The Precipice

by Hugh Maclennan

  The snake and the dancing girl twitched rhythmically on McCunn's forearms as he gestured.

  “I don't know,” Lucy said, looking away from him. “Stephen and I are too different. He – he seems to take a divorce completely for granted – like buying a new car or renting a new house.”

  “That may be true. But that's not the reason why you're afraid to marry him.”

  There was a whistle as a train approached the level crossing at the eastern end of Grenville. They could see it winding in over the green plain, then disappearing into the town like a long, calm snake entering cover.

  “It seems unnatural.” She looked up at him, and again her forehead wrinkled. “Unnatural for me, I mean. Our backgrounds are too different. I've never been any place and he's a wanderer. The only thing we have in common is that we're neither of us happy.”

  He drained the last drops out of his glass, looked at the light coming through it, and laid it down again.

  “I don't like to see you pitying yourself,” he said.

  “Am I doing that?”

  “You soon will be, at this rate. What do you mean – you feel unnatural? You never felt as unnatural as I did once, and I got over it. By God, you never felt in your life the way I felt in 1917 when I was wounded.”

  She showed her surprise. “I never knew you were wounded. People always said it was a miracle you came through the war untouched.”

  “Miracle, hell!” McCunn was indignant. “A man can have his head blown off and they put his name on a monument. He can have his leg shot away and he comes home a hero. But he can lose his most priceless possession for King and Country and he's not supposed to mention it to a soul. Miracle, hell! Even if he talks about it to the boys in the back room, what do they do? They laugh.” He gave her a curious, appraising glance and rose from his chair. “I'm going to tell you something I never told anybody unless the circumstances were such that I bloody well had to account for myself. On November thirtieth, in front of Poperinghe, just toward the shag end of Passchendaele, I had my left testicle shot off.”

  She flushed and turned away.

  “You talk about feeling unnatural!” McCunn continued. “You never had a thing like that happen to you. I just looked up at the ceiling of the base hospital and let the tears stream down my cheeks, and I'm telling you, if I'd had a gun handy, I'd have blown my brains out. But the doctor pulled me around. He did a beautiful job and he saved the other one, and when he let me loose he told me to keep my chin up and take it easy. Did I take it easy? I did not. I got out of the army and for three years I lived like a tramp. I went out to India and the China Seas and I've been as far south as Valparaiso. But all the time I wanted to get back here, and finally I did. It wasn't easy then. The women expected everything to go on as if a quarter of the young men of the town weren't dead bones in France and Flanders. But I stuck it because I love this town and I wanted to improve it, even though they laughed at me and told each other I was no good. For a while I made one woman happy, and I only had half of what any police-court bum thinks he's got a right to take for granted. I'm proud of that, Lucy, I don't mind telling you, and if there wasn't something missing inside my brain – something I've never quite figured out – I think I'd have done quite a lot with my life. But you're better than I ever was. You've got a fine mind and up till now you've had plenty of courage. I don't want to see you waste yourself.”

  Again the snake and the dancing girl twitched on McCunn's forearms. He got up and sat on the step beside her and laid a hand on her shoulder.

  “I know,” he said quietly. “Every time I get talking I can't stop. I know. Now you listen to me and I'll try to make some sense. There's something about yourself you've never grasped. The whole set-up here has made it impossible for you to get it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You're an exceptional person. You can't be ordinary.” He waved aside an interruption and continued. “Your trouble has been that you've always tried to be like everyone else. You've tried to be ordinary. Listen, Lucy.” He paused. “Rule-books only work for commonplace people. The one thing I hate about the point of view of this province is that it glorifies the commonplace at the expense of the exceptional. Look, Lucy.” She had never heard his voice more earnest. “I know it would be easier if Steve Lassiter was the kind of man people here approve of. It would be fine if he'd never been married. It would be perfect if he came to you fresh, and you knew exactly what he was like and what you could expect. Ordinary people have to be sure about things like that, and they have to go by a book of rules to make them feel sure, for they can't think for themselves. But it's the nature of exceptional people to change and develop. Ten years from now you won't be the same person you are today. Exceptional people need changing conditions around them if they're to grow. And you – you've reached the point where you've got to take chances. You've got to give that man a try even if you don't completely trust him. You've got to marry him, divorce or no divorce. Otherwise you may as well resign yourself to drying up. For one thing I can tell you – the only kind of man who'll ever want to marry someone like you is an exceptional man. That's a fact, and not all the conforming you try to do will ever change it.”

  After a while Lucy left him. She walked down the slope of the field with a rising wind blowing her dark hair, and she felt better than she had felt in weeks.

  A FEW days later the first of the autumn storms struck the town and Lucy woke feeling the house quivering. She looked from her window to see the treetops writhing in the rain as a cold, wet wind drove off the lake with the power of a whole gale. The storm built itself up to hurricane force, and by mid-afternoon the earth, sky, and lake were confounded into a weltering turmoil of dark leaden grey with the frantic brilliance of autumn leaves swirling through the air. The lake boiled up on the beaches and long sluices of water came in over the sand to flood the common. By late afternoon the band-shell and the belvedere were islands, and the trees seemed to be growing in the lake itself.

  The house was in semi-darkness that afternoon. Jane's pupils had not come and Jane herself was working on a report for the library committee in front of the fire. The fire baffled from the wind in the chimney and occasionally puffed small clouds of smoke into the room.

  Lucy sat down with an unopened book in her hand. McCunn's words were still fresh in her mind and she saw herself sitting in this same chair forty years hence. She saw herself growing queer and silent, like old Mrs. Mcdougall who had lost her husband thirty years ago after a few months of marriage, had lived with her only sister for twenty-five years, and now lived alone.

  “A storm like this reminds me of when I was a little girl,” Jane said. “You were too young to remember when we first moved into this house. I used to be frightened then, but Father always said it was nonsense and he made me so ashamed of myself I stopped thinking about what was going on outside.”

  The lights went out and the room was so dark the sisters could barely see each other's features across the hearth.

  “I wonder how long it will take them to fix the line?” Jane said.

  Lucy got up and lit a pair of candles in brass candlesticks on the mantel. The soft yellow light gleamed on the glass-covered photographs of her father and mother. Her father was seated before a shelf of books. His face looked gruffly kind, but he seemed doubtful if the photographer knew his business, and certain that somebody would say he was vain for having his picture taken at all. Lucy's mother looked out from the twin frame beside him with an unobtrusive smile. Suddenly Lucy realized that her mother's face, when young, must have been lovely. Even in this picture, taken when she was fifty, it was a delicate oval, softly curved.

  “You look as though you'd never seen those pictures before,” Jane said.

  “I was only thinking what strangers they were to each other all their lives.”

  Jane looked at her sharply. “That's a peculiar thing to say.”

  “Did you ever really know Mother?”

  Jane's lip
s were pressed closely together. She looked back at the papers in her hand and when she answered her voice suggested she was putting facts before a committee.

  “Father and Mother understood each other very well. Things were different in their day and much harder than they are now. You forget what a struggle they had to make both ends meet. In her own way, Mother was a very happy woman. It meant a great deal to her when she and Father were able to buy back this house where she was born. They both understood that the only way honest people can make money is to save it. She and Father never disagreed about anything important.”

  Lucy said nothing and the darkness continued to brood in the room.

  “You know,” Jane said, “I don't mind a storm like this at all now. It makes me feel so safe when I'm inside. Do you remember our old Sunday evenings after tea when Father rested before church? It was cozy then.”

  The house trembled quietly and steadily in the wind as Jane continued to talk.

  “Remember how I used to play the psalm tunes for him? ‘Martyrdom,’ and ‘Balerma’ and ‘Dundee’ – he never seemed to like any of the others. Oh yes – he liked ‘O God, Our Help in Ages Past’ if I played it to ‘Irish.’ It's such a warlike tune and he always thought about the Roman Catholics when he sang it. People never seemed to realize what a warm-hearted man Father was. And he was happy, too – in his own way.”

  Lucy half closed her eyes. Again she saw herself sitting in this room, year after year trying to communicate with her sister.

  “You really believe Father was happy?” she said.

  “Of course he was.”

  “Why can't you ever face the truth? He was afraid to be happy for fear somebody would notice his happiness and take it away from him.”

  “That's not true,” Jane said mildly. “But it would be a fairly sensible point of view if it were. Whenever people are obviously happy something always comes along to spoil it for them. Anyway, there are other things much more important. Nowadays everybody seems to be talking about the right to be happy and it's such a lot of nonsense. It should be obvious to anyone that they're far less happy now than in the old days when they just tried to be decent.”

  Lucy got up from the chair and went to the bookshelves. A complete set of Sir Walter Scott, her father's favourite author, stood behind the glass. She crossed the room to the window and parted the curtains. A wet maple leaf, red blending into pale yellow, was plastered against the pane. Behind her Jane's quiet voice was still going on.

  “You know, Father wasn't at all like the Methodists. Cheerfulness comes much too easily to them. Poor Father – at the time of the Church Union fight he used to warn people of so many things about the Methodists that were completely true, and it never did any good. I think he used to complain sometimes about the world in general just so he wouldn't have to complain about himself.”

  Lucy closed the bottom part of the old-fashioned shutters and continued to look over them at the storm.

  “Why don't you write a book, Lucy?” Jane said. “I've been wondering if something like that wouldn't help you to pass the time.”

  Lucy turned with her hand on the shutter. “A book? About what?”

  “Well, about the Loyalists, for instance. You could write about our ancestor who was a judge in Massachusetts before they burned his house down and nearly murdered him. The Americans admire themselves so much, it would be a good thing if somebody reminded them about the other side of their picture. They've become intolerably conceited and it would do them good if someone took them down a peg or two.”

  Lucy was no longer listening to Jane. She continued to look over the closed bottom shutter at the storm. A lot of leaves were down. Water was sluicing in the gutters. A boy was coming up from the common with his jacket in both hands, wringing the water out of it. The rain had licked his hair flat on his forehead and his shirt clung to him like wet skin. As he trudged past the house, Lucy could see the water bubbling out of the seams of his shoes.

  “Bobby Harmon looks half drowned,” she said.

  She went upstairs to her room, aimless, with nothing to do. She sat in a chair by the window and watched the storm for a while, then closed her eyes and let a stream of images pour through her mind. She felt an ache of loneliness as distorted images of Stephen Lassiter began to cross her vision in sequence. She saw him on the tennis court, the great muscles of his thighs and calves flexing and relaxing as he stroked the ball. She saw him grinning down at her on the porch at the club dance. She felt his fingers touching the soft flesh of her inner arm. And she wondered where he was now, and what he was doing, and if he was thinking of her. And then the thought came to her: what if she never saw him for years, and then, some day when she was white-haired and used up, they were to meet somewhere quite suddenly and look at each other, and nothing would have the slightest reality but the fact that thousands of days and nights had passed with nothing to show for them but the slow stain of unused time.

  ON THE Friday of the second weekend in October Lucy added some extra touches to the dinner. It was the weekend of Canadian Thanksgiving, and Nina was expected home that night. But the train from Kingston arrived and left and Nina was not on it. Neither Jane nor Lucy worried, for the holiday was short and Nina had been away from home for only a little while. At eight o'clock Bruce Fraser came over, but when Lucy told him Nina was still in Kingston he stayed only a few minutes and then went home again. He was rather pleased with himself because a Toronto friend had lent him his old Ford for the weekend.

  That night the air was still and there was a sharp frost. In dozens of Grenville homes men oiled their guns and got out their high boots and windbreakers for a weekend of bird-shooting. In the morning they found a hunter's world. The sun came up like a red ball over fields crisp and clean with hoarfrost, and an exhalation of mist rose from the lake and shimmered in the rising light.

  After breakfast Lucy made out a grocery list, saw Jane leave the house on her way to pick up an order of sheet music from New York at the post office, and then was about to leave the house herself when the telephone rang.

  “Yes,” she said into the mouthpiece. And once again, “Yes.”

  “I've left Sani-Quip,” she heard Stephen saying, as though he had been discussing the matter with her yesterday and thought she might like to know the outcome. “I'm going to work with Carl Bratian in New York. There are a lot of new developments and nothing has completely jelled yet.” His voice went on and she knew he was trying to be impersonal in order to hold her there listening until she could become accustomed to the sound of his voice. “Anyway, I'm going back to New York. I'm glad to be getting out of Cleveland. Lucy, how are you?”

  “I'm fine,” she said softly.

  “Lucy –” There was a brief pause. “I've called you because – Look, I've been talking to Nina.”

  “Nina!”

  He laughed. “Only by long distance. I remembered where her college was and I called her there a few days ago. She told me a lot of what's been going on between you and Jane. It sounded pretty bad and I'm sorry if it was my fault. I didn't know it would be like that for you.”

  “It's all right, Stephen.”

  She looked up at The Death of Nelson. Incongruously, after the countless times she had looked at that picture, this was the first time she realized what a horrifying scene it portrayed.

  “Is it really?” Lassiter said. “Nina told me to try calling you about eleven o'clock some morning because Jane would either be out of the house or busy at that time.”

  Again he paused. When Lucy made no reply, he said, “I've missed you. All sorts of things have been happening down here, and still – have you missed me, too?”

  “Terribly.”

  “Do you know you're going to marry me?” he said.

  She seemed to be seeing his face directly in front of her. It was strong and self-confident as his shoulders thrust toward her.

  “Yes,” she said. In the total silence which followed the word she laughed softly
into the phone.

  “Jesus Christ!” he said softly. “Just like that!” Then his voice came through solidly. “I won't try to say now how I feel. Just listen carefully and I'll tell you what you've got to do. The divorce is settled and everything's in the clear. I found that out definitely last night. Now look, Lucy – there's not to be any more waiting around. You're to meet me in Montreal on Monday morning.”

  She took a quick breath. “But Stephen, I haven't –”

  “Never mind,” he interrupted. “I've figured everything out. I'm flying up to Montreal and I'll meet you in the Windsor Hotel on Monday morning. We'll fly back to New York, leaving before noon. We'll probably have to be married somewhere out of town, because there's a three-day waiting period here, but don't worry, I'll arrange everything. Don't waste time about clothes or anything like that. Just bring yourself and bring a birth certificate to show the immigration people who you are. I'll look after the rest.”

  She tried desperately to think. “But today is Saturday and –”

  “I know about your Thanksgiving holiday. It makes no difference. The trains run. Catch the train from Toronto when it goes through Grenville on Sunday. I've already made a reservation for you at the Windsor Hotel in Montreal. It's only a block from the Windsor Station. The holiday should help you. You can pretend you're visiting Nina in Kingston if you have to.”

  She was still trying to think. “Is that why Nina didn't come home?”

  “That's why. Nina's been swell in this.”

  It was impossible to think. He seemed to be standing there right in front of her, and for the first time in her life she knew the delightful experience of having a man take all the details out of her hands and tell her what to do. Not even her father had ever done that.

  “I'm going ahead,” he said quietly, “on the assumption that you'll be in Montreal on Monday. The time has come for a big dive into cold water. Once that's over, everything will be wonderful. I've told my sister about you and she thinks it's grand. Incidentally that's the most sensible remark I've ever heard Marcia make.” Another pause. “Lucy, dear, will you marry me now?”