Nicholas Mosley - A Garden of Trees

The door was unlocked and Marius pushed it and went in. In the drawing-room Annabelle and a man with golden hair were sitting at the piano playing chopsticks. The man was humming and not getting the playing right. As we came in he stopped and said “Ha!” at Marius, and Annabelle went on playing the bass. Marius said, “That’s Peter.” He nodded to me.

“Can you play chopsticks?” Annabelle said. “No one else can.” I remembered how the corners of her eyes were wrinkled.

“Yes,” I said. I sat down on the stool with her, and we played. She played very quickly to try me out, and I kept up with her. I could see her laughing to herself as she went faster and faster, and she put out her tongue between her teeth. The golden-haired man watched us and tried to join in at the top of the piano, but he couldn’t get it right, so he thumped on the keys with his fists. It was a huge piano, and it made a lot of noise. Marius was standing by the window holding a corner of the curtain back and looking out like a detective. Then Annabelle stopped playing suddenly and sat back with her hands in the lap of her bright red dress. “You play very well,” she said.

“It’s not very difficult,” I said.

“No.” She lifted her hand and pushed a curl from her cheek behind her ear. We were close to each other on the stool, and I was leaning away from her rather twisted. “Can you play properly?” she said.

“No,” I said.

“Play something,” she said, still sitting, with her hands back in her lap.

I played an old waltz, which was the only thing I knew. I played it badly, thumping it. I had learned it at school. I got some of the notes wrong.

“How impressive,” she said. “Can you play anything else?”

“No,” I said. “Can you?”

She played the same thing as I had done, but beautifully, as it should be played.

“How rude,” said the golden-haired man. “Don’t you think my sister is rude?”

“Is she your sister?” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “My beautiful sister.”

“I hope you are pleased,” Annabelle said, finishing off with a flourish.

Peter turned away from us, and Annabelle sat sideways so that I could see her throat. “Marius,” Peter said, “come away from that window. There is nothing to see.”

Marius smiled and came into the middle of the room and watched us.

“The great thing about Marius,” Peter said, “is that he never speaks. That’s a great thing to learn. It’s always so inspiring. The only time that I have ever inspired anyone was when I had an infected larynx and couldn’t speak. It was at a dinner party and I never said a word. They all thought I was marvelous.”

“We haven’t seen you for a long time,” Annabelle said to me.

“I’ve been away,” I said.

“I’m sure Napoleon never spoke,” Peter said. “I’m sure he never said a word. Do you think he did, Marius?”

“I’m sure he did,” Marius said.

“I don’t think so. Of course it’s foolish to speak. You can never say anything so wise as what people think you might say if you don’t.”

“It depends what you look like,” Marius said.

“I look like a lobster,” Peter said, staring at a mirror.

Annabelle said to me “I am so glad you’ve found us. I was wondering if we would ever see you again.”

“I was wondering if you would remember me.”

“Oh yes,” she said.

Peter was walking round the room. He was saying “Of course it’s all right for you. You’ve got the face for it. People think you are like a God when you don’t say anything. And Gods have got to be silent, or else they would make fools of themselves. What on earth could a God say that would make any sense?”

“I don’t know,” Marius said.

“Nothing. They can’t make sense so they don’t say anything. Very sensible. How terrible it would be to be a God!”

“Why?” Annabelle said.

“Because of their conscience. Think of God’s conscience! Man’s is bad enough, but think of God’s!”

“You can’t,” Annabelle said.

“I can. And it makes me sick.”

“That’s silly,” Annabelle said, and again I saw something frightening in her alarming eyes.

Marius sat down. “I have seen Mr. Jackson,” he said.

“And finished it?”

“Yes. Mr. Jackson was a communist,” Marius said to me.

“Oh,” I said.

“I was rude to him and then we were rude to someone who perhaps is his opposite. Mr. Jackson is quite right, it is difficult to find any other alternative.”

“It is easy to look,” Peter said.

“One is, sooner or later, rude to everyone. One is rude until there is no one left to be rude to. Then one is rude to oneself.”

“Why don’t you stop?” Annabelle said.

“But we are only just starting!” Peter said. “It is impossible to start anything until one has been rude to everything. Now you have been rude to this communist you are rid of him. When we are rid of everyone we will begin!”

“Begin what?” Annabelle said.

“Whatever happens. We have to be rid of things first. We have to stop worrying about things that don’t matter.”

The telephone rang. Annabelle went to answer it. I watched her as she walked across the room. She stood holding the receiver loosely to her ear, with her thigh propped against a table. She was looking at Marius who was sitting in a chair with his overcoat on. She spoke vaguely into the receiver—“Oh hullo, yes no. . no I can’t, not to-night. . if you like, yes, do. . oh just Peter and one or two other people. All right, we’ll expect you then.” The red of her dress was vivid against the paleness of the room, like a rose-leaf floating in a bowl of silver. She put down the receiver and unhitched herself from the table. “Freddie,” she said, “Freddie Naylor.” She walked over to Marius, pushing the curls to the back of her long white neck.

“Now,” Peter said, “we can be rude to him.”

“He’s all right,” Annabelle said, standing in front of Marius and trying to tell him something.

“He thinks he’s still at school,” Peter said. “He will still think he’s at school for the rest of his life.”

“I think I know him,” I said.

“He is like a dead bird.”

“Yes.”

“Not even stuffed.” Annabelle and Marius were looking at each other like conspirators.

“He might at least have the decency to get stuffed,” Peter said.

Annabelle went up to him. “Shall we have something to eat,” she said, “before they come?”

“We’ll get stuffed,” Peter said.

Annabelle went out of the room. Marius sat in his chair as if he were asleep. I think they had been trying to say something about Peter, but I could not be sure. Peter was walking up and down. He said, “People are either schoolboys or clowns. People are always unhappy. Do you know why clowns are unhappy? Because if you make a business of laughter your leisure can only deal with tears. That is all there is left to you. I think I must be a clown.”

“There is ham and lettuce,” Annabelle called from the kitchen, “and a few potatoes.”

“And the rest are schoolboys. A schoolboy is someone who doesn’t know the difference between business and leisure, who has never laughed and never cried. They function because the rules instruct them to function, and they are blessed with the inability to ever question why.”

“And lots of bread and butter,” Annabelle called.

“Supposing,” Peter said, “that one made a business of tears, would one then be able to laugh in one’s leisure? Would it be possible? Is that what you do, Marius?”

“Do what?” Marius said.

“That is what God does. I am sure that is what God does. That is why he deals in tears. Marius, when you are silent, when people think you are a God, do you want to laugh or cry?”