The Beauty of the Dead and Other Stories (22 page)

‘Well, I've decided to stay for a night or two and look after you, Elisha, whether you like it or not. I've sent Fred home for the things. I hope you hear what I say?'

He did not answer. In a momentary flash of cunning he decided to lie still and silent, in a pretence of sleep.

When he woke again it was late in the evening; the room was dark and still, and he was no longer tired. He did not know what time it was, but soon he caught from the street outside the broken echoes of passing voices and traffic and then, raising himself on his elbow, he looked out of the uncurtained window and saw lights in the street below. He felt briefly reassured, and then turned to look at the bedroom. He could see better now, and suddenly he realized that something strange had happened.

The flowers had gone. He sat up in bed and switched on the light. An accidental breath of wind stirred the hanging glasses of the chandelier, and in this moment he felt all the violence of the day's anger renew itself with tremendous strength. It was beyond mere irritation now. It no longer sprang from within him. It was an external force which seemed to take hold of him bodily and jerk him out of bed.

For a few moments he stood in the centre of the room, in his nightshirt, staring before him. Yes: the flowers had gone. They had gone and he knew that only one person could have taken them away. His anger at these simple facts beat him into violent movement. He put out the light and began to dress. Anger directed his hands to things he did not consciously know were there: trousers, coat: a loose black beret which he often wore in the shop, his boots, which he did not lace up. It seemed to take hold of him and lead him downstairs: the same immense external anger aroused simply by the fact that his flowers had gone. Outside on the landing he almost stumbled over the vases of flowers lined up against the railings of the stairs, but his anger did not cease. It drove him from the stairs into the passage that ran between stairs and living room, shining through the glass door of which he could see a light.

This light made him stop. Through the lighted
glass door he could see his sister and her husband. They had taken possession. They were having supper at a table directly under the electric light. Beating straight down, the light threw their faces into shadow, depressing them. Bottles of stout stood on the table. He saw his sister, mouth full, reach out her hand and grasp the glass of stout and drink rapidly, her face excited by food and drink and some expounded intention he could not hear.

He turned away and went back along the passage. He unlocked the side door at the foot of the stairs and went out into the street. It seemed again as if anger had driven him there. The night air was not cold, and he was still not tired. He began to walk rapidly, knowing in a strange way that he was not fully responsible for his movements.

But soon, as he walked along the street, his anger underwent a change. It became an idea. It was the idea that his sister and her husband had installed themselves at the house for the sole purpose of taking away his money. He moved under the street lights with an oblivious swaying movement, looking at the ground. From the nucleus of his single idea sprang others. He began to walk more quickly, impelled by the idea of escape. He became aware of the idea that he was being persecuted. They had taken away his flowers, they had come to take away his money. In
time, if he did not escape, they would take away him.

He struggled along to the next corner, and then he had another idea. Out of the darkness there came a taxi, driven slowly, going home perhaps after meeting the last important train at the station. He put up his hand and shouted. The taxi pulled up and he told the driver to go straight to Mr. Archibald Foster's house, forty-five Edward Street.

‘What street?' the driver said.

‘Edward Street.'

‘Edward Street?' the driver said. ‘Never heard of it. Edward Street?'

The little jeweller stood slightly swaying by the side of the taxi, trying to think. Edward Street? No, that was not right. It couldn't be right. He was thinking of Edward. It occurred to him suddenly that he needed Edward. What street did Edward live in? Foster Street? Archibald Street? He ran his hand vaguely across his face. No, he thought, no, what was he thinking about? Archibald was the name of his solicitor, who lived in Foster Street. It was his solicitor he needed, Mr. Archibald. He needed to make his will. Then he remembered that Mr. Archibald was dead, that the firm was carried on by somebody of another name. Mr. Foster? No: he recalled abruptly that Foster was his sister's married name. He stood swaying on his feet, his mind for the space of several seconds
quite blank. Where did he want to go? What was he trying to remember?

The voice of the taxi-driver aroused him at last. ‘Thought of it yet?'

‘No,' the little jeweller said, ‘I haven't thought of it.' He now suddenly felt weak and cold from standing. ‘Let me get in. You can drive on and I'll tell you when I remember. I shall remember it in a minute.'

What was it? he thought. What was it? As he lay back on the cushions of the taxi he tried desperately to beat his mind into a coherent effort of memory. What in God's name was it? He shut his eyes, pressing his hands against his forehead. The taxi swung from side to side, turning a corner, swinging him as if he were suspended by a rope. He knew again that he was very ill. His mind had ceased in its reactions. The knowledge of his illness was part of the darkness, the street lights swinging giddily past, the strange droning noise of the taxi boring with infinite melancholy down into his brain. Once the driver turned and spoke to him, but he did not reply. He was seized by the idea that he was being forcibly carried away into the darkness of a strange place. He had long since ceased his effort of memory. He felt now that he was fighting to escape. He felt very frightened by the dark confinement of the taxi and suddenly began to shout like a child.

‘Let me get out!' he shouted. ‘Let me get out!' He
wiped his hand across his face and found his forehead cold with the sweat of great anguish. ‘Let me out! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!' he shouted. ‘Please stop it now!'

When he came to himself again he did not recognize his own skinny white hands lying on the dark grey blanket of the bed. In the same way, when he lifted one of his hands and drew it unsteadily across his face, he could not recall who he was. The strange details of the face, a growth of beard, the fleshless cheek-bones, the deep-sunken eyes, might have been those of some other person. He knew that the bed, too, was strange. He fixed in his mind the reality of its black iron shape, the grey blanket, the grey light falling on it from a distant window. Then he realized that it was one of many others.

Where was he? His eyes cast themselves with slow weariness from side to side. They alighted and dwelt upon a double row of grey beds. In these beds, all exactly resembling his own, other men were lying, one or two asleep. He tried to understand his relationship to them. He looked at the walls of the room, the ceiling. The whitewash had begun in places to peel away. He considered again the grey winter light
falling through the high narrow windows, trying to determine what time of day it was.

Gradually his mind began to clear. Wakefulness itself had broken a tiny hole of light in his troubled consciousness. It now began to widen, and as the distribution of light quickened he gripped his hands tightly on the blanket, remembering. Fixing his eyes on the ceiling he remembered the chandelier, his bedroom, the flowers, his sister. But between these things and the present moment he was aware of a great blank. Then slowly he realized that this blankness was the key to where he was.

He looked again at the faces of the men about him. Some were staring at the ceiling, some straight before them, out of the windows; a few were asleep. With an abrupt calmness of pity he saw them as the faces of men not responsible for themselves: the faces of the partially insane. For a moment or two this realization did not trouble him. He saw calmly, with detachment, that it did not affect him. He himself was not one of those silent staring creatures; he had no part in their strange immobility. He understood and was sorry for them, his heart no longer calm but crying unspeakably with pity.

Suddenly it was if he had stepped on a revolving trap. He seemed to take a step forward and was flung violently out of calmness into a pit of terror. He had a
sensation of being hit on the head. He struggled to save himself, and all at once was completely calm again. This new calmness remained for a moment unbroken. Then it was shattered by his own voice, shouting at him in his own brain. ‘You are one of them!' it shouted at him. ‘You are one of them! You are!
You are!
'

As the voice died, he lay very still. A voice calling in his mind? In answer he felt fear slowly begin to creep back to him: not merely his former, shadowy fear of death, but the very cold, terrible fear of truth.

He lay for a long time trying to reason things out. He found memory very difficult, but finally he had an idea. As it came to him he looked slowly round the room. The figures of the men, staring and wooden, had not moved. Cautiously he moved his legs under the blanket, bending his knees. At either end of the room were double glass doors, beyond which he could see a corridor. He watched this corridor during some moments for a sign of life, but nothing happened. He was thinking with peculiar clearness now.

Suddenly he leapt out of bed, flung himself bodily at the swing doors at the nearer end of the room, and rushed down the corridor. He heard behind him an abrupt murmur of voices, which the closing of the swing doors cut off again. For a short space he was
alone in the corridor, running along the grey stone floors in his bare feet. Then he heard other feet running behind him. They were feet with heavy boots on them. They ran fast, catching up with him. He turned to look, involuntarily holding up his hands. The feet with boots belonged to a man in a brown uniform. The man rushed at him and locked his arms behind his back. The little jeweller began to struggle. He felt himself possessed suddenly by a colossal strength. He began shouting. The attendant put one of his hands over his mouth, bruising his lips. The little jeweller swung one arm free and then the attendant began to hit him, striking him again on the face and the body. He continued to fight violently and the attendant continued to hit him, until at last he gave up the struggle.

‘Come on,' the attendant said. ‘Back you go. They all try this trick once, but you'll learn better. Come on. Back again.'

It was almost two hours later when he opened his eyes to see two figures, a doctor and a nurse, standing over him.

‘Where am I?' he said. ‘Where is this?'

The doctor did not answer the question. ‘You're all right now?' he said. ‘Better?'

‘I want to go home, please.'

‘In time.'

‘I want to know who brought me here? Please who brought me here? A lady?'

‘Your sister.'

‘I want to see my doctor,' he said. ‘My own doctor. You know him – Doctor – Doctor – ' he tried to make a great effort of memory, ‘Doctor – '

‘It's all right. I'm your doctor.'

‘I want Edward,' he said. He suddenly felt an intense revulsion of feeling against his sister. ‘Why did she do this?' he said, raising his voice. ‘Why did she do it? She'd no right! I never did anyone any harm! I never did anything.' He clenched his hands. ‘Damn her! Damn her!'

‘Please,' the doctor said.

‘She wants my money!' he shouted. ‘Damn her!'

‘Listen,' the doctor said. ‘Quietly. Your sister is paying to keep you here. She is struggling to pay as best she can. Don't misjudge her. How can she have your money if it's safe in the bank?' The doctor spoke with heavy kindness, as if in reality the little jeweller had no money and was under an immense delusion. ‘Now how can she?'

‘She gets it if I die!' he said. ‘There's no one else. She gets it if I die!'

‘I know,' the doctor said. ‘But you're not going to die.' He held clean light fingers on the little jeweller's pulse. ‘You've been getting excited. You mustn't do
that. If you want us to help you, you must help us. Couldn't you manage some sleep again?'

‘I want to go home,' the little jeweller said. ‘Please, I want to go home.'

The doctor walked away, passing like a white ghost out of the swing doors. Seeing him go, the little jeweller lay back on his pillows, determined for one moment to be quite calm. The nurse remained about his bed, tucking in his blankets. He looked at her face, quite young, alive and soft, and it seemed to him suddenly the most human thing he had seen since waking in the grey, impersonal room.

‘Nurse,' he said. He held himself rigid under the blankets, more than ever determined to be quite calm.

‘Yes,' she said, ‘yes?'

‘Nurse,' he said, ‘Nurse.' He was speaking with great earnestness, in a whisper, unaware that his eyes were glancing rapidly to and fro about the room, for fear of listeners. ‘Nurse, I've got money,' he said. ‘Plenty of money. Two or three thousand. See? Plenty.' He spoke in a whisper of desperation. ‘If you'll help me get away I'll see that you get something. A cheque for fifty pounds. More than that.' He stared at her with terrible earnestness, almost wildly. ‘You can come to my shop and pick yourself a little jewellery. Anything. You see? You see?'

For a moment there was no response in her face
except a remote smile. Then she spoke. ‘Jewellery Well, that's nice,' she said. ‘Jewellery?'

He wanted to speak again, but he could not. He looked instead at her eyes, which contained no hint of understanding. They were regarding him instead with a kind of impersonal pity.

He knew then what she was thinking. He lay back and closed his eyes in order to shut her out, and when he opened them again she was gone. On the walls and the blanket and on the scarred ceiling the grey light was growing greyer now with the dying of the afternoon.