After Many a Summer Dies the Swan (30 page)

“The old bastard's going mystical in his old age,” Dr. Obispo complained. “Almost reminds me of Mr. Propter.” He lit a cigarette. There was a silence.

“Listen to this,” Jeremy suddenly cried in a tone of excitement. “ ‘March, 1834. By the criminal negligence of Kate, Priscilla has been allowed to escape from the subterranean place of confinement. Bearing as she does upon her Person the evidence that she has been for some weeks past the subject of my Investigations, she holds in her hands my Reputation and perhaps even my Liberty and Life.' ”

“I suppose this is what you were talking about before we started reading,” said Dr. Obispo. “The final scandal. What happened?”

“Well, I suppose the girl must have told her story,” Jeremy answered without looking up from the page be fore him. “Otherwise how do you account for the presence of this ‘hostile Rabble' he's suddenly started talking about? ‘The Humanity of men and women is inversely proportional to their Numbers. A Crowd is no more human than an Avalanche or a Whirlwind. A rabble of men and women stands lower in the scale of moral and intellectual being than a herd of Swine or of Jackals.' ”

Dr. Obispo threw back his head and uttered a peal of his surprisingly loud, metallic laughter. “That's exquisite!” he said. “Exquisite! You couldn't have a better example of typically human behaviour.
Homo
conducting himself like
sub-homo
and then being
sapiens
in order to prove that he's really
super-homo.”
He rubbed his hands together. “This is really heavenly!” he said; then added, “Let's hear what happens now.”

“Well, as far as I can make out,” said Jeremy, “they have to send a company of militia from Guildford to protect the house from the rabble. And a magistrate has issued a warrant for his arrest; but they're not doing anything for the time being, on account of his age and position and the scandal of a public trial. Oh, and now they've sent for John and Caroline. Which makes the old gentleman wildly angry. But he's helpless. So they arrive at Selford; ‘Caroline in her orange wig and John, at seventy-two, looking at least twenty years older than I, who was already twenty-four when my Brother, then scarcely of age, had the imprudence to marry an Attorney's Daughter and the richly merited misfortune to beget this Attorney's Grandson whom I have always treated with the Contempt which his low Origin and feeble Intellect deserve, but to whom the negligence of a Strumpet has now given the Power to impose his Will upon me.' ”

“One of those delightful family reunions,” said Dr. Obispo. “But I suppose he doesn't give us any of the details?”

Jeremy shook his head. “No details,” he said. “Just an outline of the negotiations. On March the seventeenth, they tell him that he can avoid prosecution if he makes over his unentailed property by deed of gift, assigns them the revenues of the entailed estates, and consents to enter a private asylum.”

“Pretty stiff conditions!”

“Which he refuses,” Jeremy continued, “on the morning of the eighteenth.”

“Good for him!”

“ ‘Private madhouses,' ” Jeremy read out, “ ‘are private prisons in which, uncontrolled by Parliament or Judiciary, subject to no inspection by the Police and closed even to the humanitarian visitations of Philanthropists, hired Torturers and Gaolers execute the dark designs of family Vengeance and personal Spite.' ”

Dr. Obispo clapped his hands with delight. “There's another beautiful human touch!” he cried. “Those humanitarian visitations of philanthropists!” he laughed aloud. “And hired torturers! It's like a speech by one of the Foundling Fathers. Magnificent! And then one thinks of those slave ships and little Miss Priscilla. It's almost as good as Field-Marshal Goering, denouncing un-kindness to animals. Hired torturers and gaolers,” he repeated with relish, as though the phrase were a delicious sweetmeat, slowly melting upon the palate. “What's the next move?” he asked.

“They tell him he'll be tried, condemned and transported. To which he answers that he prefers transportation to a private asylum. ‘At this it was evident that my precious nephew and niece were nonplussed. They swore that my treatment in the Madhouse should be humane. I answered that I would not accept their word. John talked of his honour. I said, An Attorney's honour, no doubt, and spoke of the manner in which a lawyer sells his convictions for a Fee. They then implored me for the good name of the Family to accept their offers. I answered that the good name of the Family was indifferent to me, but that I had no desire to undergo the Humiliations of a Public Trial or the pains and discomforts of Transportation. I was ready, I said, to accept any reasonable Alternative to Trial and Transportation; but I would regard no Alternative as reasonable which did not in some sort guarantee my proper treatment at their hands. Their word of honour I did not regard as such a Guarantee; nor could I accept to be placed in an Institution where I should be entrusted to the care of Doctors and Keepers in the pay of those whose Interest it was that I should perish with all possible Celerity. I therefore refused to subscribe to any Arrangement which left me at their Mercy without placing them to a corresponding extent at mine.' ”

“The principles of diplomacy in a nutshell!” said Dr. Obispo. “If only Chamberlain had understood them a little better before he went to Munich! Not that it would have made much difference in the long run,” he added. “Because, after all, it doesn't really matter what the politicians do: nationalism will always produce at least one war each generation. It has done in the past and I suppose we can rely on it to do the same in the future. But how does the old gentleman propose to put his principles into practice? He's at their mercy all right. How's he going to put them at his?”

“I don't know yet,” Jeremy answered from the depths of the recorded past. “He's gone off on one of his philosophizing jaunts again.”

“Now?” said Dr. Obispo in astonishment. “When he's got a warrant out against him?”

“ ‘There was a time,' “ Jeremy read, “ ‘when I believed that all the Efforts of Humanity were directed towards a Point located approximately at the Centre of the female Person. Today I am inclined to think that Vanity and Avarice play a more considerable part even than Lust in shaping the course of men's Actions and determining the nature of their Thoughts.' And so on. Where the devil does he get back to the point again? Perhaps he never does; it would be just like him. No, here's something. ‘March 20th. Today, Robert Parsons, my Factor, returned from London bringing with him in the Coach, three strong boxes containing Gold coin and Bank Notes to the value of two hundred and eighteen thousand pounds, the product of the sale of my Securities and such Jewels, Plate and works of Art as it was possible to dispose of at such short notice and for cash. With more time I could have realized at least three hundred and fifty thousand pounds. This loss I can bear philosophically; for the sum I have in hand is amply sufficient for my purposes.' ”

“What purpose?” asked Dr. Obispo.

Jeremy did not answer for a little while. Then he shook his head in bewilderment. “What on earth is happening now?” he said. “Listen to this. ‘My funeral will be conducted with all the Pomp befitting my exalted Rank and the eminence of my Virtues. John and Caroline were miserly and ungrateful enough to object to the expense; but I have insisted that my Obsequies shall cost not a penny less than Four Thousand Pounds. My only Regret is that I shall be unable to leave my subterranean Retreat to see the Pageantry of Woe and to study the expression of grief upon the withered faces of the new Earl and his Countess. Tonight I shall go down with Kate to our Quarters in the Cellarage; and tomorrow morning the World will hear the news of my death. The body of an aged Pauper has already been conveyed hither in Secret from Haslemere, and will take my place in the Coffin. After the Interment the New Earl and Countess will proceed at once to Gonister, where they will take up their Residence, leaving this house untenanted except for Parsons, who will serve as Caretaker and provide for our material wants. The Gold and Bank Notes brought by Parsons from London are already bestowed in a subterranean hiding place known only to myself, and it has been arranged that, every First of June, so long as I live, five thousand pounds in cash shall be handed over by myself to John, or to Caroline, or, in the event of their predeceasing me, to their Heir, or to some duly authorized Representative of the Family. By this arrangement, I flatter myself, I have placed them hardly less in my power than I have been placed in theirs. The betrayal of my secret would cost them the Title and Estates, and would expose them, moreover, to a prosecution for Perjury. Nor is this all. My Life is worth to them five thousand pounds a year in Cash, and they know that, at the first suspicion of foul play, I should at once destroy the sources of their supply. I rely upon Cupidity and Fear to fortify their Honour and to fill the Place left vacant by the Affection they most certainly do not feel.' And that's all,” said Jeremy, looking up. “There's nothing else. Just two more blank pages, and that's the end of the book. Not another word of writing.”

There was a long silence. Once more, Dr. Obispo got up and began to walk about the room.

“And nobody knows how long the old buzzard lived on?” he said at last.

Jeremy shook his head. “Not outside the family. Perhaps those two old ladies . . .”

Dr. Obispo halted in front of him, and banged the table with his fist. “I'm taking the next boat to England,” he announced dramatically.

T
ODAY
, even the Children's Hospital brought Mr. Stoyte no consolations. The nurses had welcomed him with their friendliest smiles. The young House Physician encountered in the corridor was flatteringly deferential. The convalescents shouted “Uncle Jo!” with all their customary enthusiasm, and, as he paused beside their beds, the faces of the sick were momentarily illuminated with pleasure. His gifts of toys were received as usual, sometimes with noisy rapture, sometimes (more touchingly) in the silence of a happiness speechless with amazement and incredulity. On his round of the various wards, he saw, as on other days, the pitiful succession of small bodies distorted by scrofula and paralysis, of small emaciated faces resigned to suffering, of little angels dying, and martyred innocents, and snub-faced imps of mischief tortured into a reluctant stillness.

Ordinarily it all made him feel good—like he wanted to cry, but at the same time like he wanted to shout and be proud: proud of just being human, because these kids were human and you'd never seen anything so brave as they were; and proud that he had done this thing for them, given them the finest hospital in the state, and all the best that money could buy. But today his visit brought none of the customary reactions. He had no impulsion either to cry or to shout. He felt neither pride, nor the anguish of sympathy, nor the exquisite happiness that resulted from their combination. He felt nothing—nothing except the dull, gnawing misery which had been with him all that day, at the Pantheon, with Clancy, in his down-town office. Driving out from the city, he had looked forward to his visit to the hospital as an asthma patient might look forward to a dose of adrenalin or an opium smoker to a long-postponed pipe. But the looked-for relief had not come. The kids had let him down.

Taking his cue from what had happened at the end of previous visits, the porter smiled at Mr. Stoyte as he left the hospital and said something about it being the finest bunch of great little kids he ever knew. Mr. Stoyte looked at him blankly, nodded without speaking and passed on.

The porter watched him go. “Jeepers Creepers!” he said to himself, remembering the expression on Mr. Stoyte's face.

Mr. Stoyte drove back to the castle, feeling as unhappy as he had felt when he left it in the morning. He went up with the Vermeer to the fourteenth floor; Virginia was not in her boudoir. He went down to the tenth; but she was not in the billiard room. He dropped to the second; but she was being neither manicured nor massaged. In a sudden
access
of suspicion, he descended to the sub-sub-basement and almost ran to see if she were in the laboratory with Pete; the laboratory was empty. A mouse squeaked in its cage and behind the glass of the aquarium one of the aged carp glided slowly from shadow into light and from light once more into green shadow. Mr. Stoyte hurried back to the elevator, shut himself in with the Dutchman's dream of everyday life mysteriously raised to the pitch of mathematical perfection, and pressed the topmost of the twenty-three buttons.

Arrived at his destination, Mr. Stoyte slid back the gate of the elevator and looked out through the glass panel in the second door.

The water of the swimming pool was perfectly still. Between the battlements, the mountains had taken on their evening richness of golden light and indigo shadow. The sky was cloudless and transparently blue. A tray with bottles and glasses had been set on the iron table at the further side of the pool, and behind the table stood one of the low couches on which Mr. Stoyte was accustomed to take his sun baths. Virginia was lying on this couch, as though anaesthetized, her lips parted, her eyes closed, one arm dropped limply and its palm lying upwards on the floor, like a flower carelessly thrown aside and forgotten. Half concealed by the table, Dr. Obispo, the Claude Bernard of his subject, was looking down into her face with an expression of slightly amused scientific curiosity.

In its first irrepressible uprush, Mr. Stoyte's fury came near to defeating its own homicidal object. With a great effort, he checked the impulse to shout, to charge headlong out of the elevator, waving his fists and foaming at the mouth. Trembling under the internal pressure of pent-up rage and hatred, he groped in the pocket of his jacket. Except for a child's rattle and two packets of chewing gum left over from his distribution of gifts at the hospital, it was empty. For the first time in months, he had forgotten his automatic.