Walker Percy: Lancelot

THOUGH THE SETTING OF THIS novel appears to be New Orleans and the River Road, this city and this famous road are used here as place names of an imaginary terrain. The River Road does not really run into “Feliciana Parish.” In fact there is no Feliciana Parish now. There is no “English Coast” that I know of. There is an English Turn, but it is downriver not upriver from New Orleans. Felicity Street does cross Annunciation Street in New Orleans, but not near Lafayette Cemetery. Lafayette Cemetery does exist, but there is no jail or hospital or levee next to it. Murders and house burnings have occurred on River Road, but none, as far as I know, like those herein depicted. There never was a house named Belle Isle. There was a house named Northumberland in Spanish West Florida but it no longer stands. Nor do the characters bear any intentional relation to real persons living or dead.

COME INTO MY CELL. Make yourself at home. Take the chair; I’ll sit on the cot. No? You prefer to stand by the window? I understand. You like my little view. Have you noticed that the narrower the view the more you can see? For the first time I understand how old ladies can sit on their porches for years.

Don’t I know you? You look very familiar. I’ve been feeling rather depressed and I don’t remember things very well. I think I am here because of that or because I committed a crime. Perhaps both. Is this a prison or a hospital or a prison hospital? A Center for Aberrant Behavior? So that’s it. I have behaved aberrantly. In short, I’m in the nuthouse.

I feel certain that I know you and know you well. It’s not that I’m crazy and can’t remember things but rather that the past doesn’t seem worth remembering. It takes such an effort. Everything takes a tremendous effort and it’s hardly worth the trouble — everything except staying in my little cell and looking at my little view.

A cell like this, whether prison or not, is not a bad place to spend a year, believe it or not. I think I have been here a year. Perhaps two. Perhaps six months. I am not sure. A clean cell, a high ceiling, a cot, a chair, and a desk. It’s not too cold or hot or damp and the food’s edible. A remarkable prison! Or a remarkable hospital as the case may be. And a view, even if the view is nothing more than a patch of sky, a corner of Lafayette Cemetery, a slice of levee, and a short stretch of Annunciation Street.

Isn’t that all you can see? No, look again. There’s a great deal more. I know that narrow world by heart and I can tell you from here a few things you may not have noticed. For example, if you lean into the embrasure and crane to the left as far as possible, you can see part of a sign around the corner. By the utmost effort and if you press your temple against the bricks, you can make out the following letters:

Free &

Ma

B

Notice that it is impossible to see more than that. I have looked at that sign for a year. What does the sign say? Free & Easy Mac’s Bowling? Free & Accepted Masons’ Bar? Do Masons have bars?

My memory is coming back. I think you have something to do with it. When I saw you in the hall yesterday, I knew that we had known each other and closely. Haven’t we? It’s been years and you’ve changed a great deal, but I know you all right.

When our eyes met, there was the sense of our having gone through a great deal together, wasn’t there? There was also the sense of your knowing a great deal more than I. You opened your mouth as if you were going to say something, then thought better of it. I feel like an alcoholic who knows certain people only when he is drunk. You are like a tactful “drunk” friend who is willing not be acknowledged at certain times.

Yes, I asked you to come. Are you a psychiatrist or a priest or a priest-psychiatrist? Frankly, you remind me of something in between, one of those failed priests who go into social work or “counseling.” or one of those doctors who suddenly decides to go to the seminary. Neither fish nor fowl. If you’re a priest, why don’t you wear priest clothes instead of those phony casuals? You’re as bad as the nuns. What nuns don’t realize is that they look better in nun clothes than in J. C. Penney pantsuits.

You’re the first person I’ve wanted to see. I’ve refused all psychiatrists, ministers, priests, group therapy, and whatnot. After all, what is there to talk about? I’ve nothing to say and am certainly not interested in what they say.

No, what first struck me about you was that you’re the only person around here who doesn’t want to talk. That and an abstracted look in which I recognize a certain kinship of spirit. That plus the fact that I knew you and saw that you knew me even better.

What? Yes, of course I remember Belle Isle and the night it burned and the tragedy, the death, the deaths of … But I think that was because I’ve been told about it and have even been shown the newspapers.

But you … I actually remember you. We were close, weren’t we? You see. I’ve been rather depressed and “in the dark” and only lately have managed to be happy just living in this room and enjoying the view. But when I saw you yesterday, it was like seeing myself. I had the sense of being overtaken by something, by the past, by myself. One look at that same old sardonic expression of yours and it was as if I suddenly remembered everything and was not even surprised. I even knew what you were going to say when you shook your head and opened your mouth to say something and didn’t say it. You were going to say as usual, weren’t you. “For Christ’s sake, Lance, what have you gone and done now?” Or something like that. Right?

Only later that night I remembered that I remembered something on my own hook, without being told. My own name. Lance. Rather remembered your liking to pronounce all of it: “Lancelot Andrewes Lamar,” you used to say. “You were named after the great Anglican divine, weren’t you? Shouldn’t it have been Lancelot du Lac, King Ban of Benwick’s son?”

It was as if I remembered everything but could not quite bring myself to focus on it.

I perceive that you’re not a patient but that something is wrong with you. You’re more abstracted than usual. Are you in love?

You’re smiling. Smiling but not saying anything. You have to leave? Will you come tomorrow?

COME IN, COME IN. Sit down. You still won’t? I have a confession to make. I was not quite honest yesterday when I pretended not to know you. I knew you perfectly well. There’s nothing wrong with my memory. It’s just that I don’t like to remember. Why shouldn’t I remember you? We were best of friends, in fact inseparable if you recall. It’s just that it was quite a shock seeing you after all these years. No; not even that is true. I noticed you in the cemetery day before yesterday. Still I hardly knew what to say to you. What do you say to someone after twenty years when you have already said everything.

It bothers you a bit too, doesn’t it? You are shy with me. But you like my window and my little view, I can see.

You still look doubtful. About my sanity? Well yes, after all, here I am in the nuthouse. But I remember you perfectly, everything we ever did, every name you ever had. We knew each other by several names depending on the oblique and obscure circumstances of our lives — and our readings. I bet I remember your names better than you. To begin with, you were simply Harry, when you lived at Northumberland close to us on the River Road and we went to school together. Later you were known variously as Harry Hotspur, a misnomer because though you were pugnacious you were not much of a fighter. Also as Prince Hal, because you seemed happy only in whorehouses. Also as Northumberland, after the house you lived in. Also as Percival and Parsifal, who found the Grail and brought life to a dead land. Also by several cheerful obscene nicknames in the D.K.E. fraternity of which the least objectionable was Pussy. Miss Margaret Mae McDowell of Sweet Briar, I want you to meet my friend and roommate, Pussy. Later, I understand you took a religious name when you became a priest: John, a good name. But is it John the Evangelist who loved so much or John the Baptist, a loner out in the wilderness? You were a loner.