The Philosopher's Pupil (67 page)

When George saw John Robert's writing on the envelope he had at the first moment hoped that the letter would contain something, he knew not what, to match his wishes, some gesture of gentleness, some gesture of humour or sweetness, almost anything, even reproaches, might, he felt, feed and warm his heart, even perhaps (whatever that might mean) heal him. The brutality of the missive which his trembling fingers drew forth shocked him profoundly. George's ingenuity at interpreting any word of John Robert's as a communication or an encouragement was almost limitless, but could not deal with this letter. He was used to the philosopher's coldness, his sarcasm and irritation. This almost incoherent torrent of rage and hate left George for a while utterly prostrated and defeated, as if he could not
survive
in a world where John Robert's ferocious mind existed so to curse him. For the first time a feeling of death touched him. His relation with Rozanov had always been unhappy right from the start, poisoned by jealousy and humiliation and fear and unfulfilled desire, but it had
gone on
and been, as such unhappy things can be, a source of life, a focus of dreams, a goad, a thorn, not a dagger in the heart. George intuited in that ferocious letter John Robert's determination to
end
George absolutely, to exclude him
totally,
as if indeed he had carried out his expressed wish to kill him. Every previous reaction of his teacher had been something which George could
take over
and with which he could
do something.
But with this outburst he could do nothing.

On Thursday morning George considered suicide. He imagined various ways of actually dying in John Robert's presence, or even arranging for John Robert to be accused of murdering him. These fantasies were not consoling since they too contained the real idea of death; and from this George shuddered away and hid his face. He shed tears. Then for a long time he sat quietly on the sofa in the sitting-room at Druidsdale. He crumpled up John Robert's letter and tossed it away. Then he picked it up and looked at it again. It was true that he had got past John Robert's guard; he had, for one moment at least,
occupied
John Robert's mind to the exclusion of all else. This was surely a significant climax. It was of course an
absurd
letter, one which John Robert would regret having written. Suppose George were to reply, harping on that chord? ‘My dear John Robert, I feel sure that by now you regret …' But that would not do. The letter, absurd as it was, remained an act, there was something irrevocable signalled by that smell of death. George believed in signs. The letter was a sign. Love and death were interchangeable. The letter signalled that his relation with John Robert had reached a final orgasm.

‘It ends so,' he said out loud. ‘It ends … so …' And this, such an ending, was in a sense, not an ending. And again for a long time he sat still.

Then it began to be as if his mind, like a boat which has crashed upon rocks, and flown over rapids, had come out in a serene light on to a calm golden lake. He felt his taut and twisted face relax and become smooth. He breathed quietly and deeply. He thought, it is as if I have died only I haven't died. I live in a life after life where all is changed. Can it be that I have actually
finished
with John Robert Rozanov, that this has come upon me as a change of being, as a mystery of which I scarcely know the meaning? He stood up. He went out to the kitchen and ate some soup. It was evening. He went out into the warm calm fuzzy twilight air. He walked to the nearest pub, the Rat Man, and here he learnt the news of William Eastcote's death. And it seemed to him that this too was a sign, that Bill the Lizard had offered himself up as an innocent substitute for George's death. Love had reached its climax and died in peace. He walked and breathed and felt rising within him the warm inner radiance which Tom McCaffrey had been so astonished to see upon his face.

‘What's the letter?' said Diane. She too saw the radiance and was worried by it.

‘It's from John Robert.'

‘Is it a nice letter, kind?'

‘It's - let's say - merciful. Ah, mercy - yes - what's that? Look, I'm going to burn it.' George knelt and lighted a corner of the letter at the gas fire and watched it burn on the tiles of the grate.

Diane watched him in amazement.

George returned and sat on the sofa and Diane slipped down on the floor beside him as she often did and put her hands on his knees.

‘Do you love me, kid?'

‘You know I do.'

‘When a man that “Turnips” cries, cries not when his father dies, does that mean that he would rather have a turnip than his father?'

‘You're in your silly mood today. Are you thinking about your father? You've got a funny look.'

‘Funny, yes. I feel I've been broken and remade in a moment, well, in half an hour. Something - it's like a haemorrhage - has broken - inside — '

‘You don't mean really?'

‘No, no, it's
like
that, only it's in the mind. Something's all washed away - washed away in blood — '

‘Like Jesus Christ.'

‘Yes. Yes. Nothing less would do. I said the world was full of signs today. And Bill the Lizard dead. God rest his soul. So I look strange?'

‘Yes. Your face is different - more beautiful.'

‘It feels like that. Give me another drink, kid. Ding dong bell, Debussy's in the well. We'll live yet and beat them all, we'll outlive them all. Do you know what day this is?'

‘What day?'

‘The one you've been waiting for.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘You wanted me to come to you in the end. When I was broken and beaten and rejected. Well, I've come.'

‘Oh, George — '

‘And I am broken and beaten and rejected but it's not like I thought at all - it's like a triumph - it's with trumpets and drums and - torches and fireworks and bright lights - it's liberation day, Diane - can you hear them all cheering? They know we've won. Fill your glass up, darling, and we'll drink to freedom. They wanted to break us, but they have only broken our chains. We'll go away, shall we, like you used to say. Would you like that? I've got a good pension. Let's go and live in Spain, it's cheap there.'

‘George, do you mean it?'

‘Yes, I do. Diane, this is it. When one is
compelled
to do what's right. We'll live in Spain, we'll live in the sun, and we'll be free. We'll live like kings on my pension. You're the only person who really loves me. You're the only person I can talk to, the only person whose company I can really tolerate. We'll live in the south by the sea and we'll be happy at last. Come, darling, lie beside me. Just put your arms around me. I've solved the riddle, it's all come out clear. You just have to get to breaking point and break, it's as simple as that. Oh I feel so much at peace. I want to sleep now.' And George did at once fall peacefully asleep in Diane's arms.

‘You mean you love me?' said Hattie.

‘Yes,' said John Robert.

‘You love me like - like grandfather - or like - like being in love?'

‘The latter,' said John Robert in a low voice.

It had taken them a long time to reach this point.

When John Robert went to the Slipper House he had had no clear plan in his head. He wanted very much to see Hattie. He felt angry with the girls for their stupidities and indiscretions, whatever these might be, which had somehow contributed to his humiliation. Obsessed with George and Tom, he had not too much reflected on these ancillary follies, and felt no burning desire to find out every detail, to examine and to punish: no satisfaction, in this case, at the idea of passing on some of his pain. He felt rather a general misery and a sense of being wounded and mocked. The interrogation, for which he had certainly drawn up no list of questions, seemed more like a duty than anything else. He had of course noticed the references to Pearl in the scurrilous articles but he had not, in his earlier mood, bothered to make sense of them and had indeed (as Pearl had hoped) put them down as ‘some sort of rubbish'. Even the ‘significance' of Pearl being Diane's sister had not struck him at first, since he had simply had too much to do dealing with other thoughts. He had not at all foreseen the sudden drama of Thursday evening and its huge outcome. It was not until he actually started to ask questions that all these ideas ‘came together', and familiar inquisitorial Socratic instincts prompted him to corner and to strip, further arousing his wounded mind to cruel extremes. He was excited by the sudden and absolutely new experience of castigating Hattie; and with this step closer to her there came, in a single igniting flash, suspicion and jealousy of Pearl.

The decision to remove Hattie was certainly not premeditated. John Robert's new vision of Pearl as the villain of the piece, once fairly started, grew in self-authenticating clarity. It all made sense. Pearl had been, from the beginning, a terrible mistake. He had employed her as a watchdog, a guardian angel, a guarantor of Hattie's seclusion, her purity, her out-of-the-worldness. But in effect Pearl had separated him decisively from Hattie and had stolen Hattie's love which would, if he had looked after Hattie more directly, have been bestowed on him. A sudden burning jealousy of Pearl consumed the present and blackened the past. Pearl was indeed not only a tactical disaster but a positive traitor. She was resentful of Hattie who ‘had everything while she had nothing', she had given away John Robert's match-making plan and was in league with George and that prostitute. Any possibility of second thoughts on these matters was of course removed by Pearl's sickening declaration of love which followed upon her unspeakably crude reference to his secret. That, if nothing else, sealed her fate.

‘Being together with Hattie in that little house in Hare Lane' was indeed proving to be an amazing and frightening experience, though it was now only Friday morning.
How
extraordinary this would be he did not, even in the taxi, begin to imagine. How small the house was he realized as he lay sleepless on the rather damp divan bed in the tiny spare-room, listening to Hattie first crying, then tossing about and sighing, on his own old iron bedstead in the next room. On Friday morning John Robert rose as usual at six forty-five and went downstairs and made preparations for breakfast, a meal which, except in the form of a cup of tea, he did not usually have. He found a table-cloth, cross-stitched by his mother, in a drawer in the side-board, and put it on the little folding table in the sitting-room and laid the table with preparations for coffee and eggs and toast. As he did so he felt a curious pain which consisted in finding a new and special pleasure in laying a table for Hattie, and at the same time thinking how often he might have done so in the past, and how unpredictable now was the future, and how unclear the meaning of the little humble action.

Hattie came down at seven-thirty. John Robert peered out of the kitchen. She looked tired and pale but had put on a brown straight rather ‘grown-up' dress which Pearl had packed for her, and had put her hair up. In reply to his questions about breakfast she said that she only wanted a cup of coffee. Then she announced that when she had had the coffee she was going straight back to the Slipper House. John Robert asked her, please, not to, but to listen instead to some things which he had to say. He did not at the moment know what exactly these things were; but the inevitability was now clear of some sort of ‘fight' with Hattie, and though he was frightened at the prospect he was also excited by it.

The fight began with Hattie saying that she would listen to what he had to say and would
then
go back to the Slipper House.

‘All right,' he said, ‘I'll ask Pearl to move out, and I'll come with you to the Slipper House.'

‘I don't care about the Slipper House! It's Pearl I want to go back to. You wouldn't listen to what I said yesterday — '

‘Don't you think it's time for you to leave off Pearl? You're grown-up now. How nicely you've done your hair.'

‘You say “leave off Pearl” as if she were some sort of bad habit!'

‘Well, in a way she is. You've grown out of her.'

‘She's not a teddy bear!'

Hattie had taken her coffee into the sitting-room and had sat down at the table which John Robert had laid and moved into the window. John Robert sat down opposite to her, unconsciously moving the plates and cutlery and setting them in a neat pile. The weather had changed, and outside it was softly gloomily raining upon the little garden enclosed by its low and partly broken fences.

‘I have told Pearl that we no longer need her.'

‘
We
no longer need her? You mean you've sacked her?'

‘She quite understands.'

‘Well, I don't. I told you, she is my friend, she is my sister, you wanted us to do everything together — '

‘You mustn't be so dependent on another person, you must give up this old sentimental attachment to someone you've just got used to.'

‘Used to! And it's not dependence it's
love!
I don't want her as a nursemaid! I want her as a friend and a relation! You don't realize how alone I am, I have no family — '

‘You have me.'

‘Well, yes, of course but - I've seen so little of you - you couldn't have a child in your life - of course you haven't had time. I don't know you — '

‘Do you think, Hattie - do you think that you could call me “John Robert”?'

‘I don't know you, John Robert.'

‘That is my fault.'

‘Of course I'd like to know you better, that would be nice. But Pearl is
essential,
she's part of me, I won't give her up — '

‘When you marry you will have to — '

‘Of course I won't have to, what are you talking about? And as for when I marry, you seemed very anxious to get rid of
me
when you tried to - to offer me to Tom McCaffrey - and he didn't want me — '