Malcolm Bradbury - The History Man

'That's the essence of it,' says Howard. 'Do you mind if I criticize,' asks Miss Callendar, 'with my imperfect expertise?'

'Do,' says Howard, 'Well, it's a tale of fine feeling,' says Miss Callendar, 'it's certainly got more psychology than Mr Carmody's. It's less ironic and detached, more a piece of late nineteenth-century realism. But his has more plot and event. I mean, in his, Miss Phee needs help quite frequently. And then you have to nip off one evening and help Dr Beniform, and then there's the little episode with me, not treated in your version at all, though I found it quite significant.'

'It's hardly relevant,' says Howard. 'That's not very kind,' says Miss Callendar, 'one hates not to be of the essence. Relegated to a minor sub-plot. In his version I'm quite a rounded character.'

'I'm not sure where you fit,' says Howard, 'since I thought the point of his story was that I'm giving good marks to Miss Phee for corrupt reasons.'

'That's right,' says Miss Callendar, 'his story does have an ending. Where you hand out the As and Bs. For her overall performance, as they say.'

'Whereas the point of my story is that if I did grade Miss Phee for her performance it wouldn't be As and Bs.'

'Yes,' says Miss Callendar, 'I see that. Well, there we are. It shows how different a story can be if you change the point d'appui, the angle of vision.'

'Angle of vision!' says Howard, 'That man's followed me everywhere, tracked my movements, photographed me through curtains, and then built a lie out of it. He's a fine angle of vision.'

'An outside eye's sometimes illuminating,' says Miss Callendar, 'and of course, as Henry James says, the house of fiction has many windows. Your trouble is you seem to have stood in front of most of them.'

'Look, Miss Callendar,' says Howard, 'these aren't just two little stories, for your bright critical intelligence to play with.'

'No,' says Miss Callendar, 'there's more at stake. But the trouble is I don't find your story's complete. I don't think you're telling me everything. I don't know what you want of Carmody, I don't know what you want of me. There's a plot you haven't given.'

'I don't know whether you know how much is at stake,' says Howard. 'You realize that Carmody's spied on me every day, and made up a story out of what he's seen that could cost me my job?'

'You could say he was trying to make sense of you,' says Miss Callendar. 'For God's sake,' says Howard, 'he's probably outside there right now, on a ladder, making up a story about me taking your clothes off.'

'Does he lie?' asks Miss Callendar, 'Isn't there some truth?'

'I'm not taking your clothes off,' says Howard. 'He's not out there,' says Miss Callendar, putting down her knitting on the table, and staring at him with wet eyes. 'He's got an appointment now. He's seeing the Vice-Chancellor.'

'Giving him his angle of vision,' says Howard. 'Yes,' says Miss Callendar, 'I'm sorry, I really am. Is it true that you could lose your job? All he wants is a chance.'

'There's a thing called gross moral turpitude,' says Howard, 'it's a very vague concept, especially these days. But-I have political enemies who'd pin anything onto me they could.'

'Oh, God,' says Miss Callendar, 'this is why I came home. I just couldn't stand it. That awful, prying meeting this morning. I've been so worried about both of you.'

'About him?' asks Howard. 'He's a blackmailer and a fascist. You worried about him?'

'He's not a fascist, he's a person,' says Miss Callendar, 'he's a boy, and he's silly and frightened, because you frightened him. He's behaved wickedly and ridiculously. I've told him, I've attacked him. But he thinks you're out to destroy him, just because he is what he is, and he's struggling for his survival.'

'That's right,' says Howard. 'In other words, the classic fascist psychology. When everything's going in your favour, you claim belief in the values of decency and convention. But when your position's challenged, to hell with all that. Fight for self-interest with everything you can lay your hands on.'

'But what have you been doing with him?' asks Miss Callendar. 'You boxed him in a corner, and wouldn't let him out. You said on Thursday you might teach him again. Why did you say that?'

'You know why,' says Howard. 'You were playing with him to reach me,' says Miss Callendar. 'Look,' says Howard, 'while we were talking, he was spying. He's not worth your compassion.'

'He's a sad case,' says Miss Callendar, 'appealing for assistance. Like your Miss Phee. But one you bed and one you punish.'

'One's a person, and one's not,' says Howard. 'You're dangerously misdirecting your compassion. Look at him. Inspect his cropped little haircut, his polished shoes. Think about that arrogant, imperial manner. He expects the world to dance to his tune. If it doesn't, he smashes out. He can't face life or reality. He feels nothing except terror at being threatened by those who are actually doing some living. That's the meaning of his story. That's the person you're supporting.'

'I've done no more than I should, as his adviser,' says Miss Callendar, 'and rather less than you've done for Miss Phee.'

'No,' says Howard, 'you've believed him. You told me that. He offered an explanation of what you couldn't understand.'

'I haven't accepted his charge,' says Miss Callendar, 'I have believed what he saw to be true.'

'You haven't also helped him see it?' asks Howard. Miss Callendar looks at Howard; she says, 'What do you mean?' Howard says, 'It was on Tuesday Carmody and I had our fight. But he knows all about Monday night. About Felicity Phee and me in the basement. He must have been standing just about where you were standing, at exactly the same time, to know that.'

'You think I told him?' asks Miss Callendar, 'I didn't.'

'Did you see him that night, when you left?' asks Howard. 'Where was he?'

'I don't know,' says Miss Callendar, 'but I didn't tell him.'

'How do I know?' asks Howard. 'You don't,' says Miss Callendar. 'No,' says Howard.

Miss Callendar gets up out of her chair. She stands in front of the fire; she picks up a glass globe from the mantelpiece. There is a tiny village scene inside the globe; when she picks it up, snowflakes start to foam within the glass. Howard gets up too; he says, 'Do you understand what I'm saying to you?' Miss Callendar looks up; she says, 'Why do you blame me?'

'You've got to make your choice,' says Howard. 'Where you are. Who you're with. Whose story you accept.'

'I like to be fair,' says Miss Callendar. 'You can't be,' says Howard. 'Do you know where you're going? You're going his way. You'll end up just like him.'

'What do you mean?' says Miss Callendar. 'Look at this room you've shut yourself up in,' says Howard. 'It speaks what you are.' Miss Callendar looks round her room, at the chintz armchairs, the standard lamp, the prints on the walls. 'It's a very convenient room,' she says. 'It's a faded place,' says Howard, 'somewhere where you can hide, and protect yourself against anything that's growing now. Life and sexuality and love. Don't you hide?'

'I like to be a little elusive,' says Miss Callendar. 'He's destroyed himself, and you will too,' says Howard. 'You'll dry up, you'll wither, you'll hate and grudge, in ten years you'll be nothing, a neurotic little old lady.'

'It's a very nice room,' says Miss Callendar. Howard says: 'Freud once gave a very economical definition of neurosis. He said it was an abnormal attachment to the past.' Miss Callendar's face is very white; her dark eyes stare out of it. 'I don't want this,' she says, 'I can't bear this.'

'You've got to forget him,' says Howard, putting his hand over the hand that holds the little glass snowstorm, 'You've got to be with me.'

'I shouldn't have let you in,' says Miss Callendar. 'What did you do to him?'