Anna Kavan - The Parson

Asleep, almost, on his feet, he was at his wits’ end, unable to evolve the simplest plan. Finally, in desperation, he threw the bundle across the room and fell into bed, unconscious even before his head was on the hard pillow.

*

Oswald never stirred when his sister came in a little while with a tray of food. She looked at the handsome, blond young fellow lying there, lost and drowned in sleep, dead to the world, and saw that he was not to be roused. As she was going out again, she noticed the bundle of clothes on the floor; and her face, which had been muted and rather sad, sharpened in that curiosity her brother found so repulsive. She stooped to investigate, pulling the bundle open a little; then, still with the same hungry, inquiring expression, took it away with her, closing the door softly so as not to disturb the sleeper.

It would have taken a far louder noise than that of a door to wake him just then. Sleep was his vital need, and he had to have it. It was his one possibility of escape from an insupportable situation. If only he could go on sleeping until he was back on duty again and his troubles were over, was his last thought, as he had the impression of hurling himself deliberately into the black abyss opening to receive him.

In the morning, instead of coming fully awake as usual, in possession of all his faculties, as at the sound of a ghostly bugle, he woke reluctantly, climbing laboriously and against his will out of the dark gulf where he had lain without moving the whole night long. If only he need not wake but could remain there, ignorant and innocent, as he’d been in his sleep! But it was no use wishing, already he was back again in his life. Before he’d even opened his eyes, he felt the events of yesterday lying in wait for him. He remembered, and pressed his eyelids together to shut out the light, unwilling to face the shame of existing.

However, the intervening hours of sound sleep had fulfilled their function, removing the actuality of Bannenberg a little from him. The guilty horror was slightly less immediate; he could think of it now as he could not have done before.

Yesterday he had refused absolutely to admit that passion had made him act like a wild animal. Now, though it was still torture even to glance at the fact, he saw that, if ever he was to be reconciled to himself, he would have to accept the truth and learn to endure it. He even saw dimly that this might be possible. Eventually. But not yet. The thing was too recent. The memory too agonizing, too raw.

Even the partial recognition, which was all he could so far achieve, had already, during these first waking moments, filled him with such sick self-disgust, such distaste for living, that he didn’t know how he was to go on. How could he bear his existence, through all the years stretching ahead? If only he could have stayed asleep! But the black abyss, into which he had plunged last night, now seemed quite out of his reach, not to be attained until it closed over his head for ever. And what a long dreary time of misery he would have to live through first!

As it had to be lived through, because he had to remain alive, he must forget about what he had done. He took this for granted, as if he couldn’t possibly be required to face life in full consciousness of his guilt. He couldn’t endure it, no man could, it would not be expected of him. So, as a temporary expedient only, he again thrust the memory of Bannenberg out of sight, down into the deepest depths of himself. He did it because he must, if his life must go on.

He looked round the room, instinctively seeking some well-known reassurance that had always been there before, but today, when most needed, was unaccountably not forthcoming. An indefinable air of estrangement about the walls and the familiar objects around him transformed him into a stranger in their midst. He was no longer at home here. Oppressed by his reluctance to start the day, to take up the burden of living again, he was still lying in bed; and this unprecedented sloth made him feel even more of a stranger to himself, and to all around him.

Because he’d just ceased to remember yesterday with any distinctness, at first he didn’t think of his clothes. But when he noticed that the bundle had gone, the shock roused him effectively. Jumping out of bed, he looked quickly around, making sure that the things were not anywhere in the room; then, hurriedly, automatically, he started to dress, his mind all the while gripped separate in apprehension. He couldn’t ask himself why he was so disturbed by the bundle’s disappearance without reviving his guilty shame, of which he was now aware only as the numbed pain of an internal wound, bearable as it was, but liable to become agonizing again at the least touch — at a glance even. It must at all costs be shielded, hidden; his whole being seemed to turn inwards and close round it protectively, to keep it secret. Nobody must know about it, or even guess it was there.

He knew the bundle was somehow connected with this shameful secret wound. Could it lead to its exposure? His obscure dread was that it might in some way betray his secret. What a fool he had been not to lock his door against Vera’s detestable curiosity, for of course she must have taken the things. Full of animosity towards her, the moment he was ready he ran downstairs, knowing he’d find her in the kitchen, preparing breakfast, before their mother came down.

*

The first thing he saw there when he opened the door was the missing garments, clean and pressed, hanging neatly over the back of a chair. Unprepared for this, he was taken aback, and stood staring, while Vera explained, without leaving the stove, how she hadn’t disturbed him the night before but had brought down his clothes to clean them while their mother was out of the way.

Oswald thanked her uncomfortably, thinking that no one could have been kinder, more helpful. Why wasn’t he grateful? Why did he still feel unfriendly? Dimly he perceived that it wasn’t only that he distrusted Vera — he didn’t want the contact of friendliness with her or with anyone. He who had always been sociable and warm-hearted, was shut off alone, in the dark enclosure of himself. He wondered at it a little without understanding, feeling isolated as he had never been.

All at once, he knew his sister’s eyes were upon him and he looked at her. Although she averted them hurriedly, he’d already caught their sidelong, searching glance of sharp, hungry curiosity, which infuriated and frightened him like a glimpse of the devil.

‘What are you staring at?’ he asked, coldly hostile. A sort of frenzied suspicion surged up in him. She seemed to be trying to uncover his secret wound, round which he clutched himself still more tightly, standing there rigid, tense with exasperation; while she remained silent, her face turned from him, hurt by the way he had spoken.

In reality, she was a pathetic person. She’d seen her fate clearly when her two sisters left home, doomed to stay there as long as her mother lived, and had forced herself to accept the position. But she couldn’t force herself not to resent her frustration in life and love, or not to be ashamed of her ignorance, which she felt was degrading. Since she was to be denied the experience of passionate love, someone should at least tell her something about it, to save her from the ignominy of her absolute ignorance. And only Oswald could do so — she couldn’t possibly ask her mother. Always brooding, the obsessed girl had come to believe that he knew of the craving, tormenting her all the time, worse than an aching tooth. Surely he couldn’t be so heartless as to leave it unsatisfied?

By speaking kindly to her for a moment when he came home last night he had raised her hopes. In the midnight silence, working over his clothes, she’d made an imaginary bargain with him, persuading herself that, in return, he would tell her something of those mysteries she was longing to share. There must be a connection between his love affair and the stains she was patiently sponging away; so here was a readymade opening, the subject would come up naturally, of itself.