Disembarked, they began to trail along to the right across the grass and into the woodland that lay between the lake and the main road and which was bordered at the far end by the high Abbey wall as it curved back at right angles from the waterside. Dora, partly as it seemed to tease Paul, began to monopolize Peter Topglass, and was asking him questions about the birds. She was astonished at the variety of creatures which could be seen on even the most casual stroll about the estate. She felt the slightly scandalized surprise of the true town-dweller that all these beasts should be here, displaying themselves, quite free, and getting on with their own lives perfectly unmindful of human patronage and protection. She had been much upset that morning, on the little walk with Paul, to see a magpie flying off from the lake with a frog in its beak.
‘Do you think the frog knew what was happening? Do you think animals suffer as we do?’
‘Who can say?’ said Peter. ‘But for myself I believe with Shakespeare that “the poor beetle that we tread upon in corporal sufferance feels a pang as great as when a giant dies”.’
‘Why can’t the animals all be good to each other and live at peace?’ said Dora, twirling the parasol.
‘Why can’t human beings?’ said Michael to Toby, who was walking beside him.
The other three were drawing ahead. Peter swung along light-heartedly, the sun glinting on his spectacles, his field-glasses and camera bumping on his back, setting now a more vigorous pace. His bald spot was shining, burnt to a glowing red. Looking at him affectionately Michael marvelled at his detachment, his absorption in his beloved studies, his absence of competitive vanity. He lacked that dimension of the spirit which made James formidable as well as endearing; but he was a person who, like Chaucer’s gentle knight, was remarkable for harming no one.
They had now entered the wood. Dora kept step with Peter, and the two of them occupied the narrow path, while Paul, who insisted on holding onto Dora’s arm, had to stumble along in the undergrowth, falling over brambles and tufts of grass.
Toby, now quite at his ease, and obviously very happy, kept up a desultory chatter, stopping every now and then and dropping behind to inspect wild flowers, investigate fugitive rustlings, or peer into mysterious bolt-holes in the earth. Michael paced along evenly, feeling pleasantly older and protective and unusually cheerful. He wondered if anything would come of his having lodged Toby with Nick. The idea had seemed to Michael when he first had it, which was before he had met Toby, a brilliant conjecture. Toby was in fact the only person available; and Nick had been alone quite long enough. But apart from that, Michael had felt that the presence of a younger person might constitute a sort of challenge to Nick, might stir him into some sort of participation. At worst, Toby could keep an eye on the black sheep, and perhaps his proximity would reduce the drinking which Michael had no doubt went on. It had to be admitted that James had been right; the present organization at Imber simply had no place for a sick man such as Nick. It was no one’s business to look after him. For himself, Michael felt that reminiscing with Nick was a self-indulgence he ought definitely to avoid. He recalled the way the Abbess had declined to hear the story of his life. No, he would have to rely here on Toby and Catherine. It did not seriously enter his head that Nick might do Toby any harm. Michael could not now see Nick, as James so dramatically saw him, as a destructive force. The designation ‘poor fish’ was after all nearer to being the truth. Nick’s vague dejected appearance, his watery eye, his comatose behaviour were not those of a tiger waiting to spring. Moreover, although not in any way warmed by the atmosphere of Imber, he had shown a due respect for the place, and Michael could not imagine that he would dare seriously to misbehave or to upset the boy by any grossness of speech or conduct. Nick was by now far too subdued for any such outbreak.
Since making the acquaintance of Toby, Michael had reviewed his thoughts on this subject. The fact was that Toby was exceptionally attractive. He watched him now as he bounded about near the path, running up to Michael and away again like an exuberant dog. His long limbs had still the sprawling awkwardness of youth, but there was something neat and clean in his whole demeanour which took away any suggestion of untidiness. Michael noticed the freshness of the pale blue open shirt which he was wearing; and reflected ruefully upon the filthiness of his own. He guessed that as an undergraduate the boy would be something of a dandy. Above the firm and now darker flesh of his neck the dark brown hair ended in a clear furry line, and similarly fringed his brow, carefully cut, and showing the finely rounded head. His cheeks and lips bulged ruddy with health. His eyes retained the shy searching look of a boy; he had not yet become the confident or self-assertive young man. He seemed electrical with unused energy and hope. Michael reflected how much less complex an entity he seemed at eighteen than Nick had seemed at fifteen. All the same, it must be admitted that he was charming. Michael’s mind reproduced with a vividness amounting to violence the image of the pale body of the boy naked beside the pool. How startling and in a way how utterly delightful that had been. At the time Michael had been upset to find how greatly the sudden vision had moved him. Now more gently he put the image aside. Perhaps he ought to insist on both Toby and Nick coming to live in the house; it was difficult to find a pretext for moving Toby alone. But somehow the idea of having Nick so near to him was not acceptable. He dismissed the problem for the moment and returned to his enjoyment of the evening.
A further scandal had arisen in the group ahead, to whose conversation Michael had been vaguely listening. Peter had been asking Dora whether she was going to paint any landscapes while she was at Imber: a question which she seemed to find surprising. It had evidently not occurred to her, or to Paul, Michael noted, that she might do any painting. After a few more exchanges about country life and the observation of nature it emerged that Dora had never heard the cuckoo. Peter found this almost inconceivable. ‘Surely, in the country, as a child?’ He seemed to imagine that all children naturally lived in the country.
‘I was never in the country as a child,’ said Dora, laughing. ‘We always took our holidays at Bognor Regis. I can’t remember much about my childhood actually, but I’m sure I never heard the cuckoo. I’ve heard cuckoo clocks, of course.’
Toby and Michael came up with them as, still disputing, they approached the grassy clearing where the traps were laid. Peter hushed them to silence. They came cautiously up to where the path opened out, and Peter went forward to survey his catch. He had laid three old-fashioned sparrow-traps, dome-shaped wire structures about three feet long and eighteen inches high, which stood upon the grass. Each trap was divided into two compartments. One end wall of the trap sloped gradually inward to a small opening fringed by projecting wires which led into the first compartment at ground level. A similar opening, wide at the near end and narrow at the far end, led a little above ground level into the second compartment, on the other side of which, in the farther wall of the trap, there was a small door to admit the trapper’s hand. It appeared at once that there were several small birds in each trap. There was a good deal of fluttering as Peter approached.
Michael had seen this operation performed many times, but it never failed to fill him with uneasy excitement. Once or twice, under Peter’s direction, he had even handled the birds; but it made him too alarmed, it too much moved him with distress and pity, to hold in his hand those exceedingly light, exceedingly soft and frail bodies, and feel the quick terrified heart-beat. The only exhilarating moment was releasing the bird. But Michael was too much afraid that one might die in his hand, as they sometimes did if one held them too tight; and Peter reluctantly let him off any further lessons.
Peter came back and motioned his companions forward. ‘Come and look,’ he said, ‘only don’t come too near. There’s one splendid catch. The little goldcrest in that cage. See him, the little fellow with the red and yellow streak on his head. The rest are sparrows and tits, I’m afraid. And one nuthatch in the far one.’
The birds were inspected while
Peter photographed the goldcrest through the netting.
‘Why ever do they go in?’ Dora wondered.
‘For food,’ said Peter. ‘I lay down a little bread and nuts as bait. Then they try to get out by flying what seems the easier way into the second compartment, and then its still harder for them to escape. Some birds will even enter an unbaited trap out of sheer curiosity. ’
‘Again, like human beings,’ said Michael.
‘I won’t bother with the tits and sparrows this time,’ said Peter. He lifted up one of the cages from the ground and in a quick flurry the birds rose with the wire and darted away. ‘I’ll ring the nuthatch and the goldcrest. Perhaps, Michael, you wouldn’t mind photographing the goldcrest while I’m holding him.’
Michael took the camera. Peter knelt down and opened the door at the end of the cage and put his hand in. The birds in the small compartment began to flutter madly. Peter’s brown hand seemed very large beside them. Fingers spread wide he cornered the little bird. His hand gently closed, folding its wildly agitated wings to its body and drawing it out. The small gold striped head appeared between Peter’s first and second fingers. Dora gave an exclamation of alarm, excitement, and distress. Michael knew how she felt. He got the camera ready. Peter took the light metal band from his pocket, so small that a magnifying glass would be needed to read its legend. He juggled the bird carefully in his hand until one tiny scaly leg and claw appeared between his fourth and little fingers. Then with his left hand he bent the flexible band around the bird’s leg, and lifting it up to his mouth closed the band deftly with his teeth. At the sight of Peter’s strong teeth closing so near to that tiny twig of a leg, Dora could bear it no longer and turned away. Michael took two photographs. Peter rapidly tossed the bird into the air and it vanished into the wood, bearing with it forever after to all whom it might concern the information that on that particular Saturday it had been at Imber. Peter then ringed the nuthatch and released the other birds. Dora was full of wonderment and distress and Paul was laughing at her. Michael looked at Toby. His eyes were wide and his lips moist and red where he had been biting them. Michael now laughed at Toby. It was extraordinary how affecting the whole business was.
While they examined the traps at closer quarters, turning them on their backs, Peter wandered away into the wood. Under the trees the light was fading faster, and great clouds of midges drifted about the clearing. Dora was waving her parasol and complaining of being bitten in spite of the citronella. Then a moment later everyone was electrified to hear clearly and unmistakably at quite close quarters the call of a cuckoo. They straightened up and looked at each other - and then burst out laughing. Peter was called back.
‘Oh dear!’ cried Dora. ‘I thought it really was one. What a shame!’
‘I’m afraid the real cuckoo is in Africa by now, wise bird,’ said Peter. He showed Dora the little instrument he used to make the sound. Then he took from his pocket other toys made of wood and metal, and reproduced in turn the song of the skylark, the curlew, the willow warbler, the turtle dove, and the nightingale. Dora was enchanted. She demanded to see and to try, seizing the small objects from Peter with little cries and self-conscious feminine twittering. Michael observing her thought she epitomized everything he didn’t care for about women; but he thought this with detachment, liking her all the same, and feeling too good-tempered at present to feel distaste for anyone.
‘It’s as good as the real thing!’ cried Dora.
‘Nothing’s as good as the real thing,’ said Peter. ‘It’s odd that even a perfect imitation, as soon as you know it’s an imitation, gives much less pleasure. I remember Kant says how disappointed your guests are when they discover that the after-dinner nightingale is a small boy posted in the grove.’
‘A case of the natural attractiveness of truth,’ said Michael.
‘You’re full of pious remarks today, isn’t he?’ said Peter. ‘You must be practising for your sermon tomorrow.’
‘It’s James tomorrow, thank heavens,’ said Michael. ‘I’m next week.’
‘I think the moral is don’t be found out. Don’t you agree, Toby?’ said Peter, laughing.
They began to walk back. Paul asked Peter if he would mind taking a photograph of Dora. Peter was delighted, and finding an opening in the trees began elaborately to pose her sitting on a mossy stone and fingering a flower.
‘Paul doesn’t realize what he’s in for!’ said Michael to Toby. ‘When Peter gets hold of a human subject he’s at it for hours. It’s a revenge for the frustrations the birds are always making him suffer!’
Michael and Toby walked on together. From behind them they could hear the laughter of the other three and Dora’s voice protesting. Paul seemed quite restored to good humour now. Michael felt suddenly very happy. He felt as if he had gathered all these people benignly about him and as if he were in some way responsible for the beautiful evening, for the gaiety and innocence of it all. He found the word ‘innocence’ coming naturally to his mind, and did not pause to ponder over it. How rarely now he had this sense of being, in the company of other people, at leisure and at ease. His thoughts then turned to Nick: but the sadness that followed seemed purged and sweet even, unable to break the spell of his present mood. He was glad to be walking along with Toby, talking idly and intermittently about nothing in particular. He felt on holiday.
‘There’s an avenue in these woods,’ said Michael, ‘a bit farther on from where we were, where you see nightjars sometimes. Ever seen a nightjar?’
‘No, I’d love to!’ said Toby. ‘Could you show me?’
‘Surely,’ said Michael. ‘Some evening next week we’ll go along. They’re very strange birds, hardly like birds at all. They make one believe in witches.’
They came quite suddenly out of the wood onto the wide expanse of grass near the drive. The great scene, the familiar scene, was there again before them, lit by a very yellow and almost vanished sun, the sky fading to a greenish blue. From here they looked a little down upon the lake and could see, intensely tinted and very still, the reflection in it of the farther slope and the house, clear and pearly grey in the revealing light, its detail sharply defined, starting into nearness. Beyond it on the pastureland, against a pallid line at the horizon, the trees took the declining sun, and one oak tree, its leaves already turning yellow, seemed to be on fire.
They both stopped, taking a deep breath, and looked in silence, enjoying the great space and the warm expanse of air and colour. Then from across the lake came sharply and delicately the voices of the madrigal singers. The voices plied and wove, supporting and answering each other in the enchanting and slightly absurd precision of the madrigal. Most clearly heard was Catherine’s thin triumphant soprano, retaining and re-asserting the melody. It was too far away to catch the words, but Michael knew them well.The silver swan that living had no note,
When death approached unlocked her silent throat.
Leaning her breast against the reedy shore
She sang her first and last, and sang no more.
The song came to an end. Toby and Michael smiled at each other and began to walk slowly toward the ferry. It was too magical a time for hurrying. Then as they neared the lake another sound was heard. Michael could not at first think what it was; then he recognized it as the rising crescendo of a jet engine. From a tiny mutter the noise rose in an instant to a great tearing roar that ripped the heavens apart. They looked up. Gleaming like angels four jet planes had appeared and roared from nowhere to the zenith of the sky above Imber. They were flying in formation, and at this point still perfectly together turned suddenly upward and climbed in line quite vertically into the sky, turned with an almost leisurely movement onto their backs and roared down again, looping the loop with such precision that they seemed to be tied together by invisible wires. Then they began to climb again, standing upon their tails, absolutely straight up above the watchers’ heads. Still roaring together they reached a distant peak and then peeled off like a flower,
each one to a different point of the compass. In another second they had gone, leaving behind their four trails of silver vapour and a shattering subsiding roar. Then there was complete silence. It had all happened very quickly.
Michael found himself open-mouthed, head back and heart thumping. The noise and speed and beauty of the things had made him for a moment almost unconscious. Toby looked at him, equally dazed and excited. Michael looked down and found that he had fastened both his hands onto the boy’s bare arm. Laughing they drew apart.
CHAPTER 9
‘THE CHIEF REQUIREMENT OF THE good life’, said James Tayper Pace, ‘is to live without any image of oneself. I speak, dear brothers and sisters, as one who is most conscious of being remote from this condition.’ It was the next day, Sunday, and James was standing on the dais in the Long Room, one arm resting lightly on the music stand, delivering the weekly talk. He frowned nervously and swayed to and fro as he spoke, tilting the stand with him.
He went on. ‘The study of personality, indeed the whole conception of personality, is, as I see it, dangerous to goodness. We were told at school, at least I was told at school, to have ideals. This, it seems to me, is rot. Ideals are dreams. They come between us and reality - when what we need most is just precisely to see reality. And that is something outside us. Where perfection is, reality is. And where do we look for perfection? Not in some imaginary concoction out of our idea of our own character - but in something so external and so remote that we can get only now and then a distant hint of it.
‘Now you will say to me, dear James, you tell us to seek perfection and then you tell us it is so remote we can only guess at it - and where do we go from there? The fact is, God has not left us without guidance. How, otherwise, could our Lord have given us the high command “Be ye therefore perfect”? Matthew five forty-eight. We know in very simple ways, ways so simple that they seem dull to our subtle moral psychologists, what we ought to do and what avoid. Surely we know enough and more than enough rules to live by; and I confess I have very little time for the man who finds his life too complicated and special for the ordinary rules to fit. What are you up to, my friend, what are you hiding? I should say to that man: A belief in Original Sin should not lead us to probe the filth of our minds or regard ourselves as unique and interesting sinners. As sinners we are much the same and our sin is essentially something tedious, something to be shunned and not something to be investigated. We should rather work, as it were, from outside inwards. We should think of our actions and look to God and to His Law. We should consider not what delights us or what disgusts us, morally speaking, but what is enjoined and what is forbidden. And this we know, more than we are often ready to admit. We know it from God’s Word and from his Church with a certainty as great as our belief. Truthfulness is enjoined, the relief of suffering is enjoined; adultery is forbidden, sodomy is forbidden. And I feel that we ought to think quite simply of these matters, thus: truth is not glorious, it is just enjoined; sodomy is not disgusting, it is just forbidden. These are rules by which we should freely judge ourselves and others too. All else is vanity and self-deception and flattering of passion. Those who hesitate to judge others are usually those who fear to put themselves under judgement. We may remember here the words of Saint Paul - Michael will correct my Latin - iustus ex fide vivit. The good man lives by faith. Galatians three eleven. I think we are meant to take this remark quite literally. The good man does what seems right, what the rule enjoins, without considering the consequences, without calculation or prevarication, knowing that God will make all for the best. He does not amend the rules by the standards of this world. Even if he cannot see how things will work out, he acts, trusting in God. He does the best thing, breaking through the complexities of situations, and knows that God will make that best thing fruitful. But the man without faith calculates. He finds the world too complicated for the best thing, and he does the second best thing, thinking that this in time will bring forth the best. Ah, how few of us have the faith spoken of by Saint Paul!’