Philip Wylie - The Other Horseman

England had fallen in a coma. America was still in a coma. Dead, was Hitler’s diagnosis.

But England was not dead and, Jimmie thought, it would take half the men in Germany to kill England. America, though, was still asleep, still deep in a half-dream, half-recollection—a backward-looking fuguelike memory of “good times” that were good only because history had retained a solitary aspect of them. He considered that last, great “good time”—the reckless spree of the 1920’s—when so many men alive today had assisted at the drunk debauch—and suffered in the subsequent hangover—and were now busy with the single wish that they could get drunk again, regardless of the consequences.

Mr. Corinth yawned. “The English,” Jimmie said, “are learning about democracy.”

“The hard way. People learn best—the hard way. Sometimes I catch myself passionately hoping that the war will go on long enough so that the bombers will sweep over some American cities and give them the-the lesson of the hard way. We need it. Material luxury doesn’t postulate eternal, world-wide luxury for the human spirit—even if the advertisers and the popular psychologists try to persuade us of it. I could do without the philosophy of looking on the bright side. Too damned blinding. You can’t see the reaching shadows till the claws they stem from have you by the throat—if you’re a ‘bright-side looker,’ a ‘keep smiling’ idiot, a self-pronounced optimist. No attitude means anything unless it jells with the facts. Or unless it is transmitted into action that changes facts. We try to maintain attitudes without action, and irrespective of fact. What we need is the critical attitude. A reverence for skilled iconoclasm, a recognition of the values on the dark side. Yeah, Jimmie, I sometimes wish the bombs would drop.”

Jimmie shrugged. “I remember one morning, in a little mess of rubble, in London. There was a kid—a girl about ten—with her mother, ambling about meaninglessly and looking at everything. The child’s mother was out on her feet. But not the youngster. She talked to me—about the scene. She said, ‘The trouble with death is, it’s so— soiling .’”

Mr. Corinth winced slightly. “Mmm. And life is soiling, too, Jimmie. You’ve got to keep scrubbing your brains and your soul. One bath doesn’t cleanse a man for a lifetime. That’s the trouble with conversion.” The old man smiled gently and changed the subject without altering his expression or his tone: “How’s Audrey?”

Jimmie jumped. “I dunno. Haven’t seen her since day after I arrived.”

The corners of the old man’s eyes crinkled. “She sure must have made a big impression, anyhow, to be avoided for so long!”

“Funny way to figure.”

“Is it? I’ll tell you how to figure. First, figure out how you feel. Then, what you think. Next, figure the opposite of both. Finally, integrate the whole business. At that point you get an answer. There’s not an idea that hasn’t a true opposite. There’s not a human feeling that doesn’t set up the possibility· of its opposite. There’s not an act you can perform without instituting the potentiality of performing an opposite act. Newton’s law of action and reaction applies in the brain and in the soul. It applies to history as much as shotguns. Who you are in the end is entirely a matter of what choices you make between constant opposites. Applying the law, I guess that if you haven’t seen Audrey she is important to you. I could be wrong if I didn’t know she was important, the first time.”

Jimmie considered. “She mailed me all her diaries,” he said, finally, in an uncertain tone.

Mr. Corinth looked at him for a moment, and he threw back his head in a spasm of his soundless laughter. “What a woman! Have you read ’em yet?”

“Of course not!”

“I accept the ‘not’ and reject the ‘of course.’ I asked you to examine the lady without reference to her dazzling exterior. Impressed by your exterior—or something—she has tendered you an unparalleled opportunity to do that very thing. You, however, have ignored the chance, and probably hidden the diaries someplace.”

Jimmie grinned. “I’ll read ’em tonight.”

“Nope. You’ll bring them here, and I’ll read them.”

Jimmie shook his head. “That wasn’t in the contract.”

“I have her permission.”

“You have!”

“Yeah. She phones me every day.”

“Phones you!”

“To ask how you are.”

“Good Lord!”

The old man laughed again. “There’s one thing I now discern about Audrey. She is determined. She is as mulish and persevering as her father—a man you ought to meet, incidentally. One can only hope, in the case of an overweaning spirit like Audrey’s, that it will be oriented towards good causes.”

Jimmie shook his head helplessly.

Mr. Corinth looked at his watch—a monstrous contraption that stuffed his pocket like a goose egg. “I’ll have one of my truck drivers run you up to your house for the diaries. By the time you get back your lab ought to be habitable again.”

JIMMIE RODE to his home in the front seat of a pick-up truck, with a driver who chewed a toothpick and talked with enthusiasm and detail about State’s chances in the Conference. It was a long time—an age, an era—back to the days when Jimmie had thought about football. He did not know the names of the State players any more; he did not understand the rules by which the game was now played. But he made the seedy youth’s eyes bug out by saying, “I’ll have to see some games. I played for State once.

Won my letter. At end. My brother too. Biff Bailey.”

The man said, “My Lord, you aren’t Biff Bailey’s brother!” Jimmie laughed and pointed out the house. The truck stopped and he loped up the walk. Westcott was sweeping the porch. The front door yawned. So Jimmie went through it, in long, silent bounds, and up the stairs to his room. He threw the door open.

Sarah was lying on his bed, reading. Reading a gilt-edged, leather-bound book.

There were two piles of such books—equal-sized piles—on the counterpane beside her.

The bolster propped her head. She had kicked off her pumps. Her feet were lifted in the air and twisting. Her cheeks had a high, red sheen and her eyes glittered. She did not even look up when the door opened. She said, tensely, “Come in, Mother. I’ve found something priceless! ”

Jimmie felt his face blanch, as if his blood were heavy and the weight of it had dropped down into his belly and turned into iron.

“Come in! It’s—!” Sarah looked.

Jimmie went in and turned and closed the door.

The swift-changing complexion of her thoughts was in her eyes. Shock, fear, a search for an alibi, and the discovery of one. Then a short struggle for self-mastery. “I was cleaning out the closets! I found these! You can’t expect a girl to resist such a temptation.”

He said nothing.

“How did you get them?” Her blue eyes were certain, now. She interpreted his silence as guilty panic.

“What else did you find?”

“Oh, when I snoop I’m thorough! I found a picture of an English girl. You could tell she was English a mile away—by her bad clothes. Sloppy. I made the obvious mental note that she resembled our Audrey—the author, here. Quite a bit. She’s like a dowdy, spiritual Audrey. Who is she?”

“And what else?”

“Nothing. I found these and I started reading. I don’t think any novel I ever read was half as—as absorbing. Of course, I know a good many of the characters. That makes a difference. In fact, one or two of them were courting me—in a nice way—when they were courting Audrey, or vice versa—in a way that isn’t quite so nice. It’s all very interesting—and disillusioning. I rather thought I knew my stuff in this village. I begin to realize, though, that I’m a piddling amateur!”