The very candles on the table seemed to shiver; Dorothea felt a pang of creaturely sympathy and horror, recalling in that instant the black engulfing wave not of madness but of the acquiescence to madness, to whim, accident, chance, fate, that had swept over her and threatened to drown her when Michel Deverell died.… I know now that God, as principle or presence, is sheerly madness, Dorothea had thought calmly.
In the silence that followed Ginny’s account, Agnes Carpenter said, in the vague surprised tone of one who, expecting to be bored, is not after all bored, “Yes, I remember that. That freak accident. The boy trying to rescue his parents from the submerged car. It was in all the papers. There were photographs. I remember.”
As if delivering a coup de grace Ginny said quietly, “But that isn’t all. There is more.”
A few minutes later Martin returned to the table, having left Colin Asch upstairs to shower and change, and hearing Ginny’s recitation of yet more tragedy, or wretched bad luck—following his parents’ deaths Colin had been sent to a boarding school for boys in New Hampshire, at which the headmaster was discovered to have “preyed” upon certain of his young charges, evidently including Colin—he said in a reproving voice, “Ginny, I really don’t think Colin would feel comfortable if he knew you were talking about him. He was quite anxious to leave, and I assured him it would be a quiet evening.”
“But he can’t hear us, he won’t know,” Ginny said.
“The important thing is he’s so much better now,” Martin said, “compared to the last time we saw him. We wouldn’t want to upset him.”
As if Martin had merely confirmed her point, Ginny said passionately, “That’s the courageous part of it. The noble part. How the boy has been in and out of hospitals half his life, not exactly mental hospitals, please don’t misunderstand me, but clinics of one kind or another, being treated for depression and anorexia and God knows what all else. After the scandal at the boarding school—the headmaster committed suicide, in fact—Colin had a breakdown and couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, refused to talk or respond to anyone, even had to be fed intravenously for a while, against his will. Then he recovered, to a degree, and was sent off to live with relatives in Baltimore, but that didn’t work out for some reason, so he went back to another boarding school. Over the years most of the family has chipped in to help, and there was some insurance, of course, from his parents’ deaths, and even a lawsuit some of the boys’ parents brought against the school in New Hampshire—what is the name of that place, Martin?”
“Monmouth Academy,” Martin said reluctantly, “but I really don’t think you—”
“—which the school settled out of court, and all of this helped the financial problem somewhat, but only somewhat. Fortunately Colin is so bright and quick and serious about his studies, at least initially, he has managed to win several scholarships since graduating from high school—if in fact he ever did graduate from high school; I’m not sure on that point.” Ginny paused breathlessly, glancing again toward the upstairs. There was no sound, no evidence of movement; Dorothea had a sudden surrealist vision of the fated boy, having overheard his aunt’s somehow too animated voice, deciding on the spur of the moment to take revenge against her by slashing his throat in her bathroom. “But he has done well in recent years. I mean, fairly well. His life is a bit mysterious actually. He had a scholarship to the Rhode Island School of Design, and then he disappeared and turned up in New Mexico living with a colony of artists, and then he was backpacking through Europe and no one knew his whereabouts for months, and then—do you remember, Martin?—we ran into him, almost literally ran into him, in San Francisco, when we were out there for a convention of yours. He seemed to be alone, and he said he had a job as a salesman of some kind, door to door. He didn’t seem eager to spend much time with us.”
There was a pause. Hartley Evans asked, “Where does he live now?”
Ginny said, “That’s it—no one exactly knows! He was in Europe this past summer, Amsterdam and Heidelberg mainly; then he backpacked through Germany and Italy and wound up somehow in northern Africa; and then a few weeks ago he telephoned us saying he was going to be driving through Boston, but the evening we expected him he didn’t show up. Knowing Colin, we didn’t worry too much, but Martin did check with the police, and there was nothing, and he never called of course to explain, and now tonight: here he is. He’s such a sweet boy—you can see it in his eyes. And the tragedy of his young life—you can see that in his eyes. I wish there were more he would allow Martin and me to do, to help. But he has his pride too. He’s twenty-seven years old, a grown man. He has his pride.”
Martin said jovially, “Now, dear, I think that’s enough.”
Dorothea had listened intently to Ginny’s account, wondering why she was so strangely moved. She recalled the philosopher’s cryptic observation: Terrible experiences give one cause to speculate whether the one who experiences them may not be something terrible. She could not remember the name of the philosopher but knew he must be German.
When Colin returned to the dining room and was again rapidly introduced to the Weidmanns’ guests, he had so radically altered his appearance—having showered, shaved, combed his damp pale hair back from his forehead, put on a fresh white shirt and a navy-knit tie of Martin’s—Dorothea did not think she would have recognized him. Though exceedingly self-conscious, a bit embarrassed, even sullen, about the mouth, he managed to take his place at the head of the table, beside his beaming aunt, and he managed to smile—even, shyly, to laugh—as he began to eat. (He was clearly hungry, yet picked about in his food like a fastidious child.) Dorothea saw that his eyes moved quickly and ceaselessly from one guest to another, one face to another; she imagined that for a beat or two he lingered at her own, frankly stared, and then moved on. He knows we have been talking about him, Dorothea thought uneasily. He had gone mad, in those minutes. His mind had simply shattered.
But he was hardly mad now: edgy and self-conscious but subdued; in his uncle’s clothes, several sizes too big for him, he looked mysteriously chastised. He was a handsome young man, very nearly a beautiful young man, Dorothea thought, with his long Roman nose, waxy pale at the tip, and his well-shaped mouth, like something sculpted in stone. Indeed, there was something lapidary about him, particularly in profile; of whom or of what was Dorothea reminded, by his profile? Had he lived to be born, my own son might be sitting in that place, Dorothea thought. It was a wholly senseless thought which she discounted and forgot at once.
With unsteady fingers she reached for her wineglass and saw to her surprise that it was empty.
The subject of Germany was raised (presumably because Colin Asch had recently been there?), and the men at the table, and Hartley Evans, were discussing it: the political phenomenon of the “two Germanys,” the division of East and West (“like warring twins,” Charles thoughtfully said), the primitive or mystical belief in a special destiny for that nation—or for any other nation, in fact. Martin asked Colin’s opinion, and there was an awkward pause during which it appeared that Colin might not have been listening; then he glanced up, shifted his shoulders like a recalcitrant schoolboy, and gave, in a rapid murmured voice, a most remarkable little précis—succinct, pointed, intelligent. So far as he knew, he said, from talking with people his age, particularly in Heidelberg where he’d studied for a while, the younger generation did not think in such outdated mythic terms at all: for them, East Germany and West Germany were two quite separate nations, and the fact that they would never be united did not trouble them, or deeply engage them, in the least. “They are more concerned with ecological matters,” he said. “They are concerned with American and Soviet missiles.” He paused. His mouth worked oddly. “The future. Not the past.”
“Oh, but I find that so hard to believe, knowing what we do of the Teutonic character,” Hartley Evans said, pursing her glossy scarlet lips and frowning pedantically. Wine and rich food and the excitement of an attractive young man at the table—more obvio
usly attractive, in any case, than David Schmidt, the broker’s assistant, to whom Ginny had pointedly introduced her—had enlivened the young woman, loosened her, brought even more color into her cheeks. She was one of those women who perceive of social intercourse in such circumstances as a near variant of the sexual, requiring some of the same feints, jousts, and rejoinders. But Colin Asch did no more than glance at her, and mumbled something inaudible, and stared down at his plate, fumbling his fork; and the subject was snatched up, like a football, by David Schmidt, who had spent six weeks in Munich recently and who knew a good deal about “the Federal Republic—and the other” and was not shy about informing his listeners of what he knew.
For everyone excepting Colin Asch the salad course was now over, and a delicious salad it had been, with several kinds of greens, including arugula—a favorite of Charles Carpenter’s which Dorothea never failed to serve him when he ate dinner at her home, as he sometimes, though infrequently and always surreptitiously, did—and indeed the subsequent course was cheese and fruit, pungent imported cheeses and luscious Concord grapes; though by now Dorothea’s appetite was quite quenched. She noticed that Colin Asch was eating oddly, even furtively, rather like a sick cat Dorothea had once owned—the poor creature, afflicted with what turned out to be pneumonitis, had been starving but had been unable to eat, repeatedly lowering her head to her food and then looking up helplessly at Dorothea. The sight had filled Dorothea with a terrible anxiety, for what could be done? So too did Colin Asch bring his fork to his mouth, then lower it; raise it again and take a small quick bite, chewing with an expression of scarcely concealed distaste.
Sharp-eyed Ginny Weidmann, just returning to the table from the kitchen, cried, “Colin, is something wrong? You aren’t eating.”
Colin shook his head and mumbled no, nothing was wrong.
“The meat? The lamb?” Ginny asked, as if something crucial were at stake. “Can’t you eat it?”
Again Colin replied in a mumble, lowering his head. A panicky expression crossed his face.
“But you seem to have eaten some of the vegetables, haven’t you?” Ginny persisted. “Oh, dear, are you a vegetarian? Colin? Is that it?”
Colin shifted his narrow shoulders in a paroxysm of embarrassment or annoyance, meaning possibly yes, possibly no; meaning, Leave me alone. But Ginny Weidmann would not let him off so easily. He was hungry, she said; he must eat. He was alarmingly thin. So Tula was charged with taking away his meat- and gravy-contaminated plate (though with a stiff sort of dignity Colin had not acquiesced to this) and bringing another, heaped with steaming vegetables in almost comical profusion. A harsh ruddy blush by now mottled the young man’s face, prominent as a birthmark. To draw attention away from him, so that he could, if he wished, eat, Dorothea threw out a remark on some cheerful neutral subject, which was taken up hopefully by Charles Carpenter, but unfortunately Agnes Carpenter was not to be deterred and asked of Colin Asch, in a voice both belligerent and coquettish, whether he belonged to a religious cult that forbade the eating of meat or whether not eating meat was—well, a quirk of his own?
This, Colin simply did not answer, not rudely, but as if he had not heard; and Agnes Carpenter asked her question again, louder, and added, “But do you eat eggs? Or cheese? Do you wear leather? I bet you’re wearing leather shoes! A leather belt! What I find so annoying about vegetarians is their self-righteousness; I mean, we don’t harangue them, why should they harangue us?” She appealed to the table, as if inviting complicity. “It’s like those people who do volunteer work with the homeless, feeding the homeless, that sort of thing, and make the rest of us feel guilty simply for existing.”
“Well,” Martin Weidmann said with an embarrassed laugh, as if summing up the subject, “these things are controversial, of course. Like abortion, or air pollution. But who would like more wine? Jerry? Dorothea? Your glass is empty.”
Agnes Carpenter persisted, looking at Colin Asch. “But do you belong to a cult? One of those exotic Indian religions, with the gurus who own Rolls-Royces? I hope not!”
Colin Asch, impassive, his face stony, said, with a patience that struck Dorothea as heroic, that, no, he did not belong to any cult, but he did belong to the Animal Rights League; and he was a vegetarian, but he didn’t make a habit of haranguing others to believe, or to behave, as he did. He added, mumbling, “As you would, if you knew.”
“‘Knew’?” Agnes Carpenter asked sharply. “What does that mean, ‘knew’?”
“That we are all sentient creatures. That, in our consciousness, we are one.”
“Including animals?”
“Yes. Including animals.”
“And what does the—whatever it is, that you belong to—”
“The Animal Rights League.”
“—and what is that? Do you campaign against laboratory experiments; do you break into zoos, that sort of thing?”
“Agnes, why don’t you let Colin eat his dinner?” Charles Carpenter said, suddenly exasperated.
“But I am simply asking. I’m sure he would like to tell us.”
“Our organization is based upon the premise that human beings are not superior to animals,” Colin said, beginning to speak agitatedly, “but that human beings are animals. It is not a pejorative term, ‘animal,’ but a simple description of biological reality. Animals have personalities, animals have emotions and beliefs, and some animals have languages—”
“Does a sponge have ‘personality’?” Agnes interrupted.
And David Schmidt, meaning to be amusing, said, in an undertone, “A spider? A slug? What about bacteria?” Hartley Evans giggled. Jerome Gallagher laughed.
No one meant to be cruel, but the effect upon Colin Asch was to silence him, in mid-sentence. He laid down his fork—dropped it, really—and made a gesture of pushing his plate away from him. His mouth was working as if words churned inside, unable to break free. Though Martin Weidmann was saying loudly, affably, in the voice of a well-practiced host, that no one need defend himself and no one need take offense, Colin pushed his chair back from the table, and stood, and said in a quavering voice, “Homo sapiens is not the only species on earth. Homo sapiens has the power to destroy many of the other species and to destroy itself, but it is not the only species on earth, nor is it above and beyond and superior to creation, as you would know if you looked within yourself, if you made an attempt to transcend your vile human selfishness—”
“Colin, dear,” Ginny cried, “do sit down! Please!”
With a strange tight smile Colin said, “The suffering of animals is no less because it lacks a language. Like the suffering of infants.”
There was a pause. Agnes Carpenter, startled, relenting, murmured something conciliatory; Martin repeated that no one should take offense; Ginny, roused to maternal solicitude, pleaded with Colin Asch to sit down and to finish his meal. There was salad to come, she said pleadingly, and dessert; surely he wanted dessert? Pecan pie with whipped cream? “We understand about the animals, Colin, really we do,” she said. “Animals do have personalities, dogs and cats certainly do, and horses; they’re quite strong-willed really, we all know that. Won’t you sit down, dear? We promise you can eat your meal in peace.”
“Do you!” Colin Asch said angrily.
The atmosphere was highly charged; everyone was looking at everyone else in alarm. What had happened? And why? In the silence Dorothea spoke, in a peculiar slow voice, as if the words were being coaxed from her against her will, “But animals too eat one another. We, I mean—since we are animals. It is something of which we should be ashamed, but even shame is not enough to defeat hunger.”
Colin Asch looked at her steadily, stared at her. His lips had gone white, like a wound from which blood has drained. After a long moment he said, simply, “Yes. You are right.” Yet he continued to stare at Dorothea for another beat or two, while the others shifted uneasily in their seats.
In the end Colin Asch allowed his aunt to coerce him into resuming his meal; t
rue to her word, she saw to it that he completed it in peace. He said nothing further. He did not so much as glance again at Dorothea. Then he excused himself, and went away upstairs, and was gone. And by midnight Dorothea Deverell was safely home, by a quarter past midnight she was soaking in her bath (for going immediately to bed, tonight, would have been unthinkable), giddy with exhaustion yet queerly exhilarated, stirred. Why had she said the strange words she’d said to Ginny’s great-nephew? And why had he looked at her so intently, his eyes narrowed and damp, the skin about them appearing bruised? Saying good night in the Weidmanns’ foyer, Charles Carpenter had pressed Dorothea’s hand hard; and he too had looked at her intently, with a flattering sort of interest, his warm gaze one of tenderness and affection, yet mute. Why could he not speak except in pleasantries? Banalities? She supposed he would telephone in the morning as he frequently did, and she supposed she knew of what their conversation would consist. I love you, you know. Yes—and I love you. He would want to know more about hateful Roger Krauss and the “campaign” against Dorothea, and Dorothea, wincing, would assure him it was nothing, really; nothing at all, really; had not Mr. Morland virtually assured Dorothea his position when he stepped down …?
(But perhaps I will bring a lawsuit against the Institute after all, Dorothea thought, amused. As my lawyer friend Mr. Gallagher has suggested. For why not? What’s to be lost? My precious “femininity”?)
Soaking in her bath, belatedly a little drunk, Dorothea breathed in the warm fragrant steam that smelled like narcissi; she imagined she could hear the telephone ringing in the next room but of course that could not be. Charles would never call her this late; that wasn’t in his character.
When was the last time they’d made love, like real lovers? Weeks ago. Back in September. In Dorothea’s chaste white wicker bed, enclosed by Dorothea’s chaste Laura Ashley floral wallpaper. I love you, you know. Ah, yes!—and I love you. They had not spoken of marrying for some time, not even to advise each other solemnly against it. They had not spoken of Agnes Carpenter for some time except in the most general of terms.