New Celebrations: The Adventures of Anthony Villiers (24 page)
Read New Celebrations: The Adventures of Anthony Villiers Online
Authors: Alexei Panshin
You may talk about your lines of occurrence if you wish, but music is a miracle of coincidence. Noises that eventually fit together to make a sum larger than reason could expect. And all coming from separate heads. When the noises do fit together, it is an act of communion.
They played together for some time and even Torve was pleased with this transmogrification of his art. But then his heart was childish and his mind simple.
They called a halt to their playing while it was still fun, and adjourned to the fireside where they fell into talk of women and other mysteries. As women sitting in their circles suspect, when men are together they do talk about things from their side. Torve listened with great interest.
Ralph, John, and Fillmore, coming as they did from a tightly bound culture, held peculiar theories about life, love, and sex with which neither Fred nor Villiers was in agreement but to which they listened with good humor and courtesy. One of the major lessons of the High Culture is never to become emotionally disturbed by what other people do, even if they do it very very oddly. David, who might be expected to have a different perspective from any of the others, said nothing.
At last, Fred said, “Aristotle might well be congenial to you. He held that women, while inferior, might still be good, though he thought that valor or over-cleverness was inappropriate in them.”
“Aristotle said that?” John asked.
“In the
Poetics
.”
“I’ll have to read that.”
“Do you believe those things?” David asked. Silent David.
“In context, I do. He was talking of consistency of characterization. From my own experience, however, I can’t speak well of women. Most of those that I’ve met have been maumets.”
“That’s harsh,” Villiers said.
“That’s the truth. I might hope to encounter something better someday, but the hope is a remote one.”
“Let me tell you of someone who was something better,” Villiers said. “My family has a certain wealth and position and my father had it in mind that our wealth and position might best be conserved by arranging an appropriate marriage for his second son and heir—that is, me. He considered alliances with many men, and at last narrowed his list to three, any of whom was acceptable to him. And he thought that of the four daughters, I should surely find one that was acceptable to me. I knew personally two of the four. Sisters. One was not bright and the other not pleasant. Both found me not to their liking. The one who was unbright thought my conversation baffling. The one who was unpleasant thought my personality too secretive. I knew a third by reputation, which was that she was careless. She was careless enough to be willing to accept me, but I was like you, Fred, in wishing for something better.”
“And the fourth?” Ralph asked.
“The fourth was something better. A girl attractive in the extreme. She was intelligent, of excellent disposition and character, and full of interests and accomplishments. She did not find me rejectable for my history and so we met. We liked each other quite well.”
“Did you marry her?” Ralph asked.
“No,” said Villiers. “No. Unfortunately, the girl was six feet two inches tall, while I, as you can see, am a good bit shorter. I was able to accept the discrepancy, which amounted to some eight inches, while she was not. Indeed, she was dismayed. I wonder from time to time what has become of her. I hope she has been able to find a tall man.”
“Did your father make you marry one of the others?” asked John.
“Fortunately, no. He produced a fifth candidate and I married her. She was something better, too, though in other ways.”
“Who was the fourth girl?” Fred asked.
“Miriam Passalaqua Peragine.”
“I thought it might be. There aren’t many girls of that height. And I’ll grant you, she is something better than a maumet. My father proposed her to me, but she had no interest in agrostology. She married Aalholm. It must have been about three years ago.”
“I didn’t hear of it. Is he sufficiently tall?”
“Yes. Six feet four.”
“I’m pleased. She was a girl who deserved well.”
Then Fred said, “Where did David go?”
At some time in the past few minutes David had risen and withdrawn silently. Fred, only noticing the departure now, was disconcerted. Magical disappearances should only happen when you are prepared for them. It is the same feeling that causes people to ask for card tricks to be repeated.
Villiers said, “He left some five minutes ago. I assume he felt it was time for him to be home.”
“That’s an odd kid,” John said.
Fred said. “It is true that he has no small talk.”
Ralph rose. “I think it is time for us to be home, too. I wonder if I might use your latrine first. Where is it?”
Villiers pointed. “Past the rocks. Be careful. There’s no seat now. There’ll be a seat tomorrow.”
Ralph skirted the fire and walked in the direction Villiers had indicated. As it happened, this route took him to where his Uncle Walter lay in hiding.
Ralph came very near to stepping on his uncle, but a wild dance for balance managed to avoid that additional bit of disrespect. Afterward he would be sorry that he hadn’t made something of his opportunity, but his first instinct was to avoid stepping on people since they make uncertain footing and tend to complain.
Full adulthood finally comes only after old relations have been redefined. Ralph might be able to plan revolution, but he was still dealing with his uncle with old reflexes.
He was frightened. He was unnerved. He was unmanned.
He screamed. He jumped. He ran.
He forgot his other purposes. His feet found the path to the road that would take him to Green Mountain or somewhere else, depending on whether he turned right or left.
Those around the fire looked from rocks to receding back, and then again at the rocks, two with apprehension, two with curiosity, and the last with innocent wonder. At last, slowly, Admiral Beagle rose from behind his rocks, and apprehension, curiosity and wonder were reaffirmed.
“Evil!” he said. “Corruption!” he said. “Mould-ridden solidified goat’s milk!” he said.
Villiers waved at John and Fillmore. “Go along home now. I think the Admiral wishes to speak to me.”
“How dare you, sir! How dare you! You have no right to dismiss them!”
Villiers said, “We discussed that this afternoon, Admiral, and I thought we established that I do have the right to be here. I have the right to invite what guests I care to—among whom you may count yourself, sir, at least for the moment. And my guests may leave as they choose. You may leave if you choose, and so may John and Fillmore.”
John and Fillmore chose to leave. Their curiosity grew with distance, as their apprehension lessened, and by the time they reached the road they were almost ready to return. However, after two steps back they changed their minds and continued on to Green Mountain.
* * *
Villiers said, “Now, sir, I thought things were settled between us?”
What happened next is humiliating to relate. It shows the vulnerability of men of firm moral principles. When one principle comes into conflict with another, one may temporarily give way in the interests of higher justice. If higher justice is indeed served, then no harm is done. But if judgment proves to have been faulty, then hell is to pay, either in anguish or in quest of vindication.
Admiral Beagle made an argument to Villiers, ignoring Fred, avoiding Torve. The argument that he made was one of the old ones.
A man who wants to convince can direct his argument to pure reason, if there happens to be reason within his argument. Failing that, he must make do as best he can.
He can threaten.
Argumentum ad baculum
. “Believe me, Mr. Villiers, or I’ll hit you.” But Admiral Beagle had tried that with no success.
He can depend on his hearer’s ignorance.
Argumentum ad ignorantiam
. “Believe me, Mr. Villiers.” But Villiers had quite rightly not believed him.
He can back his opponent into such a position that his only way out is to dirty himself so badly that nobody will listen to him anyway.
Argumentum ad verecundiam
. But Villiers had been saying filthy things all night, especially about Mrs. Waldo Wintergood. (And how that had angered the Admiral!) Villiers didn’t seem to be bothered by his offenses and there was no mob handy to tear him apart. Indeed, the nearest thing to a mob had endorsed Villiers’ corruptions, because they would bother its peers and elders. Ah, the perversity of youth.
All of these having failed, Admiral Beagle tried one last argument to persuade Villiers to leave the vicinity.
Argumentum ad crumenam
. Admiral Beagle had thought of his earlier arguments as proper and legitimate. This one he felt uneasy about. In short, he offered Villiers money to go away.
Villiers did not accept the offer, long ago having learned the words of the ancients:
It is written that Tzu Kung once asked the Master what an official must do to be worthy of the name. The Master answered, saying, “A man may be called a true official who in his private conduct shows a sense of shame and as an envoy muffs not his prince’s commission.” “I venture to ask who would rank next?” Said the Master: “That man praised for his filial respect by his kinsmen and for his deference to elders by his fellow villagers.” “Might I ask who would rank next?” The Master said, “That man who keeps his word and follows his course. Such a man, though small-minded, might be considered to come next.” “What would you say of those now in government?” “Ugh!” said the Master. “Those ricebags! They are not worth taking into account.”
8
T
HERE IS A LONG-STANDING SPLIT AMONG PHILOSOPHERS
on the subject of names. Realists take them seriously, believing them to be things. Nominalists take them lightly, believing them to be means, believing them to be convenient labels. Every man in the world is either a Realist or a Nominalist. Give yourself a test: if someone called you a gigger or a fell-picker, and you knew it wasn’t true, would you hit him or smile? That’s how easy it is to tell.
Valuing names as they do, Realists are sparing with them. They are likely to be known only as Joe or Bill or Plato. And they don’t smile much.
Nominalists have more fun. They are known as Aristotle or Decimus et Ultimus Barziza, or as Edward John Barrington Douglas-Scott-Montagu, or perhaps by one name in childhood and several others in the course of life.
A firm Realist misses out on one of the most satisfying of all human activities—the assumption of secret identities. A man who has lived and never been someone else has never lived.
It is true that occasionally there can be embarrassment in secret identities, but only a Realist will take the whole thing seriously enough to hit you. So have your fun, and avoid Realists.
* * *
Either Ralph had turned right, or turning left had accelerated amazingly, because he was sitting by the short road up to Green Mountain, his back against a tree, elbows on knees, chin resting in the thumb-and-forefinger L of his interlaced hands. He looked unhappy. He didn’t stir when John and Fillmore came down the moonlit road.
“Run,” said John. “Run. Your uncle will get you if you don’t watch out.”
“Don’t,” said Fillmore. “You were quick enough to leave when you had the chance.”
“I started back,” John said.
“ ‘Started.’ ”
“Well, I didn’t run. I didn’t talk about all the things I was going to do—‘revolution,’ ‘change’—and then turn and run.”
“You did, too,” Fillmore said. “You made up the explosive factory, talked about just what you would do, and then when I took up your idea seriously, you ran.”
“That’s different!”
“Only because it’s you.”
Ralph slowly levered himself to his feet. “I’m sorry,” he said. “My uncle is my weak spot. Give me time to work things out.”
John held out Ralph’s mandolin. “Here,” he said. “You forgot this.”
* * *
Pickles and Daisy—no, I’m sorry; they gave that up—Caspar and Daisy Smetana were waiting and worried. Only the uncertain is frightening, and though you may tell yourself that the facts will prove to be what the facts prove to be, nonetheless the uncertain is still the uncertain, and the uncertain is frightening.
They were waiting on the porch, Smetana in his rocker as though he had never left it, gray sweater over his shoulders, when Ralph and John and Fillmore came trudging up the hill.
Smetana stood up and put his hands on the railing. Behind him, his rocker continued to go
whump, whub, whump, whub.
He said, “So now, where have you been?”
Daisy touched his sleeve. “Now, you weren’t going to ask them that.”
“I’m not asking hard. I’m asking soft.”
Ralph led the three up the steps to the veranda. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We had no way to let you know where we were.”
Daisy moved a dismissing hand. “It’s all right. Don’t pay any attention to him. We’re just glad you’re back sound.”
Ralph said, “A friend of ours, Mr. Villiers, is camped a couple of miles from here. We were there. That’s where Torve is staying.”
“I wondered about that,” Smetana said. “It is one thing to have friends appear out of nowhere on red tricycles, but such friends are . . . unusual. I thought, in a tree he’s staying, maybe, but a camp, this is better. More regular.”
Daisy put her hand to her forehead. “Oh, I forgot to ask. Are you hungry? I can have food ready in no time at all. It will be no trouble.”
“It’s not necessary,” Ralph said. “Thank you very much, but it’s not necessary. Mr. Villiers fed us.”
“Was it enough?” she asked.
“Yes,” John said. “But maybe a bit of dessert.”
“Oh,” she said, delightedly. “No trouble.” She hurried inside, turning at the door. “Just one minute, and there will be dessert for three.”
“Mr. Villiers is going to give us an article for our magazine,” Fillmore said. “It’s a good one, too. About Mrs. Waldo Wintergood.”
“Only if it meets our editorial requirements.”
“Well, yes. But it sounds good. And we’re going to have an article on Aristotle’s
Poetics
from Mr. . . .”
“Mr. Fritz.”
“Fred.”
“From Fred.”
Smetana said, “Aristotle. You are using an article on Aristotle?” He shook his head.
“Is something wrong with Aristotle?” John asked.
“Oh, no, no. Aristotle, he’s all right. But if you want an article, it should be on Rambam.”
“Who?”
“Moses ben Maimon. Maimonides.”
“Did he talk about art?”
“Rambam talks about everything, including Aristotle. He wrote
Moreh Nevukhim
, the
Guide for the Perplexed
. I’ll see what he says about art. I’ll write you an article.”
“It has to meet our editorial standards,” Fillmore said.
“I write—you see. Now, tell me about Mr. Villiers. Who is Mr. Villiers?”
“His name is Anthony Villiers,” Ralph said. “We don’t know a lot about him, actually. He’s not from around here. He’s an inch or two shorter than you are. He’s young. Long brown hair. I think he might be from a wealthy and important family. Not that he comes the lord. He’s reserved.”
“What do you think of Fred, Mr. Fritz?” Fillmore asked.
“Good family, but not as good as Villiers’. He’s too casual.”
Daisy returned to the porch then. “Dessert is ready. Come along, now.”
When the three were busy with their desserts, Smetana took Daisy aside.
He said, “These boys, they are putting out a magazine. I am writing an article on Rambam for them.”
“Oh, that’s nice. You haven’t written since we were on Babad.”
“But bad news too. This Mr. Villiers—he is Anthony Villiers.”
“The Anthony Villiers we knew on Livermore? Oh, I thought we would never meet any of those people again.”
“It’s the same. Shorter than me, young, brown hair, reserved.”
“Maybe it’s not the same.”
“Daisy, shorter than me, shorter than me. There are not so many who are shorter than me.”
“Do you think he will remember?”
“How could he forget so easily?” Smetana asked. “We just hope we don’t meet—and if we do, well, I am only embarrassed. Embarrassment I can live with.”
* * *
Villiers stopped outside the small tent, and listened with fixed expression to the sound of desperate crying. He wondered if this was the proper time for a powwow.
He had waited until Torve and Fred had retired before going on his quiet midnight walk. Eventually he had found this tent, pitched in the woods some distance from his own camp.
He wanted to talk now, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to interrupt the wounded sobbing within.
Finally, he called, “David! Gillian! It’s Mr. Villiers.”
The crying quieted abruptly with a gasp. But there was no further sound, as though silence might provide a place to hide.
“Gillian,” Villiers said again.
Only after a long minute did a face appear, framed by tent flaps.
Villiers said, “I’d like to talk to you, if I might.”
“You know?” asked the face.
“Yes, I know.”
She tried to smooth away tear tracks, bit at her knuckle and sniffed. Gillian or David, the inability to use words easily seemed a constant. She asked questions where one word stood for four or forty.
She asked, “Did . . . ?”
Villiers said, “No, I didn’t tell Fred. I won’t either. But I would like to talk to you.”
“How . . . ?”
“It is a failure of my character that I am curious. I backtracked you here this morning. If you intend to continue being David, then you had better use the road as I just did. If you make too obvious a path, Fred might follow it.”
She was reassured sufficiently to come outside the tent, the tent being too small for two unless they were on greater terms of intimacy than she and Villiers, and kneeling in tent doorways being unsatisfactory for conversation as well as ultimately knee-wrinkling. Villiers was capable of projecting reassurance when he cared to.
Gillian sat cross-legged on the ground. She was still wearing her oversized coat, and she huddled and shivered. She wasn’t far from her tears, and she was still cold inside.
So, look at her—a gawk. The same gawk. Tall for a girl and thin. Black hair of medium length, eyes black as ever, a shade too much nose. If you think of her as a boy, the nose is in better proportion, but the boy is an odd one. If you think of her as a girl and she remains odd, it means simply that your tastes are limited. Rare is the word, not odd.
What else can be said of her? Three things we know. She has courage, determination, and an uncertain mind. The first two are valuable qualities, and if the third is not in itself, it is a thing that lends the first two value.
Imagine being young and frightened and uncertain. For reasons that seem good, even if you cannot state them clearly, even to yourself, you strike off into the unknown. You travel for weeks, committed to your uncertainty but unable to affect it. You may well cry.
Having invested that much, you might well cry again to discover that the man you have come in search of has a poor opinion of womankind. Finally, when Gillian, that is, you, had first begun playing the mouthbow she had twanged the metal string with her finger instead of a plectrum. She had learned, but at the cost of blisters on two fingers. If you feel lonely and unhappy and uncertain—and your fingers hurt besides—you might sob desperately.
She asked again, “Will you tell him?”
Some questions have to be answered again and again and again. The answer has to be
known
to be believed. Herring doesn’t believe in vinegar until it has steeped for a while.
“No,” said Villiers. “I won’t tell Fred. I hope you will though, and soon. You’ll either have to tell him, or go away and never see him again. And the more you show him of David, the longer and harder it will be to go back and begin all over again showing him Gillian.” Then he asked, “Did you leave because of what he was saying?”
She nodded sadly.
“You left too soon,” Villiers said. “He seemed overharsh in his judgment of women to me, too, until I thought. Most of his life has been confined, and more so than either yours and mine. You know what things are like there. You know the sort of women he’s met. The ones who find their importance in the importance of the men they sleep with. Dolls, puppets, mechanical monsters. He wants something better.”
“But what if he doesn’t like me?”
“He may not,” said Villiers. “But then I think he may. Don’t worry about it. Just be.
“Fred and I are friends of long standing.” Villiers smiled. “We could go without seeing each other for ten years, and we would still take up comfortably where we left off. I wish him well. But I will help you as long as it doesn’t hurt him. I have more faith in his father’s judgments than he has, and I think you may be what he has need of.
“Stop crying. Sleep well. And tell him as soon as you can.”
