‘It sounds like fun,’ said Walker.
Patrice brought the drinks over and sat down on the divan. She was dressed in the same shift dress that she had worn the previous time he had come to the house and met her. But her dark hair was done differently, pulled up into a French pleat at the back. She had dark, intense eyes. She sat and put her head on her hands and looked at him. Like many American women, she sat closer and looked longer than he expected. He found this both pleasant and uncomfortable, for it brought to his attention things he wasn’t quite ready to notice – that she had freckles on her arms, that the loose dress fell into a good shape because of the lines of the body inside it, that she had a very full and attractive mouth and an active and mobile face. She said, ‘You know, this is interesting, because I’ve just been reading through all your novels. Bernie made me read them when we knew you were coming because he said I ought to know what you were like.’
‘And did they tell you?’
‘Not too much, no, they didn’t. Well, now, do you want me to tell you what I thought of them or not?’
‘Yes, I’d be interested.’
‘I’ll tell you sincerely.’
‘Do.’
‘Well then, sincerely. I thought they were great . . .’
‘But you have another candidate for the fellowship.’
Patrice laughed. ‘Well, I thought they were sort of confused, disoriented, a bit too obviously uncommitted. I don’t know. They didn’t seem to say enough or know enough about life; you know, not enough authority.’
‘Oh, well, you did find out a lot about me.’
‘And there’s something else. They didn’t have very much affection, feeling. Maybe it’s just very American of me to say this, but I think people are less rational, and communicate more, have more intuitions about one another, than your characters do. Your books give me the feeling that you felt a bit exhausted, just living; as if you didn’t want to do anything or know anyone, and had just given up and decided to drink yourself to death in a corner.’
‘Well,’ said Walker, ‘I suppose I do think something like that.’
‘Don’t you like people?’
‘Oh yes, but they are a terrible expense of spirit. Sometimes I wonder whether they’re worth the effort.’
‘Well, we won’t let you believe that here,’ said Patrice, looking at him intensely. Walker looked back. Her clean modern style of being, her very American willingness to talk and debate about the inner life, which Walker wasn’t used to putting into words, made him feel much more at ease than he had all day.
‘That’s what I came here for,’ he said.
‘We’re going to redeem you? Oh, that’s nice. And how will you know when you’re redeemed?’
‘Ah, now that I can’t tell. I’ve had truths come to me before. And a lot of old garbage most of them turned out to be.’
‘A wary man. Well, fine, you’ve come to the right place. I know Bernie’s been working on a big plan for redeeming you. Are you pleased?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You know it was Bernie who got you out here?’ asked Patrice. She put her feet up on the divan.
‘Yes, I heard that,’ said Walker. ‘They say he’s writing a book about me. Which makes me not want to do anything at all.’
‘Oh, it’s not a book, it’s a chapter. You overrate yourself. Anyway, it should give you some leeway for action.’
‘Yes, just a bit.’
‘He likes you,’ said Patrice, ‘so you don’t really have much of a chance. When Bernie likes someone they’re through. He likes me, too. Being liked by Bernie is a full-time job in itself. He’s so hostile to the people he likes.’
Walker sipped his drink and looked at Patrice. Then a car stopped outside and he felt indignant. There were footsteps on the porch and people came into the hall. ‘Hi hi,’ said Froelich, coming in carrying two large clinking paper sacks. ‘Stand up and be introduced to these people we’ve dragged out here to meet you.’ Robert and Eudora Naughty came in; they were both tall, and blond, and very healthy, and they were both wearing jeans and white sneakers. Both of them put out long arms to be shaken.
‘Glad to know you,’ said Bob. ‘We got enough bottles to make this an all-night session.’
‘I’m sorry we’re late,’ said Eudora.
‘Yeah, it was our fault. We were supposed to be picketing this barber shop till five, but the guy stayed open longer than usual,’ said Bob Naughty.
‘Well, it shows we’re cutting into his custom,’ said Eudora.
Froelich, unpacking bottles, said, ‘Don’t apologize. He’d much rather have had another hour with Patrice.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. Well, I apologize for being so early.’
‘Can we bring this conversation down to chair level?’ said Froelich.
‘Won’t you take off your jacket, Bob?’ said Patrice.
‘Sure. If you ask me,’ said Bob; ‘I’ll take anything off.’
‘How about you, Mr Walker?’ asked Patrice.
‘Yes, I will now,’ said Walker.
‘That’s a neck-tie and a jacket,’ said Froelich. ‘We’re getting there.’
Then they all sat down and Froelich went into the kitchen to mix martinis. Walker, politeness itself, said, ‘Why are you picketing?’
‘Oh,’ said Bob, ‘this guy doesn’t like cutting spade hair.’
‘We sent in three different negro boys and he refused them,’ said Mrs Naughty.
Patrice went into the kitchen and came out with a bowl of tomatoes and a cheese dip, into which they started popping the tomatoes. ‘You have this problem in England?’ asked Eudora Naughty.
‘Well, we do, yes, a little.’
‘I read your books,’ said Eudora Naughty.
‘Don’t talk about his books,’ said Froelich, handing round martinis. ‘He has a very big ego but he’ll be tired of his books at the end of a week. Talk about yourself.’
‘Okay,’ said Eudora. ‘What about?’
‘You ought to know. Tell him about your childhood. Tell him about your prolapsed uterus. He knows all about him. He knows how good he is.’
‘Know anything about American politics?’ asked Bob Naughty.
‘No, I don’t,’ said Walker.
‘What about your politics back home?’ said Bob. ‘Which ticket do you vote?’
‘Guess,’ said Froelich.
‘Socialist?’ said Bob.
‘Yes,’ said Walker, ‘rather unwillingly.’
‘Why unwillingly?’ said Bob.
‘Oh, because I don’t like any of the futures they have waiting for us. Any of them.’
‘Are you a member of the British Labour Party?’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, I don’t think I could approve of a party that took in people like me,’ said Walker.
Froelich laughed and said, ‘There you have a definition of English liberalism.’
‘A divided man,’ said Bob Naughty.
‘The point about England is that everyone is a liberal,’ said Froelich, ‘they all listen to one another and everyone who thinks knows everyone else who thinks. That’s why there’s no radical right in England.’
‘What is the radical right?’ asked Walker.
‘Oh,’ said Bob, ‘the people who believe that God is a communist because he made other countries besides America. You’ll meet up with a lot of politics here. I don’t know whether you know this, but in this country university administration is considered a public matter. Not just the right but the left, the unions, get involved. And then there’s a whole bunch of contenders inside the university as well. Who was it defined American society as a variety of contending views raised permanently to a shout?’
‘Me,’ said Froelich.
‘What kind of views?’ asked Walker.
‘Well,’ said Froelich, ‘one of the things about American politics is the wide spectrum of opinion.’
‘A spect
rum with every colour except red in it,’ said Bob Naughty.
‘So the Yipsuls – that’s the Young Socialists – won’t talk to the Young Democrats, and spend all their time attacking Castro. The people you dislike most are the people nearest to you, and you form alliances with the extremists at the other end. The Young Conservatives on campus just published a manifesto which said they were against governmental interference, and not just against fluoridization and Medicare, they were against government interference with premarital intercourse, and government interference with drug-taking, and homosexuality . . .’
To Walker this was all intensely confusing. He disliked politics because he disliked the political imagination, which divided and hated and judged. He resented the loyalty oath, but that was an individual and not a political resentment; in fact, to hate it was to attack politics, where they tried to impinge on the kind of personal life he wanted to lead himself and wanted others to lead with him. Politicians would say that that, too, was a political belief; but then, they said everything was. He believed in democracy and liberalism because they diminished political belief and stressed individualism and debate. People over politics; that was Walker’s cry. Present company, the pacts and alliances of those he knew, the prods of friendship and the probings of sexuality and the pursuit of inner vision, these things seemed the only possible reality. None of the organizations and schemes that politics proposed for the future had any charm whatsoever; wherever he looked, he saw a promised attenuation of the kindness and personal space and individual freedom that seemed to him the real and worthy core of living. What if his gestures in that area were poor and confused, and the wake behind him was scattered with blunders; only open space and private people made sense. Froelich and Naughty went on talking; Walker, following a more natural and ready line of interest, looked at Patrice, curled on the end of the divan, her shoes off, her hair coming out of the French pleat, and thought about the politics of sexuality and personal relationships. They talked about some current campus scandal; the local police had raided a student party and found a group of people smoking pot. ‘Half of them were Young Conservatives and the other half were anarchists,’ said Naughty. ‘That’s the kind of alliances you get.’
‘The point is,’ said Froelich to Walker, ‘that American politics isn’t a dichotomy or Zweischpitten. It’s a Fünf or Siebenschplitten.’
‘We forgot to mention the émigrés,’ said Bob Naughty.
‘Like your friend Jochum,’ said Froelich. This brought things home a bit and Walker said, ‘Who are they?’
‘Oh, they’re a bunch of refugees from Hitler and Stalin who are so anti-communist they want to pass an ordinance against wearing red underwear,’ said Bob Naughty. ‘They’re running a campaign to have Russia put back the way it was before the 1917 Revolution.’
‘Is Dr Jochum one?’ asked Walker.
‘Well, for instance,’ said Froelich, ‘he gives lectures to the women’s clubs around attacking the communists for cutting down the plane trees in Prague.’
‘How about dinner?’ said Patrice.
Outside, on campus, the carillon was ringing out nine, and Walker realized he was very hungry indeed. The steak with the President had been more of an ordeal than a meal, and Walker hadn’t eaten much of it anyway: he was a slow eater, and if he talked, he lost pace. ‘Oh, let’s have another drink,’ said Froelich.
‘I’ll get them,’ said Patrice. ‘Then we ought to eat.’
‘Well, you’ll have to make another pitcher of martinis,’ said Froelich, ‘unless anyone wants another thing. How about it, James?’
‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ said Walker, ‘anything.’
‘Got any varnish?’ said Bob Naughty.
Patrice went into the kitchen, and Walker watched her, looking at the delicate back of her neck. He felt rather exposed when she was absent, and he took out his cigarettes and passed them around. ‘Oh, are these English cigarettes?’ said Eudora Naughty. ‘I don’t smoke for survival reasons, but may I take one to keep?’
‘Do,’ said Walker.
‘The handing around of cigarettes in England is an interesting ritual,’ said Bob Naughty. ‘Anyone know why?’
‘Of course,’ said Froelich. ‘It’s because you’re offering something valuable. In America cigarettes are so cheap it’s like offering people one peanut. In another way it’s a form of niggardliness. The English are niggardly.’
‘Okay, Bernie,’ said Patrice.
‘No, goddam it, this is important,’ said Froelich. ‘Here you have a spectacular English niggard. Sociology demands we seek out his values.’
‘Goddam it, Bernie, you’re just a goddam walking megaphone.’
‘Yeah, well, we all know that. Now put your knees together and let’s listen to Mr Walker, the well-known niggard, goddam it. All we want to do is to get at some truth around here. Okay?’
‘You know, Bernie, I’ve finally found out what it is with you. You talk to people as if they were a group.’
‘Well, they are a group. Mr Walker here is an English group of one. Now I’m going to ask him some questions because I ask the right questions and everyone else asks the wrong questions because they aren’t going any place. Okay, now all I want to know is, why do the English like their fathers?’
‘I didn’t know they did,’ said Walker.
‘Sure they do,’ said Froelich. ‘English history is all about men liking their fathers, and American history is all about men hating their fathers and trying to burn down everything they ever did. I hate my father. Patrice spits on her father. Bob throws rocks at his. That’s the way we change the society every generation. It’s called the Pursuit of Happiness or the American Dream. Why isn’t there an English Dream?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Walker, ‘perhaps there was once.’
‘Right,’ said Froelich. ‘You see what we all need to know is that this man doesn’t believe in anything. And that’s because he’s an Englishman. Ask him where he stands and he’s polite and non-committal. You see, James, what I’m telling you about is the difference between English liberalism, of which you’re an example, and American liberalism, of which I’m an example. Bob here’s a sort of example, except he thinks you can make people do things by shouting the word goodness at them. I’m explaining to you why you’re here.’
‘Well, now he’s here, let’s give him some dinner,’ said Patrice. ‘We’ve cooked him a dinner and he’s goddam got to eat it.’ They moved to table. It was a card table with Japanese plate mats on it. Patrice had served roast beef, red with gore, and a salad; that was all. There was Californian red wine to drink. It was very good indeed. While they ate, the Naughtys talked for a bit about the parking problems they were having at the nudist camp they both frequented. After a while, Froelich said, ‘Well, how are the Bourbons looking after you, James?’
‘Oh, quite well,’ said Walker, ‘very luxuriously.’
‘Are you staying at the Bourbons’?’ asked Naughty.
‘He’s a dimwit,’ said Eudora Naughty.
‘No, he’s not,’ said Froelich.
‘He’s a dimwit,’ said Eudora.
‘No, he’s a dullard.’
‘He’s a dullard who, if he worked hard, could be a dimwit,’ said Eudora.
‘He’s a nice old guy who doesn’t know what’s happening,’ said Froelich. ‘He’s fought a good deal for English here. It’s never been a popular department and that means you need an advertising man like Bourbon. It’s like the ads for aspirin. “Now here are three apparently similar products. Watch this simple laboratory test. French has sediment. Business Administration has sediment. But English – no sediment.” ’
‘Why don’t you elect a different head now?’ asked Naughty.
‘Oh, that will come. He knows that. That’s why he’s frightened of me. The people he’s frightened of he calls New York liberals. He calls me that. Even though I’m from Medford, Oregon.’
‘I like him too,’ said Eudora, ‘he’s so a
nal. I mean that as a compliment – he’s so orderly and all.’
‘He’s your daddy,’ said Froelich. ‘No, he’s doing fine.’
‘What I can’t understand, Bernie, is why he hired you,’ said Bob.
‘He hired me because he’s on the right side. You’ve heard him. “We got a very liberal department here. We got a Quaker and a New Critic and a Catholic Aristotelian and a New York liberal and a Buddhist Leavisite. Course we can’t hire this man ’cause we’ve already got one Buddist Leavisite and now here comes another guy, he’s a Buddhist Leavisite too. Throw the whole department out of kilter. Still, I’ll recommend him to a friend of mine, head of a department in the middle west, don’t believe they got a Buddhist Leavisite.” ’
‘Oh, Harris is all right,’ said Patrice. ‘Mr Walker said he’d had a bit of trouble with him, though.’
Walker blushed and looked down at the beef, so much redder than he was. ‘What kind of trouble?’ asked Froelich.
‘Well,’ said Walker, ‘he thought I was getting off to a bad start. It was a mixture of things really. I twisted the ear of one of the twins, and then I’m, well, getting divorced . . .’
‘Wow,’ said Bob Naughty, ‘you really are hitting at all his verities.’
‘You didn’t tell me that,’ said Froelich reproachfully. ‘Why are you doing that?’
‘Oh, we don’t get on,’ said Walker. ‘We just don’t seem very happy . . .’
‘You’re English, aren’t you?’ asked Froelich. ‘The English, don’t believe in happiness. I thought England was a family-oriented society. Marriages stayed together and people went to prostitutes.’
‘Well,’ said Walker, ‘I must be getting Americanized. And then I think I offended him over the loyalty oath . . .’
‘Boy,’ said Bob Naughty, ‘is that thing still around?’
‘Of course it’s around, goddam it,’ said Froelich. ‘Don’t pretend you didn’t sign it.’
‘I don’t remember,’ said Bob.
‘Everybody signs it. The only people who don’t sign it don’t come. The commies sign it. The rightists sign it. The only people who don’t sign it are people who don’t think the question should be asked anyway, and we never see them.’
Stepping Westward Page 26
