Читать книгу Growing Up In The West - John Muir - Страница 23

FIFTEEN

TO BE SEEN out walking in the company of a man with a physical infirmity makes one self-conscious, it may be even a little ashamed, as one is ashamed of an acquaintance who is shabbily dressed. But if the man should be your brother the matter touches you far more nearly, and you may actually have the feeling that there is something wrong with your own clothes. You take off your bowler hat with a puzzled and absent air and run your palm round it to make sure that the polish has not been tarnished; your stiff collar feels uncomfortable; and when anyone passes you stare carelessly ahead as if nothing were the matter and perhaps throw a casual remark to your companion, signifying by your unconcern that nothing is really the matter with him either, whatever appearances may say.

If your companion’s infirmity is one that makes it obviously unsafe for him to be out alone, your self-consciousness may become acute. You fancy that people are staring suspiciously at you. ‘Something wrong here,’ their eyes seem to be saying; ‘that poor fellow should be at home or in hospital.’ And when they see what pains he is taking to walk smartly, as though nothing were the matter, planting his heels on the ground with jerky regularity, and reminding one of nothing so much as a sergeant-major blind to the world dazedly upholding the dignity of the British Army, they look reproachfully at you as though you were wantonly making a public exhibition of this friend of yours, whoever he is.

But this is only at the beginning of your apprenticeship, and soon you discover that there are other people who glance at you with interest and sympathy, first at your companion and then at you, clearly thinking: ‘A good, kind-hearted young fellow, that.’ They are mostly men whose hair is turning grey; but women of all ages also notice you, and the eyes of the younger ones seem to be saying: ‘What a pity that that poor young fellow’s life should be wasted in looking after a helpless invalid!’ And if the girl is pretty, sometimes you sadly return her look, return it without the slightest danger that she will think you are trying to pick her up; for the society you are keeping now makes you immune, puts you indeed in what might almost be called a privileged position. So you can woo as many pretty eyes as you like without any risk of encountering either disdain or, what would be almost shocking, coy encouragement. Still, being a decent fellow, you sometimes feel a little ashamed of being the sole target of this battery of sweet glances, and would like to deflect some of them to your companion, who needs them far more than you do. Then you cannot help half turning towards him, feel tempted indeed to raise your hand and wave it in his direction, like a performer in the theatre wafting half the applause to his assistant, without whom he could do nothing. But your assistant never receives a single glance. Women are really a queer lot!

Yet this, you know all the time, is only on the surface; all this is unreal: the running fire of sweet glances no less than your rô le to which they are merely the response; the reproving stares of respectable citizens no less than the hang-dog air with which they immediately saddle you; for all the time it is your brother Tom who is spasmodically strutting there by your side, and all the time you are Mansie Manson. None of those people know that, none of them can ever know what that means; for it is a truth so simple and irreducible that if you were to try to explain it you could only repeat your original words again; a secret so securely sealed that even if you gathered all the people in the Queen’s Park together and proclaimed it publicly to them, they would be no wiser.

And so as Mansie Manson walked by his brother’s side in the warm summer evenings through the Queen’s Park or the recreation grounds, he could freely think of whatever came into his mind, respond to glances, put on an interesting or an unconcerned air; for that was all secondary and idle, so deeply was he aware the whole time that this was his brother Tom and that he himself was Mansie Manson. Even his shame at feeling ashamed of walking here in public with his brother was idle; it was a detached and objective response which did not really touch him; he felt it almost by an act of choice; and it seemed to him that if he cared to make a different choice he would not feel it at all. And the fact that he could quite calmly think of Helen too, and plan where he would take her next evening, was equally idle, seeing that in any case he had to occupy his mind with something. For Tom left him completely to himself, left him far more alone than he would have been unaccompanied; by his absorption in himself Tom seemed to be silently imploring him for heaven’s sake to discover something of his own to think about, it did not matter what. For all that Tom wanted was to escape notice, to ignore and be ignored, so that in peace he might listen to that internal ticking which reassured him so profoundly, and keep his eyes steadily fixed on the path a few steps in front of him, where lay, no nearer and no farther, the risk that he must avoid.

Yet there were bounds to this suspended freedom in which Mansie walked beside his brother, and they were reached when in musing over Helen he remembered with quickened pulses the savour of her kisses and the contact of her body. It was as though a peril had sprung up at his side, and he would glance quickly at Tom, terrified for a moment lest Tom had guessed his thoughts. And, his eyes still hypnotically fixed on Tom, on the left leg jerking out, hanging in the air for the fraction of a second and returning a little uncertainly to the ground, he would think, ‘There’s no turning back after this. We must get married when Tom is well again.’ It seemed in a sense their duty to Tom, an acknowledgment of the greatness of his misfortune. Yes, if they were to treat this business idly it would be a wanton insult to Tom. They were bound together now, and as soon as Tom was well again they would announce their engagement and get married. Of course while Tom was ill they could not even announce their engagement: Helen agreed with him there. But what if Tom were never to get quite well? What if his leg were to jerk like this for the rest of his life, or even for the next five years? They couldn’t postpone their marriage for ever! After all, it wasn’t as if Tom’s illness was their fault. The position was unfortunate, certainly; it was a problem. Well, there was no use in worrying about it at the moment. Tom would be all right again, no doubt, in a few months. Ridiculous notions that came into one’s head!

Yet the idea of marriage disturbed Mansie, and particularly since he had begun to suspect that Jean and Brand were thinking of it too. For being married to Jean would be no joke; she would take it in deadly earnest and she would make Brand take it in deadly earnest too; she would stick to him through thick and thin; ‘till death do us part’; it absolutely scared you. No, when you thought of Jean marrying, you saw that marriage wasn’t a bed of roses by any means; it was a very serious business, almost terrifying, like joining the army. And yet it attracted you in a queer way too: burning your boats. Well, if Helen and he did that, surely that would wipe off everything. Tom could have nothing to complain of, surely, after that.

Mansie had only one really uncomfortable moment during those promenades. As they were walking through the recreation park one evening, whom should they meet but Helen. When she saw them she started visibly and seemed to be looking round her for something to hide behind, and in her confusion she actually remained standing where she was. Mansie stopped too, equally at a loss, and mechanically raised his hat. A fine figure he cut, standing there with his hat in his hand! Yet what could a fellow do in the circumstances, but simply lift his hat? Then Helen abruptly walked on, and putting his hat back on his head again Mansie followed Tom, whose left leg he saw jerking busily in front of him. Mansie fell in by his side without speaking: an unfortunate business. Tom’s face was red, and all at once he exclaimed furiously as though nobody else were there: ‘The common bitch!’ And he brought down the point of his stick with a grinding crunch on the gravel of the path. The blood rose quite slowly into Mansie’s cheeks; he felt as he had done at school when he was reprimanded before the class, felt like a schoolboy who must patiently let his face grow redder and redder and look more and more foolish without being able to answer a single word. Yet he did not resent what Tom had said; on the contrary he felt on Tom’s side; there was a secret between them now from which Helen was shut out and with which she had no concern; and in any case what right had she to fling a fellow’s hair into the sea like that! He would never be able to tell her how Tom felt, of course. Would have to put her off with some story or other.

Tom made no further comment on the incident, and their evening walks continued undisturbed. Bob Ryrie sometimes joined them, and then Mansie walked along with a still greater feeling of detachment; it was as though Tom were completely taken off his hands, and anyone passing might have thought that Bob was the solicitous brother and Mansie merely a friend good-naturedly keeping him company. Of course Brand never volunteered his society; to bother about illness was beneath him, didn’t come within his scheme of things, hadn’t anything to do with Socialism; yes, to him Tom was just a chap that would never be of any use for the movement. Bob was far more of a Socialist at heart, though he couldn’t argue your head off like Brand. A queer fish to think of getting married to. It would be a dashed funny marriage. But if Bob couldn’t spout all sorts of theories, he could make Tom talk, and that took some doing. Tom liked his company, cheered up like anything when Bob appeared. Jean, of course, pretended not to notice, never even thanked the fellow; but Bob was never given the credit that he deserved. And walking along Mansie listened to Bob drawing Tom out, telling funny stories, or discussing last season’s football form; and for a little they were all happy.