The original cover
KRG Readers were lucky in the choice of the novel for the December reading by Thommo and Priya. Can a fifties novel still entertain and amuse us? To hear the chuckling and laughter at the Yacht Club Library during the reading of a dozen passages was to have the question answered resoundingly with a 'yes.'
Priya
The story goes that Amis was visiting his friend, the poet Philip Larkin, at Leicester University, when he passed by the common room of the faculty and imagined a story lurked there. When he wrote Lucky Jim it became a hilarious send-up about university life and the intrigues among the faculty. By exploiting the enormous material for comedy that lay hidden amidst the chicanery and incompetence within the university, Amis gave the world a novel whose mirth will last a long time.
Zakia, Priya, KumKum, Talitha, Thommo
(note on the table the Banana Raisin Cake which KumKum made)
(note on the table the Banana Raisin Cake which KumKum made)
Comparisons with P.G. Wodehouse arose naturally. The novel has many similarities: improbable situations, the build-up to a climactic accident in a chapter, polysyllabic humour, and people who are ridiculous foils for the comic anti-hero. Dixon marches doggedly through a sludge of difficulties that would damage irreparably the self-esteem of an Oxford don; and here he is, a mere lecturer at a provincial university.
Talitha, Zakia, KumKum, Priya, Thommo, Gopa, Mathew, Verghese, Joe
(the merriment had not subsided)
Imitations of various accents by Dixon are a source of much farce in the novel, and readers took on the challenge. Gopa even did a fine imitation of Dixon muddling through a madrigal by opening and closing his mouth, sans sound, in unison with the other singers.To read more, click below.
Lucky
Jim
Reading on Dec
2, 2011
Present:
Priya,
Talitha, KumKum, Zakia, Thommo, Gopa, Samuel, Sunil, Mathew, Joe
Absent:
Soma (no reason), Bobby (out of station), Sivaram (no reason)
Kingsley Amis
The next session is Poetry, on Jan 13, 2012. The next novel for reading is Tristram Shandy by Lawrence Sterne on Feb 10, 2012. The next novel selection is up to Bobby and Verghese – by Dec 15 please.
Talitha
mentioned a 'performing poet' whom she had met at the Hay festival in
TVM; the poet will be coming to Kochi and interested readers can meet her
at a performance to be arranged by Talitha, who will notify the readers
in the first week of Jan 2012.
Bobby
and Verghese will select the next novel for reading in April 2012.
The turns for novel selection will be as follows:
Bobby
& Verghese Samuel
Gopa
& Sivaram
Sunil
& Mathew Chakala
Talitha
Zakia
& Soma
Priya
& Thommo
Joe
& KumKum
and
then around again.
Talitha, Zakia, KumKum, Priya (showing the brilliant pallav of her sari), Thommo, Gopa, Mathew, Sunil, Verghese
Thommo
Thommo read the comic passage where the Head of the Dept. of History, Welch, is driving the junior lecturer, Dixon, to his home. Welch's driving down the narrow lanes and barely colliding with other vehicles provides the merriment. The recitation of the title of his precious paper is another spoof on academia's absorption in trifles: 'In considering this strangely neglected topic,' it began. This what neglected topic? This strangely what topic? This strangely neglected what? … 'oh yes; The Economic Influence of the Developments in Shipbuilding Techniques, 1450 to 1485.
Thommo read the comic passage where the Head of the Dept. of History, Welch, is driving the junior lecturer, Dixon, to his home. Welch's driving down the narrow lanes and barely colliding with other vehicles provides the merriment. The recitation of the title of his precious paper is another spoof on academia's absorption in trifles: 'In considering this strangely neglected topic,' it began. This what neglected topic? This strangely what topic? This strangely neglected what? … 'oh yes; The Economic Influence of the Developments in Shipbuilding Techniques, 1450 to 1485.
Dixon
reminded Thommo of Bertie Wooster and many of Wodehouse's techniques
for causing bedlam. What Wodehouse did for the aristocracy, Amis
seems to have accomplished for academia, said Thommo. Verghese said
it was the first of the genre now called 'the campus novel.' Joe said
campus novels usually focused a large part of the plot on the goings
on between students and professors, though here there is only one
small sub-theme, namely, Michie, the moustached ex-service student
who'd commanded a tank troop at Anzio and was keen on doing a special
topic course with Dixon.
Talitha
Talitha's piece about Dixon lighting a fire in the bedroom with his cigarette was leavened with hilarity, and many a snuffle of laughter rang out as she read, just as with Thommo's piece. There is a steady stream of bits of conversation in which little bomblets of the ridiculous lying buried just below the surface go off; but you must listen to someone reading to appreciate it. Priya confirmed that it was not until she read it aloud she got the full dose of Amis. The jams Dixon gets into are redolent of Bertie Wooster (said Thommo), but the style is different according to Talitha.
Talitha's piece about Dixon lighting a fire in the bedroom with his cigarette was leavened with hilarity, and many a snuffle of laughter rang out as she read, just as with Thommo's piece. There is a steady stream of bits of conversation in which little bomblets of the ridiculous lying buried just below the surface go off; but you must listen to someone reading to appreciate it. Priya confirmed that it was not until she read it aloud she got the full dose of Amis. The jams Dixon gets into are redolent of Bertie Wooster (said Thommo), but the style is different according to Talitha.
KumKum
KumKum
found chapter 19 of the book quite remarkable. It starts with three
telephone conversations and a discourse over a date for tea of the
two mildly infatuated young people, Dixon and Christine. She read
some passages to highlight Dixon’s desperate situations in this
well-spun tale of jollity by Kingsley Amis.
Dixon
is trying to wheedle out of the editor of a journal the publication
date of an article of his, crucial for his tenure – to no avail. Once
again Amis exposes the trivia with which academia occupies its waking
hours (the number of articles published in refereed journals). The
best part, said Thommo, is that the editor, Caton, plagiarises Dixon's
article and publishes it in an Italian journal after having it
translated!
Priya
Priya read the farcical piece where Dixon masquerades as a reporter for the Evening Post gathering information about Bertrand for an article. Bertrand falls for it and provides an exaggerated account about what he paints and so on (“the undraped female figure”). Gopa pointed out that at the beginning in his father’s house, Bertrand gave a different account of his painting:
“I am a painter. Not, alas, a painter of houses, or I should have been able to make my pile and retire by now. No no; I paint pictures. Not, alas again, pictures of trade unionists or town halls or naked women, or I should now be squatting on an even larger pile.”
Joe noted the passage was in character for Priya, who works for a newspaper herself. Here she is interviewing Bertrand over the phone:
"Er….. we'd like to do a little paragraph about you for our, for our Saturday page,"
Priya read the farcical piece where Dixon masquerades as a reporter for the Evening Post gathering information about Bertrand for an article. Bertrand falls for it and provides an exaggerated account about what he paints and so on (“the undraped female figure”). Gopa pointed out that at the beginning in his father’s house, Bertrand gave a different account of his painting:
“I am a painter. Not, alas, a painter of houses, or I should have been able to make my pile and retire by now. No no; I paint pictures. Not, alas again, pictures of trade unionists or town halls or naked women, or I should now be squatting on an even larger pile.”
Joe noted the passage was in character for Priya, who works for a newspaper herself. Here she is interviewing Bertrand over the phone:
"Er….. we'd like to do a little paragraph about you for our, for our Saturday page,"
Zakia
The passage Zakia read makes one aware of the class distinctions in those times of the fifties in Britain. What made you look and act in a particular way depended on the class of society you came from. Dixon ruminates here on the shabbiness of women in his class, whereas those who draped the arms of Bertrand-like men were far more attractive in appearance:
The passage Zakia read makes one aware of the class distinctions in those times of the fifties in Britain. What made you look and act in a particular way depended on the class of society you came from. Dixon ruminates here on the shabbiness of women in his class, whereas those who draped the arms of Bertrand-like men were far more attractive in appearance:
“The
huge class that contained Margaret was destined to provide his own
womenfolk: those in whom the intention of being attractive could
sometimes be made to get itself confused with performance.”
Credit
goes to Dixon for bending the attractive Christine to him, in
Mills-and-Boon fashion:
“He
put an arm round her shoulders and bent towards the neat blonde
head.”
Gopa
One of the impossible situations into which Dixon is projected is at the Welch's party. After making the claim that he could read music 'after a fashion', he is given a solo part that he can't muddle through by just opening and closing his mouth voicelessly in unison with the rest of the chorus:
One of the impossible situations into which Dixon is projected is at the Welch's party. After making the claim that he could read music 'after a fashion', he is given a solo part that he can't muddle through by just opening and closing his mouth voicelessly in unison with the rest of the chorus:
“The
madrigal began at the bidding of Welch's arthritic forefinger. Dixon
kept his head down, moved his mouth as little as possible consistent
with being unmistakably seen to move it, and looked through the words
the others were singing. 'When from my love I looked for love, and
kind affections due,' he read, 'too well I found her vows to prove
most faithless and untrue. But when I did ask her why…..'”
Gopa
did a fine imitation of Dixon singing, sans sound, and then being
saved by the bell, literally – Bertrand's entrance, that sets up
the rest of the novel's climactic contest.
Verghese
said that like Amis himself, Dixon was a product of a 'grammar
school.' The term is used nowadays for a
secondary school with an academic curriculum, particularly suited for
preparing pupils for entry to the universities or professions. It is
sometimes contrasted with 'public school,' which in British use means
a private school to which the posh people send their wards.
Verghese
expatiated at length on the kind of university at which Dixon taught.
After the post-War New Education Act was passed, red-brick
universities came up in the counties to handle the large influx of
students who had been demobbed from the Armed Forces. The marker of
differences between products of such universities and the
Oxford-Cambridge variety was in the clothes they wore, and the
accents they affected. Since a lot of the humour comes from the
speech, we in India miss those subtleties unless we listen to a video or
film of the novel. Toward the end in the 'Merrie England' speech
which Dixon delivers drunk, the accents meander from a Northern
England accent (perhaps Yorkshire) to Welch's accent, and then the
Principal's. As Wodehouse says in Right Ho, Jeeves:
“if you want
real oratory, the preliminary noggin is essential”
However,
the past uniformisation that took place at Oxford-Cambridge, and the
crumbling of the aristocracy, combined with the democratisation of
accents at BBC, has led to the acceptance of the great variety of
accents in Britain. Ted Hughes, for one, maintained his Northern
accent, regardless of his Cambridge education.
Sunil
said that among Indians who go abroad and return, for while you will
hear the foreign accents they acquired, but “from time to time the
Kanjirapally drawl will return!”
KumKum
said there is a problem at the IITs where meritorious students who
come from a provincial non-English medium schools, are disadvantaged.
Verghese
who has experience from his days at Madras Christian College narrated
the explicit English language conversation coaching that was done for
those who came from Tamil-medium schools. It might take a year or
more to get them up to speed with those who came from upper-class
English medium schools like Lawrence Lovedale and so on.
Gopa
confessed to having two children who studied in England. The daughter went to Portsmouth and has a perfect Cockney accent; the son who studied in Surrey has a Posh accent. In the 1960s, the Received
Pronunciation (RP) was still very common and defined what 'educated
classes' spoke. It is often difficult to understand for Indians,
because there is a tendency to swallow the final words in a sentence,
and not enunciate clearly. Joe mentioned that one of the
pronunciations most widely comprehensible is that of Indians like
Jawaharlal Nehru, or Mani Shanker Aiyer in our time; its chief merit
is that it is clearly enunciated. Someone thought it was a British
accent; Joe responded that it was clearly an Indian accent, perhaps
influenced by English schooling, but unmistakably Indian.
Mathew
The
first passage Mathew read shows Margaret to be a drama queen, having
hysterics. Gopa said in those days females had hysterics more
commonly. Thommo mentioned that 'smelling salts' (defined as a
preparation of ammonium carbonate with lavender, etc, used as a
stimulant in cases of fainting, etc.) were in common use. KumKum
alluded to the fancy bottles that line the medicine cabinets of
women.
In
the second passage Dixon is thinking back on the hysterical scene:
“It
would take its place with those three or four memories which could
make him actually twist about in his chair or bed with remorse, fear,
or embarrassment.”
Sunil
wondered what Flipkart.com might be thinking is the reason that so
many copies of Lucky
Jim
are flying from their godown to Kochi! Do they put two-and-two
together and from our blog realise it is our readings that trigger the sudden
book-slide to Kochi? Should we get an added discount?
Joe
Appreciation
How wonderful to write a first novel that amazed an audience of readers well-used to humour of the PG Wodehouse variety. It has many similarities: improbable situations, the build-up to a climactic accident in a chapter, polysyllabic humour, and people who are ridiculous foils for the comic anti-hero. Dixon marches doggedly through a sludge of difficulties that would damage irreparably the self-esteem of an Oxford don; and here he is a mere lecturer at a provincial university. The forced grovelling before the oafish Head of the Department of History, Welch, is a trauma in which we readers participate in. With every thrust or jape that Dixon uses to thwart the ill-fated engagements forced on him by Welch, the reader rises in anxious expectancy: will Dixon get his own back on Welch, or even better, on Bertrand, his son, the phony artist?
Appreciation
How wonderful to write a first novel that amazed an audience of readers well-used to humour of the PG Wodehouse variety. It has many similarities: improbable situations, the build-up to a climactic accident in a chapter, polysyllabic humour, and people who are ridiculous foils for the comic anti-hero. Dixon marches doggedly through a sludge of difficulties that would damage irreparably the self-esteem of an Oxford don; and here he is a mere lecturer at a provincial university. The forced grovelling before the oafish Head of the Department of History, Welch, is a trauma in which we readers participate in. With every thrust or jape that Dixon uses to thwart the ill-fated engagements forced on him by Welch, the reader rises in anxious expectancy: will Dixon get his own back on Welch, or even better, on Bertrand, his son, the phony artist?
Complicating
matters in the progress of Dixon's tenure, is the big decision: which
girl should he pursue – the neurotic Margaret, whose self-esteem is
so low a limbo dancer couldn't crawl under it, or the well-equipped
Christine, over whom the fake-artist Bertrand exerts a proprietorial
hold?
The
effect of large draughts of beer and spirits on Dixon are so expertly
described that we assume it must come from the author's first-hand
experience. Amis, the author, became increasingly drunk in later
years and it was the death of him. The role of the pub in making
drink an easy escape from reality to drown one's sorrows is well
established. But who in the decimal era can imagine Dixon paying for
drinks with two florins and pocketing
eightpence in change?
That's a shilling and eightpence
per pint of beer, we can work out.
Catchpole
is introduced early on, but his real role comes at the end to
clarify that Margaret’s suicide attempts were shams, put on to
attract attention to herself. Amis seems to have found no role for
Michel, the other son of Welch. Margaret is the least believable of
all of them, though the hold she has on Dixon is all too real until
the very end. Michel, Bertrand's is introduced early, but Amis
forgets him, or finds no place for him in the future
narrative:
“effeminate writing Michel, a character always waiting in the wings of Dixon's life but apparently destined never to enter its stage. This Michel, as indefatigably Gallic as his mother, had been cooking."
“effeminate writing Michel, a character always waiting in the wings of Dixon's life but apparently destined never to enter its stage. This Michel, as indefatigably Gallic as his mother, had been cooking."
One
of the things to be remarked is the unusual prevalence the word
'face' in this novel; there are in all about 155 occurrences. Dixon
is immensely curious about the faces others make in the course of
their conversation; he is himself given to making faces in the
mirror, and making faces as a prelude to putting on a particular manner of
speech. Dixon's ability to take on the characteristics of whatever
difficulty he faces at the moment with a put-on 'face' is an ample
source of humour.
Joe
read the passage where Dixon and Bertrand have a showdown with their
fists. Joe took off his spectacles on cue as the passage progressed,
and Thommo wondered who among the KRG readers was to act the part of
Bertrand and knock Joe on “his
right cheekbone,” according to the narrative!
Sunil
The goings on before Dixon sets fire to the bedclothes provide a vein of comedy that Amis mines richly. The effects of drunkenness on the person is described by one who has been there; the room moves with his every movement, contrariwise.
The goings on before Dixon sets fire to the bedclothes provide a vein of comedy that Amis mines richly. The effects of drunkenness on the person is described by one who has been there; the room moves with his every movement, contrariwise.
Carol
helps Dixon get Christine, on whom he decides after Catchpole
describes Margaret's duplicity in suicide.
Gopa
referred to the reasons for Dixon's final triumph over Bertrand by
landing the job of secretary to Julius
Gore-Urquhart, the rich uncle of Christine:
a)
Dixon possesses no superfluous qualifications
b)
Dixon attended a grammar school, not a public school.
Mathew
brought in Wodehouse again to draw an analogy with two aspects:
- the campaign against efficiency
- the Gussie Fink Nottle debate
For
the latter refer to:
Gopa
noted that the novel is set in the period of class-struggle in the
fifties. Verghese stated that grammar schools had high standards, and
were excellent, in the main, to prepare students for higher education.
The comprehensive schools came much later in the 70s, he said.
Thommo
added, in re class struggle, the novel Come
On, Jeeves:
“It
is 1952, and the aristocracy are feeling the pinch. Some are even
having to work. While Lord Carmoyle has taken a job as a floorwalker
at Harrods, ...”
Verghese
said Wodehouse, unlike Amis, had no social commentary to make. The
world he constructed in his novels was one in which pure evil did not
exist. For him the aristocracy was all pure fun, and most of the
characters are imaginary, except for the aunt (Dahlia?). Wodehouse
was out of the Establishment for a while on account of his having
made some broadcasts for the Nazis. That's why Wodehouse took up
residence post-War in USA, but he was forgiven in time, and this
quote from Evelyn Waugh signals that fact:
“Mr.
Wodehouse's idyllic world can never stale. He will continue to
release future generations from captivity that may be more irksome
than our own. He has made a world for us to live in and delight in.”
Verghese
referred to a 1957 film version and a 2003 TV remake. For this and
many other references see:
Joe
mentioned his having read that the novel was inspired by Amis walking
past a common room of the professors at the university where Philip
Larkin, the poet, worked as a librarian:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kingsley_Amis
“Taking its germ from Amis's observation of the common room at the University of Leicester, where his friend Larkin held a post ...”
“Taking its germ from Amis's observation of the common room at the University of Leicester, where his friend Larkin held a post ...”
Larkin
was a good friend of Amis. Verghese said Kingsley Amis was a serial
adulterer and had a drinking problem; his relations with his son,
Martin Amis, also a novelist, were strained.
Readings
Thommo
(a) As Dixon watched, a bus passed slowly up the hill in the mild May sunshine, bound for the small town where the Welches lived. Dixon betted himself it would be there before them. A roaring voice began to sing behind one of the windows above his head; it sounded like, and presumably might even be, Barclay, the Professor of Music.
(a) As Dixon watched, a bus passed slowly up the hill in the mild May sunshine, bound for the small town where the Welches lived. Dixon betted himself it would be there before them. A roaring voice began to sing behind one of the windows above his head; it sounded like, and presumably might even be, Barclay, the Professor of Music.
A minute later
Dixon was sitting listening to a sound like the ringing of a cracked
door-bell as Welch pulled at the starter. This died away into a
treble humming that seemed to involve every component of the car.
Welch tried again; this time the effect was of beer-bottles jerkily
belaboured. Before Dixon could do more than close his eyes he was
pressed firmly back against the seat, and his cigarette, still
burning, was cuffed out of his hand into some interstice of the
floor. With a tearing of gravel under the wheels the car burst from a
standstill towards the grass verge, which Welch ran over briefly
before turning down the drive. They moved towards the road at walking
pace, the engine maintaining a loud lowing sound which caused a late
group of students, most of them wearing the yellow and green College
scarf, to stare after them from the small covered-in space beside the
lodge where sports notices were posted.
They
climbed College Road, holding to the middle of the highway. The
unavailing hoots of a lorry behind them made Dixon look furtively at
Welch, whose face, he saw with passion, held an expression of calm
assurance, like an old quartermaster's in rough weather. Dixon shut
his eyes again. He was hoping that when Welch had made the second of
the two maladroit gear-changes which lay ahead of him, the
conversation would turn in some other direction than the academic. He
even thought he'd rather hear some more about music or the doings of
Welch's sons, the effeminate writing Michel and the bearded pacifist
painting Bertrand whom Margaret had described to him. But whatever
the subject for discussion might be, Dixon knew that before the
journey ended he'd find his face becoming creased and flabby, like an
old bag, with the strain of making it smile and show interest and
speak its few permitted words, of steering it between a collapse into
helpless fatigue and a tautening with anarchic fury.
(b)
Dixon
looked out of
the window at the fields wheeling past, bright green after a wet
April. It wasn't the double-exposure effect of the last half-minute's
talk that had dumbfounded him, for such incidents formed the staple
material of Welch colloquies; it was the prospect of reciting the
title of the article he'd written. It was a perfect title, in that it
crystallized the article's niggling mindlessness, its funereal parade
of yawn-enforcing facts, the pseudo-light it threw upon non-problems.
Dixon had read, or begun to read, dozens like it, but his own seemed
worse than most in its air of being convinced of its own usefulness
and significance. 'In considering this strangely neglected topic,' it
began. This what neglected topic? This strangely what topic? This
strangely neglected what? His thinking all this without having
defiled and set fire to the typescript only made him appear to
himself as more of a hypocrite and fool. 'Let's see,' he echoed Welch
in a pretended effort of memory: 'oh yes; The
Economic Influence of the Developments in Shipbuilding Techniques,
1450 to 1485.
After all, that's what it's…..'
Unable to finish
his sentence, he looked to his left again to find a man's face
staring into his own from about nine inches away. The face, which
filled with alarm as he gazed, belonged to the driver of a van which
Welch had elected to pass on a sharp bend between two stone walls. A
huge bus now swung into view from further round the bend. Welch
slowed slightly, thus ensuring that they would still be next to the
van when the bus reached them, and said with decision: 'Well, that
ought to do it nicely, I should say.'
Before
Dixon could roll himself into a ball or even take off his glasses,
the van had braked and disappeared, the bus-driver, his mouth opening
and shutting vigorously, had somehow squirmed his vehicle against the
far wall, and, with an echoing rattle, the car darted forward on to
the straight. Dixon, though on the whole glad at this escape, felt at
the same time that the conversation would have been appropriately
rounded off by Welch's death.
Talitha
(a) 'Everybody was wondering where you'd got to,' she said.
(a) 'Everybody was wondering where you'd got to,' she said.
'I've no doubt
they were. Tell me: how did Mr Welch react?'
'What, to finding
out you'd probably gone to the pub?'
'Yes. Did he seem
irritated at all?'
'I really have no
idea.' Conscious, possibly, that this must sound rather bald, she
added: 'I don't know him at all, you see, and so I couldn't really
tell. He didn't seem to notice much, if you see what I mean.'
Dixon saw. He
felt too that he could tackle the eggs and bacon and tomatoes now, so
went to get some and said: 'Well, that's a relief, I must say. I
shall have to apologize to him, I suppose.'
'It might be a
good idea.'
She said this in
a tone that made him turn his back for a moment at the sideboard and
make his Chinese mandarin's face, hunching his shoulders a little. He
disliked this girl and her boy-friend so much that he couldn't
understand why they didn't dislike each other. Suddenly he remembered
the bedclothes; how could he have been such a fool? He couldn't
possibly leave them like that. He must do something else to them. He
must get up to his room quickly and look at them and see what ideas
their physical presence suggested. 'God,' he said absently; 'oh my
God,' then, pulling himself together: 'I'm afraid I shall have to
dash off now.'
'Have you got to
get back?'
'No, I'm not
actually going until….. No, I mean there's….. I've got to go
upstairs.' Realizing that this was a poor exit-line, he said wildly,
still holding a dish-cover: 'There's something wrong with my room,
something I must alter.' He looked at her and saw her eyes were
dilated. 'I had a fire last night.'
'You lit a fire
in your bedroom?'
'No, I didn't
light it purposely, I lit it with a cigarette. It caught fire on its
own.'
Her expression
changed again. 'Your bedroom caught fire?'
'No, only the
bed. I lit it with a cigarette.'
'You mean you set
fire to your bed?'
'That's right.'
'With a
cigarette? Not meaning to? Why didn't you put it out?'
'I was asleep. I
didn't know about it till I woke up.'
'But you must
have….. Didn't it burn you?'
He put the
dish-cover down. 'It doesn't seem to have done.'
'Oh, that's
something, anyway.' She looked at him with her lips pressed firmly
together, then laughed in a way quite different from the way she'd
laughed the previous evening; in fact, Dixon thought, rather
unmusically. A blonde lock came away from the devotedly-brushed hair
and she smoothed it back. 'Well, what are you going to do about it?'
'I don't know
yet. I must do something, though.'
'Yes, I quite
agree. You'd better start on it quickly, hadn't you, before the maid
goes round?'
'I know. But what
can I do?'
'How bad is it?'
'Bad enough.
There are great pieces gone altogether, you see.'
'Oh. Well, I
don't really know what to suggest without seeing it. Unless you…..
no; that wouldn't help.'
'Look, I suppose
you wouldn't come up and…..?'
'Have a look at
it?'
'Yes. Do you
think you could?'
She sat up again
and thought 'Yes, all right. I don't guarantee anything, of course.'
'No, of course
not.' He remembered with joy that he still had some cigarettes left
after last night's holocaust. 'Thanks very much.'
They were moving
to the door when she said: 'What about your breakfast?'
'Oh, I shall have
to miss that. There's not time.'
'I shouldn't if I
were you. They don't give you much for lunch here, you know.'
'But
I'm not going to wait till….. I mean there isn't much time to…..
Wait a minute.' He darted back to the sideboard, picked up a slippery
fried egg and slid it into his mouth whole. She watched him with
folded arms and a blank expression. Chewing violently, he doubled up
a piece of bacon and crammed it between his teeth, then signalled he
was ready to move. Intimations of nausea circled round his digestive
system.
(b)
My
goodness, you certainly
have gone to town, haven't you?' She went forward and fingered the
sheet and blankets like one shown material in a shop. 'But this
doesn't look like a burn; it looks as if it's been cut with
something.'
'Yes, I….. cut
the burnt bits off with a razor-blade. I thought it would look better
than just leaving it burnt.'
'Why on earth did
you do that?'
'I can't really
explain. I just thought it would look better.'
'Mm. And did all
this come from one cigarette?'
'That I don't
know. Probably.'
'Well,
you must have been pretty far gone not to….. And the table too. And
the rug. You know, I don't know that I ought to be a party to all
this.' She grinned, which made her look almost ludicrously healthy,
and revealed at the same time that her front teeth were slightly
irregular. For some reason this was more disturbing to his equanimity
than regularity could possibly have been. He began to think he'd
noticed quite enough things about her now, thank you. Then she drew
herself up and pressed her lips together, seeming to consider. 'I
think the best thing would be to remake the bed with all this mess at
the bottom, out of sight. We can put the blanket that's only scorched
– this one – on top; it'll probably be almost all right on the
side that's underneath now. What about that? It's a pity there isn't
an eiderdown.'
KumKum
(Dixon
calls up the Welch residence hoping to talk to Christine.
Unfortunately it is Mrs. Welch who picks up the phone. Dixon tries to
hide his identity in a dubious manner, but Mrs. Welch is not fooled)
Reading
(with some gaps)
“If
you’re still there, Mr. Dixon,” Mrs. Welch said after a moment,
in a voice sharpened to excoriation by the intervening few miles of
line, “I’d like to tell you that if you make one more attempt to
interfere in my son’s or my affairs, then I shall have to ask my
husband to take the matter up with you from a disciplinary point of
view, and also that other matter of the….”
Dixon
rang off. “sheet”, he said. Trembling, he reached for his
cigarettes.
…As
he was lighting his cigarette, the bell of the phone went off within
two feet of his head; he started violently and began coughing, then
took up the phone.”
(It was
Catchpole, the fellow who supposed to have crushed Margaret Peel when
he jilted her.)
“Your name’s
Catchpole, isn’t it?”
“Yes.
Please….”
“Well,
I know who you are all right, then. And all about you.”
“Please
give me a hearing, Mr. Dixon.” The voice at the other end shook
slightly. “I just wanted to know whether Margaret is all right or
not. Won’t you even tell me that?”
Dixon
calmed down at this appeal. “All right, I will. She’s in quite
good health physically. Mentally, she’s about as well as can be
expected.”
“Thanks
very much. I’m glad to hear that. Do you mind if I ask you one more
question?”
“What
is it?”
“Why
were you so angry with me a moment ago when I asked you about her?”
“That’s
pretty obvious, isn’t it?”
“Not
to me, I’m afraid. I think we’re talking rather at
cross-purposes, aren’t we? I can’t think of any reason, why you
should have grudge against me. No real reason, that is.”
It
sounded remarkably sincere. “Well, I can,” Dixon said, unable to
keep the puzzlement out of his voice.
They
arranged to meet for a pre-lunch drink in a pub at the foot of
College Road the next day but one, Thursday. When Catchpole had rung
off, Dixon sat for some minutes smoking. ……..With a sigh he
referred to the pocket diary for 1943 in which he wrote down
telephone numbers, pulled the phone towards him again, and gave a
London number. In a little while he said: “Is Dr. Caton there,
please ?”
There
was another brief delay, then a rich confident voice came clearly
over the line: “This is Caton.”
Dixon
gave his name and that of his college.
For
some reason, the richness and confidence of the other voice waned
sharply. “What do you want?” it asked snappishly.
“I
read about your appointment, Dr. Caton—incidentally may I offer my
congratulations?—and I was wondering what was going to happen to
that article of mine you were good enough to accept for your journal.
Can you tell me when it’ll come out?”
“I
know chaps in your position think an editor’s job’s all beer and
skittles; it’s very far from being that, believe me.”
“I’m
sure it must be most exacting, Dr. Caton, and of course I wouldn’t
dream of trying to pin you down to anything definite, but it’s
rather important to me to have some estimate of when you’ll be able
to publish my article.”
“I
can’t start making promises to have your article out next week,”
the voice said in a nettled tone as if Dixon had been stupidly
insisting on this one point, “with things as difficult as they are.
Surely you must see that. You don’t seem to realize the amount of
planning that goes into each number, especially a first number. It’s
not like drawing up a railway timetable, What? What? “ he finished,
loudly and suspiciously.
Dixon
wondered if, without knowing it, he’d allowed an imprecation to
pass his lips.
But
to be quite frank, Dr. Caton, I want rather urgently to improve my
standing in the Department here, and if I could just quote you, if
you could give me a….”
“I’m
sorry to hear of your difficulties, Mr. Dickinson, but I’m afraid
things are too difficult here for me to be very seriously concerned
about your difficulties. I don’t know what I should do if they all
started demanding promises from me in this fashion”
“All
I want is an estimate, and even the vaguest estimate would help
me----the second half of next year, for example.”
(They met as
scheduled, over tea at a restaurant. But the meeting was not to
prolong their relationship as they had fancied, but to end it with
immediate effect. Since both realized how absurd it was to let
romance flourish between them.)
Dixon: “…
there’s not really much to choose between us when you look at it.
You’re keeping up your little affair with Bertrand because you
think that on the whole it’s safer to do that, in spite of the
risks attached to that kind of thing, than to chance your arm with
me. You know the snags about him, but you don’t know what snags
there might be about me. And I’m sticking to Margaret because I
haven’t got the guts to turn her loose and let her look after
herself, so I do that instead of doing what I want to do, because I’m
afraid to. It’s just a sort of stodgy, stingy caution that’s the
matter with us; you can’t even call it looking after number one.”
He
looked at her with faint contempt, and was hurt to see the same
feeling in the way she looked at him.
Priya
Things at once happened very quickly. While, as he had reason to know, outgoing calls from the Welches' were liable to take some time, incoming ones were horrifyingly swift. In less than a quarter of a minute Mrs Welch had said to him: 'Celia Welch speaking.'
Things at once happened very quickly. While, as he had reason to know, outgoing calls from the Welches' were liable to take some time, incoming ones were horrifyingly swift. In less than a quarter of a minute Mrs Welch had said to him: 'Celia Welch speaking.'
He
felt as if he'd crunched a cracknel biscuit; in his preoccupation
he'd forgotten about Mrs Welch. Still, why worry? In an almost normal
tone he said: 'Can I speak to Professor Welch, please?'
'That's
Mr Dixon, isn't it? Before I get my husband, I'd just like you to
tell me, if you don't mind, what you did to the sheet and blankets on
your bed when you…..'
He
wanted to scream. His dilated eyes fell on a copy of the local paper
that lay nearby. Without stopping to think, he said, distorting his
voice by protruding his lips into an O: 'No, Mrs Welch, there must be
some mistake. This is the Evening Post speaking. There's no Mr Dixon
with us, I'm quite sure.'
'Oh,
I'm most awfully sorry; you sounded at first just like….. How
ridiculous of me.'
'Quite
all right, Mrs Welch, quite all right.'
'I'll
get my husband for you straight away.'
'Well,
actually it was Mr Bertrand Welch I wanted to speak to really,' Dixon
said, smiling at his own cunning as best he could with a distorted
mouth; in a few seconds this horror would be over.
'I'm
not sure whether he's….. Just a minute.' She put the phone down.
Better
hang on, Dixon thought, and the information, which Mrs Welch had
obviously gone to get, about where Bertrand could be reached was just
what he wanted for the Callaghan girl. He'd be able to ring her up
and tell her, too. Yes, hang on at all costs.
One
of the costs was immediately presented in the form of a
well-remembered voice baying directly into his ear 'This is Bertrand
Welch', so directly, indeed, that Dixon could have fancied that
Bertrand was actually in the room with him and had by some sorcery
substituted for the receiver those rosy, bearded lips.
'Evening
Post here,' he managed to quaver through his snout.
'And
what can I do for you, sir?'
Dixon
recovered slightly. 'Er….. we'd like to do a little paragraph about
you for our, for our Saturday page,' he said, beginning to plan.
'That's if you've no objection.'
'Objection?
Objection? What objection could a humble painter have to a little
harmless publicity? At least, I take it it's harmless?'
Dixon
got out a laugh, the Dickensian 'Ho ho ho' which was all his mouth
could manage. 'Oh, quite harmless, I assure you, sir. We have a few
facts about you already, naturally. But we would just like to know
what you're engaged on at the moment, you see.'
'Of
course, of course, most reasonable. Well, I've got two or three
things in hand just now. There's a rather splendid nude, actually,
though I don't know whether your readers would want to know about
that, would they?'
'Oh,
very much so, Mr Welch, I assure you, as long as we tell them in the
proper way. I take it there'd be no objection to calling it "an
undraped female figure", would there, sir? I imagine it is a
female?'
Bertrand
laughed like a leading hound announcing the end of a check. 'Oh,
she's female all right, you can bet your bottom dollar on that. And
"bottom" is the exact word.'
Dixon
joined in this with his own laughter. What a story for Beesley and
Atkinson this was going to make. 'Anything about what I believe's
called the treatment, sir?' he asked when he might have been supposed
to be calm again.
'Pretty
bold, you know. Fairly modern, but not too much so. These modern
chaps jigger up the detail so much, and we don't want that, do wam?'
'Indeed
we don't, sir, as you say. I suppose this would be an oil painting,
sir?'
'Oh
God, yes; no expense spared. She's about eight feet by six, by the
way, or will be when she's framed. A real smasher.'
'Any
particular title for it, sir?'
'Well,
yes, I thought of calling her Amateur Model. The girl who sat for
it's certainly an amateur of a sort, and she acts as a model, at
least while she's being painted, so there you are. I shouldn't put in
that little explanation of the title if I were you.'
'Wouldn't
dream of it,' Dixon said in something like his ordinary voice; his
mouth had tightened involuntarily during the last few seconds and had
temporarily abandoned its O. What a lad this Bertrand was, eh? He
remembered the insinuations about the week-end with the Callaghan
girl that Bertrand had made at their first meeting. God, if it ever
came to a fight, he'd…..
'What
did you say?' Bertrand asked, a little tinge of suspicion in his
tone.
'I
was talking to someone in the office here, Mr Welch,' Dixon said,
through the O this time. 'I've got all that, sir, thank you. Now what
about the other things you're working on?'
Zakia
In a few more seconds Dixon had noticed all he needed to notice about this girl: the combination of fair hair, straight and cut short, with brown eyes and no lipstick, the strict set of the mouth and the square shoulders, the large breasts and the narrow waist, the premeditated simplicity of the wine-coloured corduroy skirt and the unornamented white linen blouse. The sight of her seemed an irresistible attack on his own habits, standards, and ambitions: something designed to put him in his place for good. The notion that women like this were never on view except as the property of men like Bertrand was so familiar to him that it had long since ceased to appear an injustice. The huge class that contained Margaret was destined to provide his own womenfolk: those in whom the intention of being attractive could sometimes be made to get itself confused with performance; those with whom a too-tight skirt, a wrong-coloured, or no, lipstick, even an ill-executed smile could instantly discredit that illusion beyond apparent hope of renewal. But renewal always came: a new sweater would somehow scale down the large feet, generosity revivify the brittle hair, a couple of pints site positive charm in talk of the London stage or French food.
In a few more seconds Dixon had noticed all he needed to notice about this girl: the combination of fair hair, straight and cut short, with brown eyes and no lipstick, the strict set of the mouth and the square shoulders, the large breasts and the narrow waist, the premeditated simplicity of the wine-coloured corduroy skirt and the unornamented white linen blouse. The sight of her seemed an irresistible attack on his own habits, standards, and ambitions: something designed to put him in his place for good. The notion that women like this were never on view except as the property of men like Bertrand was so familiar to him that it had long since ceased to appear an injustice. The huge class that contained Margaret was destined to provide his own womenfolk: those in whom the intention of being attractive could sometimes be made to get itself confused with performance; those with whom a too-tight skirt, a wrong-coloured, or no, lipstick, even an ill-executed smile could instantly discredit that illusion beyond apparent hope of renewal. But renewal always came: a new sweater would somehow scale down the large feet, generosity revivify the brittle hair, a couple of pints site positive charm in talk of the London stage or French food.
The
girl turned her head and found Dixon staring at her. His diaphragm
contracted with fright; she drew herself up with a jerk like a
soldier standing easy called to the stand-at-ease position. They
looked at each other for a moment, until, just as Dixon's scalp was
beginning to tingle, a high, baying voice called 'Ah, there you are,
darling; step this way, if you please, and be introduced to the
throng' and Bertrand strode up the room to meet her, throwing Dixon a
brief hostile glance. Dixon didn't like him doing that; the only
action he required from Bertrand was an apology, humbly offered, for
his personal appearance.
Gopa
A bursting snuffle of laughter came from Dixon's left rear. He glanced round to see Johns's pallor rent by a grin. The large short-lashed eyes were fixed on him. 'What's the joke?' he asked. If Johns were laughing at Welch, Dixon was prepared to come in on Welch's side.
A bursting snuffle of laughter came from Dixon's left rear. He glanced round to see Johns's pallor rent by a grin. The large short-lashed eyes were fixed on him. 'What's the joke?' he asked. If Johns were laughing at Welch, Dixon was prepared to come in on Welch's side.
'You'll
see,' Johns said. He went on looking at Dixon. 'You'll see,' he
added, grinning.
In
less than a minute Dixon did see, and clearly. Instead of the
customary four parts, this piece employed five. The third and fourth
lines of music from the top had Tenor I and Tenor II written against
them; moreover, there was some infantile fa-la-la-la stuff on the
second page with numerous gaps in the individual parts. Even Welch's
ear might be expected to record the complete absence of one of the
parts in such circumstances. It was much too late now for Dixon to
explain that he hadn't really meant it when he'd said, half an hour
before, that he could read music 'after a fashion'; much too late to
transfer allegiance to the basses. Nothing short of an epileptic fit
could get him out of this.
'You'd
better take first tenor, Jim,' Goldsmith said; 'the second's a bit
tricky.'
Dixon
nodded bemusedly, hardly hearing further laughter from Johns. Before
he could cry out, they were past the piano-ritual and the droning and
into the piece. He flapped his lips to: 'Each with his bonny lass,
a-a-seated on the grass: fa-la-la la, fa-la-la-la-la-la la la-la…..'
but Welch had stopped waving his finger, was holding it stationary in
the air. The singing died. 'Oh, tenors,' Welch began; 'I didn't seem
to hear…..'
Mathew
(a)
There
was a pause; then she came waveringly forward, put her hands on his
shoulders, and seemed to collapse, or be dragging him, on to the bed.
Unregarded, her spectacles fell off. She was making a curious noise,
a steady, repeated, low-pitched moan that sounded as if it came from
the pit of her stomach, as if she'd been sick over and over again and
still wanted to be sick. Dixon half-helped, half-lifted her on to the
bed. Now and then she gave a quiet, almost skittish little scream.
Her face was pushed hard against his chest. Dixon didn't know whether
she was fainting, or having a fit of hysterics, or simply breaking
down and crying. Whatever it was he didn't know how to deal with it.
When she felt that she was sitting on the bed next to him she threw
herself forward so that her face was on his thigh. In a moment he
felt moisture creeping through to his skin. He tried to lift her, but
she was immovably heavy; her shoulders were shaking more rapidly than
seemed to him normal even in a condition of this kind. Then she
raised herself, tense but still trembling, and began a series of
high-pitched, inward screams which alternated with the deep moans.
Both were quite loud. Her hair was in her eyes, her lips were drawn
back, and her teeth chattered. Her face was wet, with saliva as well
as tears. At last, as he began speaking her name, she threw herself
violently backwards and sideways on to the bed. While she lay there
with her arms spread out, writhing, she screamed half a dozen times,
very loudly, then went on more quietly, moaning with every outward
breath. Dixon seized her wrists and shouted: 'Margaret. Margaret.'
She looked at him with dilated eyes and began struggling, trying to
free herself from him. Two lots of footsteps were now approaching
outside, one ascending the stairs, the other descending. The door
opened and Bill Atkinson came in, followed by Miss Cutler. Dixon
looked up at them.
'Hysterics, eh?'
Atkinson said, and slapped Margaret several times on the face, very
hard, Dixon thought. He pushed Dixon out of the way and sat down on
the bed, gripping Margaret by the shoulders and shaking her
vigorously. 'There's some whisky up in my cupboard. Go and get it.'
Dixon ran out and
up the stairs. The only thought that presented itself to him at all
clearly was one of mild surprise that the fictional or cinematic
treatment of hysterics should be based so firmly on what was
evidently the right treatment. He found the whisky; his hand was
shaking so much that he nearly dropped the bottle. He uncorked it and
took a quick swig, trying not to cough. Down in his room again, he
found everything much quieter. Miss Cutler, who'd been watching
Atkinson and Margaret, gave Dixon a glance, not of suspicion or
reproach, but of reassurance; she said nothing. As he felt at the
moment, this made him want to cry. Atkinson looked up without taking
the bottle. 'Get a glass or a cup.' He got a cup from the cupboard,
poured some of the whisky into it, and gave it to Atkinson. Miss
Cutler, as much in awe of him as ever, stood at Dixon's side and
watched Margaret being given some whisky.
Atkinson heaved
her up into a half-sitting position. Her moans had stopped and she
was trembling less violently. Her face was red from Atkinson's blows.
When he put the cup to her mouth it rattled once or twice on her
teeth and her breathing was audible. With eerie predictability she
choked and coughed, swallowed some, coughed again, swallowed some
more. Quite soon she stopped trembling altogether and began to look
round at them. 'Sorry about that,' she said faintly.
'That's
all right, girlie,' Atkinson said.
(b)
Dixon
put his own cigarette out, jabbing at Ribble's
bridge in a feeble rage he couldn't find any source for. He tried to
tell himself that when he'd got over his own feelings of shock, he'd
begin to be glad at having told Margaret what he'd been wanting to
tell her for so long, but it wasn't convincing. He thought of his
appointment with Christine the next day but one, and regarded it
entirely without pleasure. Some part of what had happened in the last
half-hour had spoilt all that, though he didn't know which part.
Somewhere his path to Christine was blocked; it was all going to go
wrong in some way he couldn't foresee. It wasn't that Margaret
herself would take a hand in the matter and upset things by somehow
alerting Bertrand and the senior Welches; it wasn't that he might be
forced to withdraw his recent declarations to Margaret. It was
something less unlikely than the first, harder to fight than the
second, and much vaguer than either. It was just that everything
seemed to be spoilt.
He
began abstractedly brushing his hair in front of his small unframed
mirror. He refused to think directly about Margaret's fit of
hysterics. Soon enough, he knew, it would take its place with those
three or four memories which could make him actually twist about in
his chair or bed with remorse, fear, or embarrassment. It would
probably supplant the present top-of-the-list item, the time he'd
been pushed out in front of the curtain after a school concert to
make the audience sing the National Anthem. He could hear his own
voice now, saying in those flat tones, heavy with insincerity: 'And
now….. I want you all….. to join with me, if you will….. in
singing…..' And then he'd led off in a key that must have been
exactly half an octave above or below the proper one. Switching every
few notes, like everybody else, from one octave to the other, half a
beat in front of or behind everybody else, he'd gone through the
whole thing. Cheers, applause, and laughter had followed him when he
ducked his burning face back through the curtains. He looked at his
face now in the mirror: it looked back at him, humourless and
self-pitying.
Joe
Reading: Bertrand and Dixon have it out
Reading: Bertrand and Dixon have it out
Bertrand
rose to his feet again and faced Dixon with his legs slightly apart.
He spoke in a level tone, but his teeth were clenched. 'Just get this
straight in your so-called mind. When I see something I want, I go
for it. I don't allow people of your sort to stand in my way. That's
what you're leaving out of account. I'm having Christine because it's
my right. Do you understand that? If I'm after something, I don't
care what I do to make sure that I get it. That's the only law I
abide by; it's the only way to get things in this world. The trouble
with you, Dixon, is that you're simply not up to my weight. If you
want a fight, pick someone your own size, then you might stand a
chance. With me you just haven't a hope in hell.'
Dixon
moved a pace nearer. 'You're getting a bit too old for that to work
any more, Welch,' he said quickly. 'People aren't going to skip out
of your path indefinitely. You think that just because you're tall
and can put paint on canvas you're a sort of demigod. It wouldn't be
so bad if you really were. But you're not: you're a twister and a
snob and a bully and a fool. You think you're sensitive, but you're
not: your sensitivity only works for things that people do to you.
Touchy and vain, yes, but not sensitive.' He paused, but Bertrand was
only staring at him, making no attempt to interrupt. Dixon went on:
'You've got the idea that you're a great lover, but that's wrong too:
you're so afraid of me, who's nothing more than a louse according to
you, that you have to march in here and tell me to keep off the grass
like a heavy husband. And you're so dishonest that you can tell me
how important Christine is to you without it entering your head that
you're carrying on with some other chap's wife all the time. It's not
just that that I object to; it's the way you never seem to reflect
how insincere…..'
'What
the bloody hell are you talking about?' Bertrand's breath was
whistling through his nose. He clenched his fists.
'Your
spot of the old slap and tickle with Carol Goldsmith. That's what I'm
talking about.'
'I
don't know what you're talking…..'
'Oh,
my dear fellow, don't start denying it. Why bother, anyway? Surely
it's just one of the things you have because it's your right, isn't
it?'
'If
you ever tell this tale to Christine, I'll break your neck into so
many…..'
'It's
all right, I'm not the sort to do that,' Dixon said with a grin. 'I'm
not like you, I can take Christine away from you without that, you
Byronic tail-chaser.'
'All
right, you've got it coming,' Bertrand bayed furiously. 'I warned
you.' He came and stood over Dixon. 'Come on, stand up, you dirty
little bar-fly, you nasty little jumped-up turd.'
'What
are we going to do, dance?'
'I'll
give you dance, I'll make you dance, don't you worry. Just stand up,
if you're not afraid to. If you think I'm going to sit back and take
this from you, you're mistaken; I don't happen to be that type, you
sam.'
'I'm
not Sam, you fool,' Dixon shrieked; this was the worst taunt of all.
He took off his glasses and put them in his top jacket pocket.
They
faced each other on the floral rug, feet apart and elbows crooked in
uncertain attitudes, as if about to begin some ritual of which
neither had learnt the cues. 'I'll show you,' Bertrand chimed, and
jabbed at Dixon's face. Dixon stepped aside, but his feet slipped and
before he could recover Bertrand's fist had landed with some force
high up on his right cheekbone. A little shaken, but undismayed,
Dixon stood still and, while Bertrand was still off his balance after
delivering his blow, hit him very hard indeed on the larger and more
convoluted of his ears. Bertrand fell down, making a lot of noise in
doing so and dislodging a china figurine from the mantelpiece. It
exploded on the tiles of the hearth, emphasizing the silence which
fell. Dixon stepped forward, rubbing his knuckles. The impact had
hurt them rather. After some seconds, Bertrand began moving about on
the floor, but made no attempt to get up. It was clear that Dixon had
won this round, and, it then seemed, the whole Bertrand match. He put
his glasses on again, feeling good; Bertrand caught his eye with a
look of embarrassed recognition. The bloody old towser-faced
boot-faced totem-pole on a crap reservation, Dixon thought. 'You
bloody old towser-faced boot-faced totem-pole on a crap reservation,'
he said.
Sunil
(a) He began getting into bed. His four surviving cigarettes – had he really smoked twelve that evening? – lay in their packet on a polished table at the bed-head, accompanied by matches, the bakelite mug of water, and an ashtray from the mantelpiece. A temporary inability to raise his second foot on to the bed let him know what had been the secondary effect of drinking all that water: it had made him drunk. This became a primary effect when he lay in bed. On the fluttering mantelpiece was a small china effigy, the representation, in a squatting position, of a well-known Oriental religious figure. Had Welch put it there as a silent sermon to him on the merits of the contemplative life? If so, the message had come too late. He reached up and turned off the light by the hanging switch above his head. The room began to rise upwards from the right-hand bottom corner of the bed, and yet seemed to keep in the same position. He threw back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, his legs hanging. The room composed itself to rest. After a few moments he swung his legs back and lay down. The room lifted. He put his feet to the floor. The room stayed still. He put his legs on the bed but didn't lie down. The room moved. He sat on the edge of the bed. Nothing. He put one leg up on the bed. Something. In fact a great deal. He was evidently in a highly critical condition. Swearing hoarsely, he heaped up the pillows, half-lay, half-sat against them, and dangled his legs half-over the edge of the bed. In this position he was able to lower himself gingerly into sleep.
(a) He began getting into bed. His four surviving cigarettes – had he really smoked twelve that evening? – lay in their packet on a polished table at the bed-head, accompanied by matches, the bakelite mug of water, and an ashtray from the mantelpiece. A temporary inability to raise his second foot on to the bed let him know what had been the secondary effect of drinking all that water: it had made him drunk. This became a primary effect when he lay in bed. On the fluttering mantelpiece was a small china effigy, the representation, in a squatting position, of a well-known Oriental religious figure. Had Welch put it there as a silent sermon to him on the merits of the contemplative life? If so, the message had come too late. He reached up and turned off the light by the hanging switch above his head. The room began to rise upwards from the right-hand bottom corner of the bed, and yet seemed to keep in the same position. He threw back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, his legs hanging. The room composed itself to rest. After a few moments he swung his legs back and lay down. The room lifted. He put his feet to the floor. The room stayed still. He put his legs on the bed but didn't lie down. The room moved. He sat on the edge of the bed. Nothing. He put one leg up on the bed. Something. In fact a great deal. He was evidently in a highly critical condition. Swearing hoarsely, he heaped up the pillows, half-lay, half-sat against them, and dangled his legs half-over the edge of the bed. In this position he was able to lower himself gingerly into sleep.
(b)
'Bertrand?'
'That's
the fellow; the painter, you know. The great painter. Of course, he
knows he isn't great really, and that's what makes him behave like
this. Great artists always have a lot of women, so if he can have a
lot of women that makes him a great artist, never mind what his
pictures are like. You're familiar with the argument. And with the
fallacy too, no doubt. Undistributed how-d'you-call. Well, you can
guess who the women are in this case. Me and the girl you've got your
eye on.'
(c)
You'll
find that marriage is a good short cut to the truth. No, not quite
that. A way of doubling back to the truth. Another thing you'll find
is that the years of illusion aren't those of adolescence, as the
grown-ups try to tell us; they're the ones immediately after it, say
the middle twenties, the false maturity if you like, when you first
get thoroughly embroiled in things and lose your head.
Correction requested:
ReplyDeleteLucky Jim by Kingsley Amis was selected by Thommo and Priya.
Another very interesting session. Enjoyed it very much.
Thank you Thommo and Priya for selecting this gem of a book; otherwwise, it would have remained unknown to me.
Joe, you captured the session very well, including the dazzling saree Priya wore, and the box containing the Banana-raisin cake we enjoyed.
Joe,I enjoyed reading the blog and actually went thru' the Gussie Fink Nottle incident to refresh my mind and naturally laughed some more.
ReplyDeleteOne correction:
I have a son in Surrey and a daughter (not two daughters) in Portsmouth and the comparison in their accents was made by a friend who teaches in Cambridge, when he happened to meet them. It doesn't bother me though!
Thank you Joe, so much, for the detailed blog that you put up after every session. The blog is as interesting as the event.
ReplyDeleteI too must thank Thommo for selecting this wonderful book and introducing me to this funny world of Amis. The inputs from all the members is truly enriching.
My reading has improved so much thanks to being a member of this group.
Kum Kum, thank you for the moist banana cake. Did you use curd in the recipe? It was delicious.