Part 26 (1/2)
”I n-never thought of that before. Of course you're right--I ought to have thought of it--even from the point of view of a psychologist.”
”I don't think it's anything to do with any 'ologists at all. It's just common sense. Louis, I've been thinking a lot this week. You know, when father used to get--ill--no, drunk (Why should I be afraid to tell the truth, in spite of your sneers about poor father?) I was too wee to know very much. But knowing him as I do, I'm certain he tried and tried again. After mother died he left whisky alone, though he still had it in the house. He took to reading philosophy instead. You see, he was not like you. There was a hardness, a bravery in him that you haven't got.
You have cussedness instead and cussedness is a thing you can never be sure of. You see,” she went on, flus.h.i.+ng a little, and suddenly tossing her head proudly, ”you don't understand this, and it may sound most appalling sn.o.bbishness to you. But my father's people have always been rulers--little kings--fighters, while yours have been just ordinary, protected folk. My people have had to fight for everything, even their food, their lands, their home. Yours have had shops and investments and policemen round every corner--there is a difference--Louis, am I offending you?” she asked anxiously.
”Go on!” he said hoa.r.s.ely.
”Well, father tried. But trying wasn't any use. He read philosophy to get himself interested in something. But philosophy wasn't gripping enough. It seems we've all got to find something to anchor on, and it's different for almost everyone. That's where we can help each other by trying to understand each other's needs and offering suggestions. Like sailors do--with charts and things. All this philosophy of father's! It reminds me of a horse I saw once at Carlossie Fair. It had a most horrible ulcer on its shoulder and they'd tried to hide it up by plaiting its mane and tying it with a great heap of ribbons. That doesn't cure anything! You know there's a phrase we use often about people who are miserable--we say, 'Oh, he needs to be taken out of himself.' Isn't that a vivid way of putting it, if you stop to think?”
He nodded, and still stared fascinated at her, drinking in every slow, halting word.
”I suppose father brooded just like you do. He used to get very grumpy, and very, very unhappy. He begged and pleaded with me for understanding, and I couldn't give it to him. Then one day he got dreadfully drunk, after a whole year away from it. And mother's cousin came. He talked to father for five or six hours while Aunt and I kept s.h.i.+vering and thinking father would murder him. Our people usually do murder people who annoy them. But Cousin came out of the room and said, 'Andrew has cast his burden on the Lord.' He said it as if he was saying, 'Andrew has sneezed, or put some coal on the fire'--the most ordinary way you can imagine. And that was the end of whisky for father. After that he tried to make everyone he knew cast their burden on the Lord. I rather felt like laughing at the time. It seemed rather silly, and just a bit vulgar--most religion is, isn't it? But since I've been worrying myself to death about you I've understood all about poor father.”
”I don't see it,” he said hopelessly.
”Listen. Until father gave up trying himself and realized that he was weak, he was--was--sort of hiding the ulcer with a bunch of ribbons. But the minute he gave up, everything was different. He didn't say any more, 'I'm Andrew Lashcairn, the son of generations of drunkards and madmen.'
He changed it and said, 'I'm G.o.d's man--I've given Him my homage and made Him the Captain of my life.' And then, don't you see, he stopped being shut in inside himself any longer. He began to love me and be gentle to me. Louis, do you know, I believe you're tackling this worry in the wrong way. It can't be right--being rude to me, growling all the time about your father and mother--thinking, thinking, thinking all the time about yourself and your weakness until the whole universe is yourself and your weakness. Can't you see how bad it is, you who are a doctor? You know the old saying about giving a dog a bad name and hanging him. Louis, you're giving yourself a bad name, and hanging yourself.”
”Oh, I say, Marcella,” he gasped. ”Do you think--” he broke off, and groaned again.
”Louis, I _know_. I don't _think_ anything about it! The other day I was reading a most extraordinary book the schoolmaster lent me. It was about St. Francis of a.s.sisi. It said that, by contemplation of the wounds of Christ, in time he came to feeling pain in his hands and feet and side--”
”Balderdas.h.!.+” muttered Louis impatiently. ”Auto-suggestion!”
”Auto--what's that?” she asked. He explained and she cried out eagerly:
”Well, can't you see you're doing exactly the same thing? And you call it balderdash when other people do it! Those wounds of St. Francis were called the Stigmata--can't you see that you're giving yourself the stigmata of drunkenness?”
”I've got them,” he cried hoa.r.s.ely. ”I'm done. I'm even a thief.”
”Oh, you idiot! How sorry I am for my father! He used to call me an idiot, and have me to put up with. And now I've got you, and you're a thousand times denser than ever I was! You're neither a drunkard nor a thief, Louis. Look here, to begin with, how much do you owe Fred? You shall have all I've got. If I give it to you you can't be a thief any more.”
Between them they had just enough money for Fred and a few s.h.i.+llings left. He wept as she fastened it in an envelope and asked him to take it along to Fred's cabin at once.
”I--I s-say, Marcella. I--I--d-daren't,” he groaned. ”He'll ask me to wet it. And I'll not be able to say no. And oh my G.o.d, I don't want to do it any more.”
”Then I'll take it,” she said promptly, and darted along with it to Number Fifteen, listened while Ole Fred said every insulting thing he could about Louis and all Louis's ancestors and then calmly asked him for a receipt for the money.
Louis was still sitting on the floor. He looked up, his bloodshot eyes appealing as he looked at her.
”I say, M-m-marcella. I'm sorry I said all those nasty things about your father.”
”There you are again, Louis! Forget them all! Forget everything but the future now. I can't imagine where I've got this conviction from, but it's absolutely right, I know. If you'll wipe out all your memory and start clean, you'll be cured.”
”I could never do as your father did--all that religion business.”
”I don't think I could, Louis. Father saw G.o.d as a militant Captain, someone outside himself. I'd never get thinking that about G.o.d. But it seems to me, in your case, you want to find someone you could trust, someone who would take the responsibility from you. Just as G.o.d did for father. Even if we say there is no G.o.d at all, he thought there was and acted on his thought--I suppose it's when we feel weak as father did that we get the idea of G.o.d at all.”
”It all seems rot to me,” he told her. ”I laugh at G.o.d--as a relic of fetis.h.i.+sm.”
There was a long, hopeless silence. At last he said dully: