The Janeites (5 page)

“Believe me, there’s no one like Jane in a tight place.” It is probable that William will know little or nothing of the background. The Marquis, a much older man, highly sophisticated and well read, has a strong sense of history, and caught on very quickly. People in general know something of the second world war but have fogotten what they ever knew of the first. The ’14–18. People no longer understand how much this meant, how deep it went. So I’m going back to the start of this story, since William is going to need that.

Humberstall – a humble man – is a simple soldier with an artillery unit; a good soldier, immensely strong and a bit thick. He gets invalided home after being blown up by shellfire. In the hospital nobody can find much wrong with him; what would come to be called shell-shock was then little understood, but his none-too-bright wits are further dazed. He makes his own way back to his comrades out of instinct. His commander, a kindly man, has no use for him but finds a neat solution: “I particularly want you as a mess waiter.” He can hang about polishing things, perfectly happy.

The unit’s guns are old-fashioned things on rails, largely worn out and ‘not much use this late in the war’: they have a quiet position well behind the front lines, forgotten by authority.

This story would be no more than an anecdote without a peculiar psychological fact. The three officers have suffered the intense strains of their service, have seen their guns shunted aside as worthless, and have lost interest in the hostilities. To someone like myself, there is a parallel with a patient of William’s sort. They are cynical, since they serve no real purpose, but should the Germans bombard them they are in danger of death or mutilation. Their escape from this combination of risk and boredom is to play a typically English literary game with the characters of Jane Austen: the world where ‘nothing ever happens’.

The Marquis was wonderfully quick at picking up constructions. “Of course,” he said at once. “I suppose the only really major novelist in any language whose world has totally banished war, violence, death and mutilation – or cancer come to that. The English are all mad on her – it’s worse than Trollope.”

The officers have the solidarity between themselves of belonging to a ‘secret society’; they are the Janeites. Only one other man shares in this, a soldier with education, a sly and even sinister man, exactly the type who wangles himself a good job in prison. He is of course the officers’ mess orderly, simply because he too knows how to talk about Jane.

Poor Humberstall can make nothing of it: what are they all on about? The crafty one offers, for payment naturally, to introduce him to this secret world, and night after night he has to read the books, wondering what they, too, are all about! But this as promised
pays off; he gets tips, and is indeed treated as privileged, exempt from all tedious military chores. No wonder that he is very happy. “Our little group, there was no one to touch us.”

This idyllic life cannot last, and does not. The German attack of March 1918 swamps their safely forgotten position. They are bombarded, the unit is destroyed, the others are all killed, and Humberstall, intact and bewildered, finds himself ‘the only Janeite left’. But even in the mess and confusion of evacuation he remembers his passwords, quotes Jane to a hospital sister and is rewarded by a safe passage out. “I expect she was the Lady Catherine of the area,” he says, delighted. Years after, finding himself looked after and kindly treated, he will put his good fortune down to being a true Janeite. As he tells Kipling, “I reread all her books still for pleasure, and then I remember it – right down to the smell of the gluepaint on the screens.”

The Marquis was enchanted – “I see it all”. He must indeed have known and frequented many a chalky old general who had been a junior officer in the trenches of ’14. “Do you think there would be any female Janeites?”

“There was the sister, to whom he said ‘Stop Miss Bates there talking’ – but in general I should think it’s a man’s world. And very English.”

“One can’t be sure. Kipling loved France, and has always been popular here.”

To enrol William as a Janeite is tempting; it’s a possible means of approach. I would want to know rather more about him, and in particular about his wife. Whom I must meet, and this is to be arranged.

I can hear a lot of people – not all of them French – clicking their tongue and tutting at my frivolity. Here is a doctor, with qualifications in neuropsychiatry and quite some experience in the field, amusing himself with jokes of this sort. It would be easy to knock such people on the head with professional jargon; there’s plenty of that about. To tell the truth I haven’t a lot of patience with them. The French are world-champion swallowers of anti-depressant pills, cherish them as a child its teddybear. Very well, to restore sanity adopt simple language.

It is logical to be depressed if suffering from a grave malady. Melancholy affects William. The classical pointers to depression are easily described: irritability; a diminished interest in most normal spheres of activity; loss of weight; tendency to insomnia, fatigue and loss of energy; devaluation of the professional role (the feeling of being useless and guilt about that); a weakened ability at organizing one’s own existence; recurrent gloomy thoughts about death – it could be with an urge towards suicide; inaptitude at ordinary social obligations.

It gets said at school that any five of these adds up to a syndrome. In consequence nine-tenths of the population describes itself as depressive; I do so myself. Congratulating themselves upon the important discovery they rush to their family doctor demanding the fashionable pill: since, alas, doctors are judged by the number and variety of their prescriptions (it’s an over-crowded profession), all too often they get it. William, robust as he is, hasn’t thought of this yet. But it’s quite likely that he will.

I could get pretty technical about all this. In fatally loose talk about depressions (the media are full of it) one is describing an illness and neglecting the patient. The clinician, general or psychiatric, is caught between his job of prescribing and that of studying how the patient puts himself together. Question of experience. It’s a happy-pill, a feel-good, and on the same level really as any of the ecstasy drugs? Not really; they aren’t in the strict sense habit forming and can be in the long run a necessity, almost like insulin to a diabetic.

The experienced doctor throws a bit of cold water on these people’s tendency to enjoy their own ailments. ‘Certainly it’s a depression, but it’s a very Mild one isn’t it. Now that you understand it you can perfectly well take it in hand.’

Ever since Dürer described Melancholia all artists do this, really. Kipling suffered a good deal from depression; wrote about it often. That is the artist’s way of exorcizing it. But if you are no artist, to become a Janeite is pretty good therapy.

We pass it on, you know, by whatever means.

When it comes to the point Dr Valdez doesn’t want at all to be rid of his beautiful watch; turns it over in his hands, revelling in it. Jesuits
are not encouraged to material attachments. In fact the words of Saint Teresa come to mind, as cited by one of his early professors. A new young novice asked permission to keep a pretty prayerbook, given her in childhood, of which she was very fond. ‘Fond of it, are you?’ said that formidable lady. ‘Better not come in here then.’

No: he refuses. Be ashamed about that, will he? Have to come to a decision? Well, he’ll think about that tomorrow.

Monsieur le Marquis had a funny story. In a moment – they are volatile – of probably drunken euphoria he had bought himself a Rolex; worn it for a few days ‘getting steadily more uneasy’. In a moment – yes, another – of extreme exasperation he had thrown it on the bathroom floor where it exploded, shattering into satisfying fragments. In the French declamatory-rhetorical mode, as when addressing the National Assembly –

‘Oyster – return to your native waters – by way of the plug hole.’ With that suppressed laugh from somewhere high in his sinus. ‘Vulgar thing.’

A jeweller, for Jesuits are like jackdaws and collect anything that glitters, had told him that stainless steel – ‘the 316 L which is used for the best surgical instruments’ – is the thing to have. ‘Gold’ magnificently ‘always looks cheap’. And for a fine movement steel gives the best protection. Ray had wondered, ever so little, whether he wasn’t getting led up the garden path.

‘It was Patek Philippe who first set steel with diamonds.’

‘Mine has no diamonds.’

‘On that very account,’ said the old man charmingly, ‘yours is the best there is. It is with the greatest simplicity that one reaches the greatest elegance.’

‘What about those people with ice on their beards, in the
National
Geographic
?’

‘It pays to advertise.’

Raymond put his watch back on. Buckled the strap. Keeping.

Evening; dusk. Alleyway, a few steps from home. No one, then someone, looming. A colossal shock. An extreme, excruciating pain. Blindness. Vertigo. He was on the deck, on his knees. His hands trying to keep his face off the street. Face? Or what is left of it. Vomit? Do, by all means; be my guest. Retch, mostly. After a long time, perhaps a minute or two of pain unspeakable, pulled himself up. Didn’t stay up; sat or rolled on to a step. Keep that way, head between your knees. Heard footsteps, fast, then slow, then fast again. A drunk, inna gutter, better not interfere. A while later, Raymond got up, could walk; just about. End of alleyway are bright lights, main road, people. Don’t want people, want reason. Want help, want first-aid. Can’t see anything much; shadows, lights in streaks. Pharmacy, that’s it. Need kind people but need professionals, that’s instinct. But also reason. Doorway: stop and have a little rest.

This is the centre of the town. Pharmacy-aplenty. Medieval town, they have medieval names. “Serpent,” said Raymond out loud. “Virgin. Rose. Iron Man.” Mentally, something was still functioning. Somebody took his arm.

“Man – you need help.”

“Yes. Pharmacy.”

“Right. Yes. Good idea. Along here. Not far. Can you walk?”

Bright light. Very bright, far too bright. In streaks, a young woman’s face, a white overall. She opened her mouth and said “Woo.” She took hold of him by the shoulders. “Sit. Here. I’ll get the
chef
.”
Lights zigged and zagged all over the shop. Better with the eyes shut. As long as there are still eyes. Then a man’s voice. “That’s a nasty smash. Here, drink this.”

Admirable; familiar; old-fashioned restorative; just the goddam bloody ticket. Mind – thank heaven – supplies old-fashioned Latin name. Sal Volatile. “Hear me all right can you? We’ve called the Samu. Be here in just a tick.”
Service-ambulance-medic
ale-
urgence, 
oh that’s very good indeed. Siren, blue light, winking, professionals.

“Don’t need stretcher. I can walk.”

“Keep quiet, don’t talk,” said the voice of authority. “We’ll take a quick look.” They always do. Heart, chest, spine, pelvis.

“What hit him – a bus?”

“Only facial,” said Raymond. “Rest’s all right.”

“Facial’s the word. Lot of pain? Give you a quick shot for that. Chest and limbs are okay. You’ll be fine.”

“Not as wide as a church door but it’ll serve.”

“Bit woozy. All right, get him in the wagon and clean him up a bit. Breathe deeply, relax totally, we’re taking you in. Any eyewitnesses?”

“No,” said Raymond. “Fella mugged me in the alley.”

“Charming. Okay then,
ein-zwei-drei
.”
Experts slid him into the wagon, smooth as the bearers at the funeral.

“Your mouth’s fine and so are your teeth,” said the girl’s voice. “So here’s a little oxygen, help pep you up. Next stop Traumatology Centre, you’ll need a few repairs.”

The duty nurse didn’t even say woo; called the intern.

“Who hit you then, mate? – King Kong?” He felt too tired to talk. “Not a great deal I can do right here. Make you more comfortable. We’ll have to hold on to you. Radios, see in the morning what the Professor says.” They undressed him, must have gone through his pockets because the boy came back. “Doctor Valdez,” a bit hangdog. “Just a word.” Clearing his throat. “I’m sorry to have seemed abrupt. We’ll want some surgery. Make you as good as new. Don’t worry about a thing. Important now to have a good sleep.” Yes. Nice, the kindly morphia. Dark. Oblivion.

A grey morning, a quiet room, an angel. She really was; she had ‘Angèle’ on her little plastic nameplate. Comfortable, matter-of-fact and as nurses go she had light kind fingers.

“Going to prep you because the Professor wants you downstairs as soon as may be. Rinse your mouth shall I? I’m going to shave you. The Police want a word – I’ve told them to eff off. The anaesthetist
too if you can bear it, but she’s rather a sweetie.” A little smiling dark woman. Extraordinary things they do have on their check list; Raymond’s private life reviewed in nosy detail but a readiness to enjoy jokes. Everybody very polite. Confraternity conveys privileges, Doctor Valdez. He was in a private room, and his angel at beck and call. Going to be the Man in the Iron Mask for a day or two; give him time to think. For instance he didn’t have to look at the Police, who were apologetic but persistent.

“Not just an ordinary mugging, you see. Vengeance like, they wanted to smash you. We’ve had a word with the Professor; he’s explained the radios. Something quite narrow but heavy metal. Like you know knuckleduster. Professional, like. Break your nose but really putting the boot in, like. You never saw? Total surprise? Knew where to find you. Proper ambush. Now what or who could be behind that, would you say?” They would have a lot of trouble believing Raymond’s saying that he simply didn’t know

“Can’t help us at all? Pity, that. Materially, not a great deal to go on. Uh, Doctor, when you’re up and about, you’d have no objection to popping in to the office like, the
Chef
would want to have a word, d’you know?” Only too obvious that they didn’t believe a word he said.