Famous Last Words (43 page)

outside the windows.

“The smell of that, to a cat, must be pure heaven,” said Stephens, drawing his handkerchief over his nose and walking away.

The town cats came through the trees and made a feast

of it and howled all night for more. But Hess was sickened by the stench and threw up several times. Major Oliver had to attend him in the morning.

Other tricks were played: female cats in heat let loose on the premises; mice uncaged in the bedroom; birds introduced by the score—but nothing was forthcoming. Stephens

and Baggot finally concluded, as Stephens put it—“this is

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just an ordinary man like you or I: an undeniable human being and not a cat at all.”

The game was up.

Or so it seemed.

In September of 1941, Hess was given a new attendant; a man who said his name was Hart.

Hart was introduced into the ranks of Latchmere’s warders with credentials of the highest order. He had been, so his papers stated, a psychiatric orderly for more than five years at Llangho Prison, a place filled to overflowing with the cream of Britain’s pathological cases including “The Mad Dog Killer of Tyne” and “Grendel of Botsford”.

Hart had subdued them all. Or so it was said.

Within a month, Hart had induced his ward to eat not only meat—but raw meat. Hess was also made to visit the knacker’s yard (on the premises) to watch the dismemberment of animal corpses, and to take his daily walk in the vicinity of

the incinerator, where he was told to stand for various lengths of time in the fumes and smoke because they would turn

his cold blood warm. And, finally, he was led on a chain (with the “collar” attached to his left wrist) deep into the woods, to a certain compound, and made to witness what

he was told was the slaughter of a pig. The pig, however, cried out something human just before it died and the word made a noise in Hess’ ear that was familiar, though he wasn’t sure why. This noise was “Hitler” but Hess could not for the life of him remember how to put the meaning of this noise into words of his own. It occurred to him, at this moment, that a gesture might express the meaning just as well so he raised his hand in the air and smiled at it.

And then Hess brought the hand down as hard as he could bring it—slicing with it, like a knife, at the side of Hart’s neck.

Hart was knocked to the ground—but got up smiling.

Hess struck out at Hart’s neck again, but this time Hart

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the next two years, he attempted suicide twice and by the autumn of 1943 he could not remember any human detail

from his past. He had become a complete amnesiac—and

would remain so, on and off, to the end of his days.

In the Eden Hotel von Ribbentrop read through the speech Paisley had drawn his attention to. Herbert Morrison, the British Minister for Home Security, speaking in the House of Commons, had said; “it doesn’t much matter any longer what kind of animal Hess may be; the main thing is that he is caged.”

von Ribbentrop smiled and set the paper aside.

Done.

Nauly: November, 1942

I had been seated in Diana’s orchard. Bird watching. The arrival of the motorcar rather annoyed me, since it made such a noise it drove away the only green woodpecker I had ever seen in my life.

I watched through my glasses, thinking only that some

bothersome local official had arrived to inform us of yet another regulation concerning the air raids that were increasing by the hour. Poor Diana, I was thinking. They have

come to tell her one more field has been destroyed by a fallen bomber or one more servant is required for the nightwatch or civil defence or whatever. The staff had already

been abysmally depleted; nothing left but the oldest of the parlour maids and the youngest of the gardeners and stable boys.

At first there was just this tiny motorcar on the drive. Its driver, for the moment, did not get out and it was impossible to see beyond the glare of the glass. I did see—watching

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through my glasses—that a boy called Roger came from beyond the manor, carrying a garden fork. He approached the

driver’s side of the motorcar and some sort of cursory conversation took place. Roger then went away to fetch (I presumed)

Diana.

But it was not Diana who returned. It was Niven, the stable boy. What was going on?

The door on the driver’s side of the motorcar opened.

Harry Reinhardt.

I only discovered I had risen because I bumped my head

on the branch of an apricot tree. This slapstick moment was unfortunate because the seconds lost in regaining my composure and my sight were apparently precious moments in

which some verbal message had been delivered to Niven.

And when I had fumbled—finally—their figures back into focus through the binoculars, Niven was nodding vigorously and speaking rapidly and Reinhardt was reaching inside his pocket, bringing out papers of some sort: notepapers—envelopes—or five-pound notes, I could not tell which, and

handed them to Niven.

Reinhardt climbed back into the motorcar and drove away.

I followed the car until it was out of sight.

Niven was walking through the orchard, coming through

the tall grass in my direction.

This was a lad I knew. Niven had been born at Nauly. I

had always liked him, and had taken great pleasure in hearing him whistle away in the barns. If he saw me he never

failed to wave.

And here he was delivering a message from Harry Reinhardt.

“Well,”

I said to him, “what is it Niven?” fully expecting

to be handed an envelope or a sheet of paper.

“I’m to tell you Friday at the Savoy…”

“I beg your pardon.”

“I’m to tell you you’re to spend the next Friday in town and a room has been hired at the Savoy Hotel in your name and you’re to wait till the telephone rings. Mister Reinhardt said you’d understand, if I told you it had to do with…your first book.”

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Crowd Invisible.

How clever of Reinhardt to think of that. A description I might have coined to describe the Penelope cabal.

“Niven?”

“Yessir?”

I tried to smile.

“Do you like Mr. Reinhardt?”

Niven put both his hands in his pockets. “Well—I’ve known him so long,” he said. “I never really thought about whether I liked him or not… .”

My heart stopped.

“How long have you known him?”

“Since I was twelve, I guess. May I go now, sir? I have a calf just been born…”

“Yes do. And thank you.”

As he walked away the only thought that came was that

ever since my arrival at Nauly since Isabella’s death, for one reason or another, Harry Reinhardt had been keeping track of me through Niven.

All through my sojourn at Nauly I had been brooding—

thinking of everything I did not do and had not done. I did not save Isabella. I had not saved anyone. I did not reach out for Diana. I had not reached out for anyone. I did not write. I did not think. I did not read. And excepting those moments in which I wrote in my journals, I did not have any contact with myself. I was a cipher. Nothing. And since 1941, when my country (only my nominal country by then) went officially to war, I had not even known to whom I

belonged. I was like a person lost in drink, to whom the world is nothing but a place in which one wakes unhappily and from which one turns with stoppered ears and blinded eyes. I was useless—not to put too fine a point on it—to everyone. Even useless, so it appeared, to the Penelope cabal, whose only acknowledgement of my existence had been to

remind me that Harry Reinhardt was watching me and

wouldn’t let me “slip away”. I was even being called to London—and London was “real”. But the Mauberley who

M

through my glasses—that a boy called Roger came from beyond the manor, carrying a garden fork. He approached the

driver’s side of the motorcar and some sort of cursory conversation took place. Roger then went away to fetch (I presumed)

Diana.

But it was not Diana who returned. It was Niven, the stable boy. What was going on?

The door on the driver’s side of the motorcar opened.

Harry Reinhardt.

I only discovered I had risen because I bumped my head

on the branch of an apricot tree. This slapstick moment was unfortunate because the seconds lost in regaining my composure and my sight were apparently precious moments in

which some verbal message had been delivered to Niven.

And when I had fumbled—finally—their figures back into __ focus through the binoculars, Niven was nodding vigorously |, ^HIOI IIHII IIIIH^ and speaking rapidly and Reinhardt was reaching inside his pocket, bringing out papers of some sort: notepapers—envelopes—or five-pound notes, I could not tell which, and

handed them to Niven.

Reinhardt climbed back into the motorcar and drove away.

I followed the car until it was out of sight.

Niven was walking through the orchard, coming through

the tall grass in my direction.

This was a lad I knew. Niven had been born at Nauly. I

had always liked him, and had taken great pleasure in hearing him whistle away in the barns. If he saw me he never

failed to wave.

And here he was delivering a message from Harry Reinhardt.

“Well,”

I said to him, “what is it Niven?” fully expecting

to be handed an envelope or a sheet of paper.

“I’m to tell you Friday at the Savoy…”

“I beg your pardon.”

“I’m to tell you you’re to spend the next Friday in town and a room has been hired at the Savoy Hotel in your name and you’re to wait till the telephone rings. Mister Reinhardt said you’d understand, if I told you it had to do with…your first book.”

311

Crowd Invisible.

How clever of Reinhardt to think of that. A description I might have coined to describe the Penelope cabal.

“Niven?”

“Yessir?”

I tried to smile.

“Do you like Mr. Reinhardt?”

Niven put both his hands in his pockets. “Well—I’ve known him so long,” he said. “I never really thought about whether I liked him or not… .”

My heart stopped.

“How long have you known him?”

“Since I was twelve, I guess. May I go now, sir? I have a calf just been born…”

“Yes do. And thank you.”

As he walked away the only thought that came was that

ever since my arrival at Nauly since Isabella’s death, for one reason or another, Harry Reinhardt had been keeping track of me through Niven.

All through my sojourn at Nauly I had been brooding—

thinking of everything I did not do and had not done. I did not save Isabella. I had not saved anyone. I did not reach out for Diana. I had not reached out for anyone. I did not write. I did not think. I did not read. And excepting those moments in which I wrote in my journals, I did not have any contact with myself. I was a cipher. Nothing. And since 1941, when my country (only my nominal country by then) went officially to war, I had not even known to whom I

belonged. I was like a person lost in drink, to whom the world is nothing but a place in which one wakes unhappily and from which one turns with stoppered ears and blinded eyes. I was useless—not to put too fine a point on it—to everyone. Even useless, so it appeared, to the Penelope cabal, whose only acknowledgement of my existence had been to

remind me that Harry Reinhardt was watching me and

wouldn’t let me “slip away”. I was even being called to London—and London was “real”. But the Mauberley who

312

would go there didn’t think of himself as real at all. He was just a man who stood in orchards watching birds.

Very late that night I went outside and stood in the dark with my collar up and I thought: I could walk into Neddy’s pond, like Ezra’s crazy Chinese poet—embrace the moon

and be gone. I could put a stone in my pocket, as Virginia Woolf is supposed to have done—something large enough

to pull me down. Or I could go upstairs and lay my head on old Lord Wyndham’s pillow and simply breathe my last.

Death that simple—just stop breathing. And what would be the loss? I had done my best work. Maybe all my work. And lost my voice. My credence.

Dear God, I thought, the stars are dark and cold and far away. They give no light at all.

And if I were to do this, would it matter?

Well, yes. It would matter if all I did was drown myself.

If all I did was drown myself, I should only be slipping my body underneath an envelope of water. Sliding from sight without a sound. Whereas I had always promised myself:

before death—height.

And before height, surely some sense of climbing, even

if only from this pit.

Friday? The Savoy? Like some dreadful assignation with

a tart. If I only had the courage, I would go with a revolver.

Isabella, my work and me—I thought. I owe someone a lot of death.

December the 8th was a Tuesday. Six years even to the very day of the week since Neddy’s accident.

Late in the afternoon I went with Diana to the churchyard and she carried winter roses—the latest blooming roses I had ever seen at Nauly.

I stood back, removed as far as possible. Overhead there was a river of aircraft. German bombers. By daylight. It had come to this.

Diana set the roses down over Ned. And after a moment

she removed a few and set them down over her son Charles

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Augustus. Then she moved back, stared as one might look at a difficult painting, almost closing her eyes—with her head on one side.

I thought of all the laughter we had shared—even the

arguments—all the enjoyment of one another’s mind. And then I thought of Ned saying; “we won’t get beyond this awful moment if people like you give in.” And I was suddenly glad, in the presence of his death, that I was still alive and had rejected slipping under the cover of the pond he loved so well. What a desecration such a death would be.

Diana stooped above her son and rearranged his roses by his stone and came away quickly, looking up at the droning aeroplanes.