The World in the Evening Read online

  The grave white walls of the Meeting House, the hard plain old benches, the Elders seated on the low facing gallery, the bowed heads and the Sunday hats. Latecomers found places hastily at the back and settled themselves, like chickens getting ready to roost. We had found Sarah waiting for us at the door, and had come in with her. Nobody looked at us directly, but it seemed to me that everyone was aware of our arrival.

  I was sitting between Sarah and Gerda. Sarah sat very erect, with gloved hands folded in her lap and eyes closed. Her unseeing face was beautiful in its innocent openness. Speak, Lord, she seemed to be saying, for Thy servant heareth. For her, that wouldn’t be just Bible-talk; it was actually how she lived her life—poor as a mouse, eager, busy, happy. How can you look like that and really be like that, I thought with affectionate exasperation, and yet be such a melodramatic, bossy old fuss-budget? How can you be so fearless and silly and strong? What right have you to love me and misunderstand me and make me feel so dirty? Why won’t you leave me alone? What am I to you, anyway? Still poor darling Gertrude’s baby, little Stevie in short pants? Are you praying for me, now? Are you giving thanks that the Prodigal Nephew returned? Or reckoning up the household accounts and wondering if I’ll think you’ve been extravagant when you insist on showing me the bills?

  Gerda had closed her eyes, too, but she didn’t look withdrawn. I felt sure she was acutely conscious of her surroundings. I tried to imagine how they would seem to her. What do you think of these silent people, my mind asked hers; do you envy them for being at home in this comfortable country, so settled and cosy and safe? Or do you despise them a little, because they never lay awake in the dead of night, afraid and listening for heavy boots on the staircase and fists banging on the door? How can this place possibly be real to you? Isn’t it more like a slightly ridiculous dream which began as a nightmare? Don’t you half-expect to be kicked and shaken out of it, to find yourself on the floor in an S.A. barracks, with the guards telling you that you’re next?

  Nevertheless, the Silence, in its odd way, was coming to life. Was steadily filling up the bare white room, like water rising in a tank. Every one of us contributed to it, simply by being present. Togetherness grew and tightly enclosed us, until it seemed that we must all be breathing in unison and keeping time with our heart-beats. It was massively alive and, somehow, unimaginably ancient, like the togetherness of Man in the primeval caves. The Sunday hats couldn’t disturb it; nor could the tap-tapping of leaves against the big windows overlooking the College campus. And, after all these years, the sense, the mere animal feel of it, was as familiar to me as ever. Only now, I thought, I’m a little afraid of it. Part of me fears and resists and hates it.

  Elizabeth, I pleaded, don’t stand outside. I know this has nothing to do with you. You had your different way of understanding. Your strength came from another source. But come into this with me and explain it for me. What am I doing here? What’s going to happen to me? What is it that I’m afraid of? Elizabeth, please, help me to understand.

  In order to hear what Elizabeth would say, I had to make her appear. There was a way of doing this which I had discovered after many experiments; it nearly always worked. Closing my eyes now, I willed myself to see the tiny slant-ceilinged upstair room of our house on the Schwarzsee. I stood in the doorway—you had to duck as you entered—and saw her high shoulders and the back of her head with its long slender neck bent slightly over the school copybook in which she was writing, framed in the window against the cold morning blue of the lake. Before her, on the table, were the inkpot and the dictionary and the flowers in the jam-jar, the lump of fool’s gold from Utah, the sharp-nosed Aztec idol which Lawrence had given her, and the snapshot of her with Mary Scriven on Brighton pier, wearing the funny sacklike garments which had seemed so ordinary in the Middle Twenties.

  Standing there behind Elizabeth, applying my will very gently and carefully so as not to break the contact, I made her turn slowly round toward me until I could see her face. Hello, darling, she said. She was smiling. She never minded being disturbed.

  Elizabeth, tell me, was I crazy to come here? What am I getting myself into?

  Don’t worry, darling. Just be patient. You’ll find out.

  But I can’t be patient. These people—oh, I know it’s my own fault—I don’t think I can stand it much longer.

  Stephen, what nonsense! Don’t be so melodramatic. I think they’re simply fascinating.

  You do? Well—yes, I suppose they are—in a way. If only I could see them the way you see them.

  But you can. That’s what I’m here for.

  I know. Only—oh, it’s too difficult. I always forget. I let myself get rattled. And then everything’s confused and I do something idiotic. Some day soon, I’m afraid I’ll suddenly walk out.

  Well, let’s suppose you do. What then?

  I wouldn’t go back to Jane—if that’s what you think.

  Are you sure?

  She wouldn’t take me back, anyhow.

  Yes, she would.

  Don’t say that!

  Then don’t ask me. You know I can only tell you the truth. Anyhow, I wouldn’t go. That’s final.

  Then where would you go?

  New York, first. Then maybe up to Canada. There must be some kind of an outfit I could join.

  And then?

  Well—then I’d be doing something. I wouldn’t have to think for myself. I wouldn’t have to make any more decisions. I’d be in the War.

  And then?

  I might get killed.

  Oh, if that’s all you want, darling, why not get some more of those sleeping tablets you had in California? You only need fifteen to do it. And it wouldn’t hurt a bit. Of course, if you do it in a hotel, it’s rather selfish; you make a lot of trouble for the staff. But you could always take an apartment—

  Elizabeth! You never talked to me like this before.

  I’m trying to startle some sense into you.

  Of course, there’s Sarah … I have to think of her. She’s counting on me. I can’t let her down.

  Stephen, at least be honest. You’re not thinking of Sarah. You’re not thinking of anyone but yourself. You can’t be expected to, poor darling, as long as you’re in this mess. But isn’t it about time you stopped running away from it?

  What’s the matter with me? Why do I feel so guilty? What makes me act like this?

  Do you really and honestly want me to tell you?

  Yes—no—no, not now. I don’t want to think about all that. Not yet. It’ll only make me feel worse than ever … Oh, Elizabeth, I’m so terribly unhappy.

  You needn’t be, darling. Nobody need be.

  I know—that’s what you used to say. And I remember all the things you told me. Only—you’ve got to help me. Don’t let me ever forget them. Not for a moment. Promise you won’t ever leave me.

  I can’t leave you, Stephen. Don’t you realize that? Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t leave you as long as you still needed me. We’re not separate people, any more.

  I’ll always need you.

  I hope not, darling. Not in the way you do now.

  But, Elizabeth—

  Too late. The contact was broken. She had gone. Opening my eyes, I saw that an old gentleman was rising from his seat on the facing gallery. As he did so, you felt rather than heard the faintest possible sigh escape from the Meeting. The Silence was about to speak.

  ‘When I was a boy in Kansas, on my Father’s farm, and one of us had to go out at night, he used to take a storm-lantern. Now these storm-lanterns didn’t amount to much. One of those lanterns couldn’t give no more than a flicker of light. There was a great darkness all around. But sometimes, when there was some particular work to be done, half a dozen of us would gather together, each with his own lantern, and the whole lot of us together, why, we’d give forth a powerful amount of light, and the darkness would be driven back … Friends, isn’t it the same thing when we come together in this Meeting—?’

  When the
old man had finished developing his theme, he sat down with a suddenness which seemed strangely unemphatic. Subconsciously, you were waiting for the applause which didn’t follow. Then, one after another, other voices spoke. A woman’s voice, flat and quiet, with a faint nasal twang: ‘My self-will comes between me and the Light that is within me. I know that. So then I think: I wish I could put my hand into my heart and pull out my will by the roots. I hate my will, and I want to tear it out like a weed. But that’s wrong, too. Because my will doesn’t have to be self-will. My will is a necessary part of me. I need it. And God needs my will, to draw me to Him.’ A man’s voice, more cultured (probably belonging to one of the College professors), quoting from Meister Eckhart and George Fox. In the pauses between the voices, the Silence was gradually draining away, as they used up what it had contained. I barely listened to them. Troubled and suddenly tired after the effort of my talk with Elizabeth, I waited impatiently for the end.

  At last, one of the Elders turned to his neighbour and shook hands with him. And then the general handshaking started, all over the room. Sarah gave my hand a warm squeeze, and whispered, ‘Thank Thee.’ (Just what did she mean?) As she turned from me to a woman who was sitting on the other side of her, Gerda and I shook hands with a kind of mock-formality. ‘Well?’ I asked. ‘What did you think of it all?’ But she merely smiled and said politely, ‘Very interesting,’ as though we were in a theatre, at the end of a play which I’d written.

  The next moment, the Meeting had dissolved into greetings and conversation. And the Meeting House contained nothing whatsoever, now, but a lot of pleasant individuals in their best clothes, all looking forward to Sunday dinner.

  Back at Tawelfan, about three-quarters of an hour later, I sat alone at the table in the dining-room, writing a note to the Los Angeles lawyer.

  ‘Dear Mr Frosch—’

  From the kitchen came sounds and smells of cooking. Sarah and Gerda were in there, getting the meal ready. Despite what she had said at breakfast about respecting my privacy, Sarah had invited Dr and Mrs Harper and Martha Chance to join us. It was no use getting mad at her. She was always like that. She simply couldn’t resist any opportunity of feeding people. The Harpers had refused, having guests of their own; but they were coming to tea. Martha Chance had accepted, eagerly.

  ‘Dear Mr Frosch,

  ‘Will you please call my Wife and find out if there is anything she needs? Transfer some more money to her account, if necessary. And, of course, she can keep the house on for as long as she cares to. My own plans are rather indefinite—’

  I looked up from the paper to the portrait over the fireplace. We stared each other straight in the eyes. Cheer up, Father, I told it. You don’t understand any of this, do you? Well, you don’t have to. Just relax. Your son is nuts.

  ‘If she asks you where I am,’ I continued writing, ‘you can tell her that I—’ I stopped, crossed this sentence through with great care that it should be quite illegible, signed my name and addressed the envelope.

  ‘Aunt Sarah,’ I called, through the open doorway, ‘I’m just going out to mail a letter.’

  ‘Don’t be long, then, Stephen dear. We’ll be ready in half an hour.’

  Out in the lane, my footsteps began to quicken at once, until I was striding downhill, almost running. No, I was saying to myself. No. No. Dr Harper. No. Mrs Harper. No. Martha Chance. No. And all those other people Sarah had introduced me to, after the Meeting. I couldn’t remember a single name, or a face. Well, yes, there was one—a skinny red-haired boy, who looked as if he might just possibly be human. But the others—no. Good, kind, worthy, wonderful, no doubt. But as remote from me as Martians. They breathed a different air.

  The red-haired boy had grinned and said nothing. Dr Harper had quoted Emerson. Mrs Harper had described the cabbages she was raising. Martha Chance had declared she just couldn’t wait to have a real long talk with me, because she’d known my Father and my Mother, not to mention my Uncle George.

  Well, she would have to wait. For the rest of her life, probably.

  Because I was never going back to that house. I was crazy to have imagined, even for an instant, that I could live there. I only dared admit this to myself now, for the first time. I must have known it, subconsciously, ever since my talk with Elizabeth at the Meeting; but I could never have walked out just now if I hadn’t pretended to myself that I didn’t know what I was going to do—if I hadn’t left everything behind me; my suitcase, my toothbrush, Elizabeth’s letters. (I could rely on Sarah to take care of them.)

  But what about Sarah herself? Oh, she’d be all right. She had Gerda to look after her. Just the same, she was going to be terribly hurt and bewildered when she found out— (I censored that thought, hastily.) Call her later. Send a telegram. Invent some excuse. Make her understand, anyhow, that this has nothing to do with her. It isn’t her fault. (Elizabeth tried to tell me something, at this point. I censored her, too.)

  At the drugstore corner opposite the station, I dropped my letter into the mailbox. Mr Frosch ought to get it the day after tomorrow, at latest. And then he’d call Jane, and then—Don’t think about that. Everything was perfectly simple as long as I didn’t think.

  There was a train to Philadelphia every twenty minutes. All I had to do was to cross the road to the station. Road to station. Station to train. Train to Philadelphia. Philadelphia to—? Never mind, yet. Just cross the road.

  I suppose the truck must have appeared about this time, at the very edge of my consciousness, coming down the hill, not especially fast. A green truck. Plenty of time to cross, however. I stepped off the sidewalk on to the road. Road to station to train. It was really so simple. But my feet seemed enormously heavy and unwilling, as they sometimes are in dreams.

  And then it was as if my nose suddenly caught a whiff of Sarah’s dinner, a concentration of all the dinners she had ever cooked for me. It was an intolerable, infuriating smell. It was the smell of Sarah’s love. And I was rejecting it, leaving it to get cold. That would be the cruellest thing I had ever done in my life. No, it was impossible. I couldn’t … I turned back toward the sidewalk. Hesitated again. The green truck, that entirely irrelevant object, was nearer. Much nearer. It was actually going to intrude on the situation. I had to give it my attention. Quick. Somehow or other, my feet got entangled. I slipped—though the roadway was quite dry—and fell on my hands and knees. For one immensely long moment, I gazed stupidly and passively at the truck.

  What happened next was completely impossible. It belonged to the order of things which happen to other people, and only in the newspapers. It happened very slowly, with a lot of noise, but I don’t think it hurt, at all.

  PART TWO

  LETTERS AND LIFE

  1

  ‘IT IS FINISHED?’ Gerda asked. She had come back into the room without knocking.

  ‘Quite finished, thanks.’

  ‘And successful?’

  ‘Very successful.’

  ‘Oh, I am glad! You will be a good patient, I see already.’

  ‘No patient is better than his nurse.’

  ‘And I am not so good, you find?’

  ‘That’s not what I said.’

  ‘But you are right. I am not good. I forget all what I have learned. You know, many years ago, when we are first married, Peter and I made studies for the first aid?’

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘Peter said all people should know such things. To be prepared for the worse.’

  ‘Boy! What a pessimist!’

  ‘How can you say! Peter is optimist, always. A pessimist does not prepare. He thinks all is hopeless, so he sits sadly and waits—’ Gerda came over to my bed as she spoke, and reached under the sheet for the bedpan. I bore down on it with my whole weight, so that it wouldn’t move. She put her hand on my cast, to get more leverage.

  ‘I do not hurt you when I do that?’

  ‘Can’t feel a thing. Pull harder.’

  As she gave a violent tug,
I gripped the side of the bed, made a tremendous effort, and rolled suddenly over on to my hip. She staggered backward, bedpan in hand, and very nearly sat down on the floor.

  ‘Um Gotteswillen!’ she gasped. ‘I almost drop it!’

  ‘My! Aren’t you clumsy!’

  ‘You! You made so I should do that! You did!’

  ‘You looked so funny!’

  When we had finished laughing, Gerda examined the contents of the bedpan with a critical eye. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Very good.’

  ‘Gerda!’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘You aren’t supposed to say such things.’

  ‘And why not? I only congratulate you. Should I not?’

  ‘You shouldn’t even look at it. Not in the sickroom. Throw a towel over it and carry it away with your eyes lowered, as if it was something sacred. That’s what the nurses did at the Hospital.’

  ‘Those nurses! They must be very hypocrite.’

  ‘Not at all. They’re just nice girls.’

  ‘And I am not nice? Because I do not pretend to be shocked? Why should I? It is Nature.’

  ‘Aren’t you ever shocked?’

  ‘Not if it is Nature. No. Never.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I am sure, absolutely.’

  ‘Okay—then I’ll tell you a story.’

  ‘A shocking story? But they are always so stupid, I find.’

  ‘No, this is a natural story.’

  ‘Good.’ Gerda sat down, putting the bedpan on the floor beside her chair. ‘I listen.’

  ‘Well—it happened sixteen or seventeen years ago, while I was still living in England, with Sarah. In fact, I was still up at Cambridge; only this was in the Long Vac, the holidays, in summer. We had a small house on the Thames, not far from London. And Sarah had a cat, named Seraphina. And, in due course, Seraphina had kittens—’

  ‘Oh dear, I am so shocked!’

  ‘No, wait … You see, this Seraphina was a very good mother, so she used to catch mice for her kittens. There were an awful lot of mice around the place. She caught dozens. She used to eat half of each mouse herself-—she had a terrific appetite—and leave the kittens the other half … Well, one night, I got home late, I’d been up to town, and I wanted to fix myself a sandwich. I’d had a few drinks, so I may have been kind of careless, and besides there wasn’t much light in the kitchen; we had no electricity, only lamps and candles. Any how, I went to the icebox and took what I thought were chicken livers. But when I bit into them, they tasted disgusting … You know how Sarah hates to waste anything? Well, she’d seen all these half-mice lying around, so she’d put them in the icebox to keep fresh until the kittens got hungry again … When I looked closely at my sandwich, there was a tiny little tail sticking out of it—’