Джон Пристли - Benighted

Penderel thought he would keep on, though really he had nothing to say. He was like a hostess himself. But they seemed to like it, and it eased the situation. "Now that's not true," he cried. "I have imagination, and we imaginative fellows are always behind the scenes, and so we suffer with all our hosts and hostesses but must only smile and smile, like true guests. Women don't suffer like that, do they, Mrs. Waverton, because though they know what's going on when they are guests, they don't identify themselves with it, but stand on their dignity as guests and are as aloof as High Court judges."

"No, they don"t, Mr. Penderel." She was sharp but very friendly. She liked him much better here than she had done in the outside world, in civilisation. "They only appear to do. It's no use: you can't deceive us. You don't understand women at all. You don't know anything about them."

"That's true," Penderel confessed. "I don't understand "em. I don't even pretend to. Another thing, I don't like the fellows who do."

"Neither do I," said Philip. "It's a funny thing, but the men who write little books about women, or lecture about them, or pretend to specialise in them in their novels are always complete bounders. You must have noticed that, Penderel?" He had said this before – he could almost read the number of times in Margaret's glance, demure, amused, tolerant – but he spoke with conviction. The thought of those greasy experts suddenly annoyed him.

"I have noticed it." Penderel was very emphatic. "They're nasty, crawly lads, who'd be better employed selling lipsticks. Why women themselves can't see it, I don't know. They seem to love "em."

"There you go again!" Margaret was amused by the pair of them, so intolerant and self-righteous, so young mannish. "I believe the secret of your hostility is simple jealousy. You're both jealous because these men seem to be so attractive." They instantly denied the charge, but let her continue. "And anyhow, sensible women don't like them very much, probably don't like them at all in their heart of hearts. But one can't help being interested and curious, of course."

"One can," said Philip, gloomily, "or one ought to try. Too many people are interested and curious nowadays. We're all becoming tasters. We sit at the back of our minds watching our sensations like people at a music hall, and we find ourselves yawning between the turns. It's impossible to be happy, or even cheerful, that way. I'm no better than anybody else; we seem to be all alike. But I do draw the line somewhere. If some silly bounder of a woman became a Man expert, and wrote little books or went round lecturing on Man, I wouldn't waste a minute reading her or go a yard to hear her talk. Very few men would."

"No, and simply because you are all so conceited," Margaret told him. She was beginning to enjoy this, and for the moment had even forgotten where they were. "We're so anxious to have men's opinion because we're not conceited, though, thank goodness, we're beginning to lose our silly humility. You are convinced that no woman could tell you anything worth hearing about yourselves; but even if you thought she could, you'd still take care to keep out of the way so that your complacency shouldn't be disturbed."

"There's something in that," Philip admitted, and immediately thought how complacent he sounded. Was he really? Margaret was waking up delightfully, suddenly flowering in this darkness.

Penderel was staring about him. "I suppose this counts as dining-out. In a day or two we shall be able to say: 'The other night when I dined with the Femms.' That brings it down to commonplace, lets the daylight in, with a crash. I don't know why it should, but it does."

"I'm glad it does," said Philip. "I like the commonplace. It's the little trim lighted bit of life, with God-knows-what waiting for you if you just go over the edge. Some people I know say they hate waking in the morning and leaving their dreams, but it seems to me that either they must lead a ghastly waking life or they must be crazy. I'm always glad to wake in the morning and find myself out of my dreams, which always turn me into a poor shaking barbarian wandering in the dark, compelled to do some idiotic thing with terror all round me. Ordinary life's bad enough, but it's a prince to the stuff we spin out of our rotten unconsciousnesses every night. Don't you think so?"

"I'm not sure." Penderel stopped to consider the question. "I think I must be one of the other people. I often have a splendid time in dreams, and hate waking up. Perhaps when I wake up, I land into one of your dreams. It sounds like it from your description of them, which seems to me a fair account of life on some days. Perhaps we're all mixed up, your dreams are my waking life, and so on."

"Just like Alice, in 'Through the Looking Glass,' you know," said Margaret. "She was told she was only part of the King's dreams – was it the Red King or the White one? – and didn't she begin to cry? I remember how I used to be awfully sorry for her."

"Yes. Supposing that Mr. Femm there was dreaming us!" And then Penderel was sorry he had spoken. He thought Mrs. Waverton looked startled, as if she had suddenly remembered something that had been forgotten during their prattle. But what could she have remembered? Simply that they were here. Or had she learned something while she was out of the room with the queer Miss Femm? Perhaps she knew what he did not know, namely, why Mr. Femm was so frightened. How strange if she were harbouring, behind that bright face, some fearful piece of knowledge, the image of some terrifying shape!

"More likely that we're dreaming them." Philip lowered his voice. "Not Femm himself perhaps, though he's queer enough. But the other two. They're just the kind of people I might dream about, particularly that great dumb fellow – what's his name? – Morgan. He's the worst."

Margaret could not resist it. "The other one, Phil, Miss Femm – - " she whispered.

He lowered his head. "What about her?"

"She's a horror."

Philip looked at her quickly, then pretended indignation. "Well, that's a fine thing to say about your hostess."

"No, I mean it, Phil. She's a horror. She makes me feel sick. I don't want to go near her."

Philip was serious now. "Why, what's she been doing?"

"Oh nothing, really. It's not that, it's just what she is . I'll tell you later." Margaret turned round to find Mr. Femm almost at her elbow. Supper was ready, he told them.

The coldest of cold suppers awaited them on the table. There was the red ruin of a great joint of beef, a dish of cold potatoes, and plenty of bread, butter and cheese. Miss Femm, with her eyes narrowed and her mouth folded away, was already seated on the left-hand side. Philip and Margaret sat down on the near side; Mr. Femm seated himself opposite his sister; and Penderel marched round to the other side and sat down with his back to the front door. Morgan, looking more sullen than ever, hung about behind Miss Femm.

Philip looked round the table and fell to wondering. When he had first taken leave of the car and the rain and the darkness, his senses had been blunted and he had merely enjoyed, in a numb fashion, the shelter and the warmth and the feeling of security. Now his senses were sharp again and he began to tease himself with questions. Penderel caught his eye and grinned. This was Penderel's idea of a night, he told himself. It wasn't his. And then he suddenly admitted to himself that he didn't like this house and the people in it. These people had lived too long away from everybody and were now half crazy, and the house was musty with their mutual suspicion and resentment. Even Femm himself, who was at least civilised, was unsavoury in some queer way. Fine thoughts, these, for an uninvited guest about to diminish these people's small store of food.