody spoke. After perhaps five minutes Roger rose and went into Solly’s bedroom, which was behind the room in which they were, and finding a washbasin there he set to work to relieve his swollen tongue by holding it under the cold tap.

  Hector and Humphrey looked at each other.

  “I don’t like this,” said Hector.

  “No. Bad business,” said Humphrey. “But probably we’ll be able to talk some sense into them when they come back.” He had had the fun of provoking a quarrel; he now looked forward with appetite to the fun of patching it up.

  “I don’t mean these two fellows,” said Hector; “I mean that I don’t like Miss Webster to be mixed up in a thing like this—rough talk and fighting.”

  “Oh, heavens, don’t worry about that. She’ll probably never hear of it. Not that she would mind, I suppose; girls rather like to be fought over. Not that this was a fight a girl could take much pride in. But don’t worry. Nothing will come of it.”

  “How do you know that something has not come of it already?”

  “Meaning—?”

  “They talked—they talked quite cold-bloodedly of—well, of intimacy with her.”

  “Oh well, that’s just talk, you know. You know how lads are.”

  “Yes, I think I do. But that sort of talk disgusts me, and makes me angry, too. I wanted to knock their heads together.”

  “I don’t know that I’d try that, if I were you.”

  “But we are older than they are. Surely one of us should take a stand?”

  “What about? I don’t see what you are getting at.”

  “Well,” said Hector patiently, as though explaining the binomial theorem to a pupil, “they shouldn’t talk that way about a girl’s honour. A girl’s honour is like a man’s reputation for honesty—probably more easily destroyed. It is sacred. Men should treat it with reverence.”

  “Aha, so that’s your notion, is it? Well, if I recall correctly, I was the first one to suggest that Griselda’s honour might have been a little blown upon. Now, in point of fact, I don’t believe that. But I wanted to find out what Tasset was up to, and I thought maybe I could goad him into an admission or a display of some kind. And I did.”

  “Well, then I think you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

  “I’m not, though. You’re not what could be called an original moralist, are you?”

  “I know the difference between right and wrong, I hope.”

  “How nice for you. I don’t.”

  “I suppose it is nothing to you that a beautiful and innocent young girl might lose her honour?”

  “Listen, Mackilwraith; do me a favour, will you; stop calling it her honour. You give me the creeps. Tasset has rather a reputation; I just wanted to find out what he was up to, if I could.”

  “He leads an immoral life, does he?”

  “By your standards, I suppose he does.”

  “Are there any other standards for decent people?”

  “That depends on the part of the world the decent people find themselves in, and the education they have had, and the place in society they occupy. Does Tasset strike you as an immoral fellow?”

  “If he is loose with women I don’t see that there can be any argument about it.”

  “Strictly between ourselves, I don’t like him either. Still, if it’s his nat
ure to chase women, should we judge him?”

  “There is such a thing as self-control.”

  “You certainly ought to know. You look as though you had controlled yourself, I must say.”

  “Certainly. In my profession anything else would be unthinkable.”

  “The unthinkable has always been rather in my line. You don’t appear to have controlled yourself at the table, by the way. Quite a lad with the knife and fork, aren’t you?”

  “That is different. It harms nobody.”

  “I see. You don’t think this control business can be overdone, do you?”

  “How could it be?”

  “Well, you know what Galen says: If natural seed be overlong kept, it turns to poison.”

  “Who was Galen?”

  “Never heard of Galen? Claudius Galen? The father of medical practice?”

  “Is he dead?”

  “A small matter of seventeen hundred years.”

  “Ah. Well I dare say his opinion has been contradicted since then. Medical opinion is always changing. Do you see The Reader’s Digest?”

  “Galen wasn’t just a pill-roller. He was a first-rate psychologist. The remark I have quoted to you is really a philosophical opinion phrased as a medical maxim.”

  “But it is out-dated.”

  “Damn it, wisdom is never out-dated.”

  “But how can the opinions of a doctor who died so long ago be any good today? In religion, of course, age is a good thing. But not in medicine.”

  “All right, Mackilwraith, you win. I feel myself to be an angel, beating my ineffectual wings in vain against the granite fortress of your obtuse self-righteousness.”

  “You’re not an angel. I think you’re rather silly. Why do you clutter your mind with what a dead doctor said?”

  “Galen isn’t just a dead doctor, man; he was a great spirit. Probably a lot of his ideas are fantastic now. But he had flashes of insight which we can’t discount. That’s what makes a man great; his flashes of insight, when he pierces through the nonsense of his time, and gets at something that really matters.”

  “You are a lucky man to have room to spare in your head for truck of that sort.”