Pilgrim
Timothy Findley
In memory of
Michael Tippett
Not only a child of our time,
but of all time.
And for
Meirion Bowen
who made the journey with him.
Here is no final grieving, but an abiding hope.
Michael Tippett
A Child of Our Time, 1944
Our story…is much older than its years, its dated-ness is not to be measured in days, nor the burden of age weighing upon it to be counted by orbits around the sun; in a word, it does not actually owe its pastness to time.
Thomas Mann,
foreword to The Magic Mountain, 1924
There is no light at the end of the tunnel,
only a pack of matches handed down
from one generation to the next.
Humanity does not have a long fuse
and this generation holds the last match.
JonArno Lawson,
Bad News, in The Noon Whistle, 1996
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Epigraph
PROLOGUE
BOOK ONE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
BOOK TWO
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
BOOK THREE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
BOOK FOUR
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
BOOK FIVE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
BOOK SIX
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Also By Timothy Findley
Praise for PILGRIM
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
In the early morning hours of Wednesday, the 17th of April, 1912, a man called Pilgrim walked barefooted into the garden of his home in London at number 18 Cheyne Walk. He was dressed much the same as any man of his station might have been at this hour: white pyjamas and a blue silk robe. Royal blue, deep pockets, rolled collar. His unslippered feet were cold. Not that it mattered. In minutes, nothing would matter.
The grass was thick with dew, and seeing it—even in the meagre spill of light from the house—Pilgrim muttered green as if the word had only just occurred to him.
A dog barked, possibly far away as the King’s Road. From the south, beyond the river, there was the sound of farm carts making their way to Covent Garden. Beside him, a dovecote hummed and fluttered in the dark.
A leaf fell.
Pilgrim made his way across the grass to a maple tree three storeys high, though its height could not be told in the dark. In one hand he carried the silken cord from his dressing-gown—in the other, a Sheraton chair of carefully measured dimensions. Just so tall—just so deep and just so wide.
In spite of his age, Pilgrim got up on the chair and climbed with the energy of someone who had spent his life in trees. He did not look down. There was nothing there he wanted to see.
He correctly knotted the cord and threw it over a substantial branch.
An owl passed. Its wings creaked. Otherwise, there was silence.
Pilgrim looked up at the stars and leapt.
It was 4:00 a.m.
The chair fell sideways.
The body was not discovered till dawn, more than three hours later. It was Pilgrim’s valet-butler—a man called Forster—who came into the garden and found him, cut him down and laid him out on the grass—the grass still cold and wet—after which he covered the body with a blanket brought from his own bed.
Only Doctor Greene was telephoned. The police were not informed. At all costs, dignity must be preserved.
While he waited for the physician’s arrival, Forster put on his overcoat, and bringing with him a coal-oil lamp, he returned the Sheraton chair to an upright position and, sitting on it, smoked a cigarette. He thought of nothing. The sun would rise. The doves and pigeons would be fed. The world would turn yet again towards the light. Any minute, Mrs Matheson would start the kitchen fires.
Forster waited and watched. The body did not stir. Nothing. Not a murmur. Not a breath.
Pilgrim, at long last, had succeeded. Or so it seemed.
BOOK ONE
1
Inside the front doors of the Burghölzli Psychiatric Clinic in Zürich, a nurse named Dora Henkel and an orderly whose name was Kessler were waiting to greet a new patient and his companion. Their arrival had been delayed by a heavy fall of snow.
To Kessler it seemed that two wind-blown angels had tumbled down from heaven and were moving towards the steps. The figures of these angels now stood in momentary disorientation, reaching out with helpless arms towards one another through windy clouds of snow, veils, shawls and scarves that altogether gave the appearance of large unfolded wings.
At last they caught hold of one another’s hands and the female angel led the male, whose height was quite alarming, beneath the portico and up the steps. Dora Henkel and Kessler moved to open the doors to the vestibule, only to be greeted by a gale of what seemed to be perfumed snow. It was nothing of the kind, of course, but it seemed so. The female angel—Sybil, Lady Quartermaine—had a well-known passion for scent. She would not have dreamt of calling it perfume. Flowers and spices are perfumed, she would say. Persons are scented.
For a moment, it seemed that her male companion might be blind. He stood in the vestibule staring blankly, still maintaining his angel image—six-foot-six of drooping shoulders, lifeless arms and wings that at last had folded. His scarves and high-necked overcoat, pleated and damp, were hanging draped on his attenuated body as if at any moment they might sigh and slip to the marble floor.
Lady Quartermaine was younger than expected—not by any means the dowager Marchioness she had seemed in her rigid demands and almost military orders, issued by cablegrams five and six times a day, to be delivered by Consulate lackeys. In the flesh, she could not have been more than forty—if that—and was possessed of a presence that radiated charm and beauty with every word and gesture. Dora Henkel instantly fell in love with her and, in some confusion, had to turn away because Lady Quartermaine’s beauty had made her blush. Turning back, she bobbed in the German fashion before she spoke.
“Most anxious we have been for your journey, Lady Quartermaine,” she said, and smiled—perhap
s with too much ingratiation.
Kessler moved towards the inner doors and pulled them open, stepping aside to let the new arrivals pass. He would call this day forevermore the day the angels fell. He, too, had been smitten by Lady Quartermaine and her romantic entry with a giant in her wake.
In the entrance hall, an efficient figure in a white coat came forward.
“I am Doctor Furtwängler, Lady Quartermaine. How do you do?”
She offered her hand, over which he bowed. Josef Furtwängler prided himself on his “bedside manner”—in all its connotations. His well-practised smile, while popular with his patients, was suspect amongst his colleagues.
Turning to the figure beside her, Lady Quarter-maine said: “Herr Doktor, ich will Ihnen meinen Freund Herrn Pilgrim vorstellen.”
Furtwängler saw the apprehension in his new patient’s eyes. “Perhaps, Lady Quartermaine,” he said, “for the sake of your friend, we should continue in English. You will find that most of us in the Burghölzli speak it fluently—including many of the patients.” He moved forward, smiling, with his hand extended. “Mister Pilgrim. Welcome.”
Pilgrim stared at the proffered hand and rejected it. He said nothing.
Lady Quartermaine explained.
“He is silent, Herr Doktor. Mute. This has been so ever since…he was found.”
“Indeed. It is not unusual.” The Doctor gave Pilgrim an even friendlier smile and said: “will you come into the reception room. There’s a fire, and we will have some coffee.”
Pilgrim glanced at Lady Quartermaine. She nodded and took his hand. “We would be delighted,” she said to Furtwängler. “A cup of good Swiss coffee is just what the doctor ordered.” She gave an amused shrug. “Which way do we go?”
“Please, come with me.”
Furtwängler flicked his fingers at Dora Henkel, who scurried off to the dining-room across the entrance hall to arrange the refreshments while Kessler stood by, trying his best not to look like a bodyguard.
Lady Quartermaine led Pilgrim forward. “All is well,” she told him. “All is well. We have safely arrived at our destination and soon you will rest.” She slipped her arm through his. “How very glad I am to be with you, my dear. How very glad I am I came.”
2
Pilgrim’s physician had been discreet. Greene had arrived roughly five hours after the event, reaching Cheyne Walk by cab at 8:45 a.m. Forster had led him directly to the garden where Greene had established that Pilgrim had stopped breathing and his heart was no longer beating.
He took more than usual care in this examination, having experienced a previous attempt at suicide which Pilgrim had failed. On that occasion, his patient had apparently managed to drown himself in the Serpentine. In spite, however, of its being midwinter and ice having formed on the surface of the water, Pilgrim had survived—even though, when he was found, all signs of life had disappeared. It had taken more than two hours of treatment and all of Greene’s expertise to bring him around. The physician could hardly credit his success, since Pilgrim had remained seemingly dead for so long.
Over time, Greene had come to acknowledge not only the suicidal tendencies of his patient, but equally to be aware of his extraordinary resilience—as if there were a force inside him that refused to die, no matter what opportunities Pilgrim offered.
Once another hour had passed since his arrival at Cheyne Walk, Doctor Greene pronounced Pilgrim technically dead and began the process of making out the certificate of death which his profession demanded of him. Nonetheless, he called in the services of a second physician to verify his findings. The second physician, whose name was Hammond, happened to be one of London’s foremost neurologists. The two men were well known to one another, having taken part together in a good number of autopsies performed on the corpses of suicides and murder victims.
When Doctor Hammond arrived, it was Mrs Matheson, the cook, who admitted him. She had been forced to assume “door duty” since Forster was otherwise engaged. By this time, Pilgrim’s body had been brought into the house and laid out on his bed.
Greene explained the circumstances and described his previous experience with Pilgrim, saying that he was nervous of declaring death without the confirmation of a colleague. After a brief examination of the body, Hammond agreed that Pilgrim was indeed dead. Dead, as he said to Greene, as any man can be.
Having said so, he added his signature to the death certificate.
One half-hour later, Pilgrim’s heart began to beat—and shortly thereafter, he started to breathe again.
This, then, was the man Sybil Quartermaine had brought to the Burghölzli Clinic—a determined suicide who, by all appearances, was unable to die.
Having travelled by train via Paris and Strasbourg, Pilgrim and his escorts had arrived in Zürich on a clouded, windy day with squalls of snow in the air. A silver Daimler and driver had been hired to meet them. Phoebe Peebles, who was Lady Quartermaine’s personal maid, and Forster, Pilgrim’s valet-butler, had ridden with their employers as far as the Clinic, and were then driven on to the Hôtel Baur au Lac—at that time, Zürich’s most prestigious haven for foreigners.
Forster and Phoebe Peebles were at a loss, riding alone in the silver Daimler, to know quite how to behave—beyond maintaining their personal dignity.
There they were, seated in the rear of Her Lady-ship’s motor car without the benefit of protocol. Had the hired chauffeur become their chauffeur? Or were they all servants together on a single level?
Forster assumed, as the senior employee, that he had precedence. A valet-butler is, after all, the head of whatever household he belongs to, so long as the master has not deliberately established someone above him. On the other hand, now deprived of Mister Pilgrim’s presence, Forster had to acknowledge that he was riding in Lady Quartermaine’s motor car, not Mister Pilgrim’s—and then what?
The chauffeur, being a hireling, was duty-bound only to the person who happened to be employing him at the moment—in this case, Lady Quartermaine. It was all very difficult. Forster wondered if money should be offered—in the way it would be offered to servants in a house one had been visiting with one’s master.
No, he decided. It was not his business. He would leave it all to Lady Quartermaine.
“Do you expect to end up along with Mister Pilgrim in the Clinic—taking care of him there?” Phoebe asked.
“I should think,” said Forster.
“I shouldn’t want a life in a place where people have mental disturbances,” said Phoebe. “Heaven knows what happens there. All them crazies…”
“They are not crazies,” said Forster. “They are ill. And their consignment to the Clinic is to make them well—same as if they had the consumption and went to Davos.”
Forster said this with overriding authority and Phoebe, never having heard of Davos, was suitably intimidated.
“I suppose so,” she said. “But, still…”
“You have journeyed thus far with Mister Pilgrim without complaint, Miss Peebles,” Forster said, rather pompously. “On the train, did you feel for one moment endangered by his behaviour?”
“No.”
“Then please consider that as your answer. I would happily follow him anywhere in order to continue my service to him.”
“Yes, Mister Forster.”
“Here we are, then. The Hôtel Baur au Lac.”
The Daimler, enshrouded in snow, had pulled to a stop beneath a wide and impressive portico. The chauffeur got out and opened the rear door nearest Phoebe.
“What do I do?” she said to Forster.
“Get down,” he told her. “Swing your legs to the right and get down.”
Phoebe meekly swung her feet to the ground and stood to one side. Forster followed and greeted the concierge who had come to meet them—along with two young men in uniform who offered the protection of umbrellas—which provided no protection at all, since the snow was blowing up from the ground on every side.
Forster said: “we are of La
dy Quartermaine’s party. I believe you are expecting us.”
“But of course, Mister Forster,” said the concierge, beaming. “If you will please follow me.”
As they turned towards the steps, Phoebe Peebles leaned closer to Forster and whispered: “crikey! He even knows who you are. I mean, he even knows your name!”
Forster removed his bowler hat and banged it against his thigh. “Of course he does,” he said. “It’s his job.”
3
Shortly after their coffee had been consumed—Pilgrim having been taken to his quarters—Lady Quarter-maine joined Doctor Furtwängler in his office.
“How long had you thought of staying?” he asked, once his guest was seated.
“Until you feel it is safe for me to leave,” she told him. “I don’t care how long it takes. I am his closest friend. He has no family. I wish to stay with him until he makes the turn towards recovery.”
“It may be some time, Lady Quartermaine. We can guarantee nothing here.”
“That’s not what matters. What matters is that he’s in the best of hands.”
Doctor Furtwängler was standing by one of three tall windows, and beyond him, Lady Quartermaine could see that what had seemed an everyday alpine fall of snow had in fact become a blizzard.
“Will your motor car return for you? If not, we can…”
“No, no. But thank you, it will come when I have called.”
Furtwängler sat down opposite Lady Quartermaine, the wide expanse of his desk between them. It was a pleasant, dark-beamed room with recessed windows and shelves of medical books and journals, leather chairs and sofa, brass lamps with green glass shades and flowered drapes with a Chinese motif—flowers intertwined with bamboo fronds, and distant vistas of smoky hills and misted trees.
Lady Quartermaine had shed her overcoat and could now be seen in a lamplit blue, high-waisted gown with a violet-coloured overlay of lace. Her eyes were a mixture of both these colours, though now, her pupils were so enlarged her eyes seemed almost entirely black. She was toying with her gloves, laid out in her lap like pets she might have brought to soothe her. The veils of her wide-brimmed hat had been drawn aside and rested against her hair, giving the appearance of smoke.