CHAPTER XLIX

 

January 12^th and 14^th 1934

 

It was dark in the little rancho, and from noon till sunset, stiflingly hot; then cold all through the night.  A partition divided the hut into two compartments; in the middle of the first compartment was a hearth of rough stones, and when the fire was lighted for cooking, the smoke filtered slowly away through the chinks in the windowless wooden walls.  The furniture consisted of a stool, two kerosene tins for water, some earthenware cooking-pots, and a stone mortar for grinding maize.  On the further side of the partition were a couple of plank beds on trestles.  It was on one of these that they laid Mark.

      By the following morning he was delirious with fever, and, from knee to knee, the infection had crept downwards, until the leg was swollen almost to the ankle.

      For Anthony, as he sat there in the hot twilight, listening to the mutterings and sudden outcries of this stranger on the bed, there was, for the moment, only one thing to decide.  Should he send the mozo to fetch a doctor and the necessary drugs from Miajutla?  Or should he go himself?

      It was a choice of evils.  He thought of poor Mark, abandoned, alone in the hands of these inept and not too well-intentioned savages.  But even if he himself were there, what could he do with the resources at his disposal?  And suppose the mozo were sent and failed to persuade the doctor to come at once, failed to bring the necessary supplies, failed perhaps to return at all.  Miajutla, as Mark had said, was in the pulque country; there would be oceans of cheap alcohol.  Riding hard, he himself could be back again at Mark's bedside in less than thirty hours.  A white man with money in his pocket, he would be able to bully and bribe the doctor to bestir himself.  Hardly less important, he would know what stores to bring back with him.  His mind was made up.  He rose and, going to the door, called to the mozo to saddle his mule.

      He had ridden for less than two hours when the miracle happened.  Coming round a bend in the track he saw advancing towards him, not fifty yards away, a white man, followed by two Indians, one mounted and one on foot, with a couple of laden baggage-mules.  As they drove together, the white man courteously raised his hat.  The hair beneath it was light brown, grizzled above the ears, and in the deeply bronzed face the blue eyes were startlingly pale.

      'Buenas dias, caballero,' he said.

      There was no mistaking the accent.  'Good-morning,' Anthony replied.

      They reined up their beasts alongside one another and began to talk.

      'This is the first word of English I've heard for seven and a half months,' said the stranger.  He was an elderly little man, short and spare, but with fine upright carriage that lent him a certain dignity.  The face was curiously proportioned, with a short nose and an upper lip unusually long above a wide, rightly shut mouth.  A mouth like an inquisitor's.  But the inquisitor had forgotten himself and learned to smile; there were the potentialities of laughter in the deep folds of skin which separated the quiveringly sensitive corners of the mouth from the cheeks.  And round the bright enquiring eyes those intricate lines seemed the traces and hieroglyphic symbols of a constantly repeated movement of humorous kindliness.  A queer face, Anthony decided, but charming.

      'My name is James Miller,' said the stranger.  'What's yours?'  And when he had been told, 'Are you travelling alone, Anthony Beavis?' he questioned, addressing the other, Quaker fashion, by both his names.

      Anthony told him where he was bound and on what errand.  'I suppose you don't know anything about doctors in Miajutla,' he concluded.

      With a sudden deepening of the hieroglyphs about the eyes, a sudden realization of those potentialities of laughter round the mouth, the little man smiled.  'I know about doctors here,' he said, and tapped himself on the chest.  'M.D. Edinburgh.  And a good supply of  materia medica on those mules, what's more.'  Then, in another tone, 'Come on,' he said briskly.  'Let's get back to that poor friend of yours as quick as we can.'

      Anthony reeled his animal round, and side by side the two men set off up the track.

      'Well, Anthony Beavis,' said the doctor, 'you came to the right address.'

      Anthony nodded.  'Fortunately,' he said, 'I hadn't been praying, otherwise I'd have had to believe in special providence and miraculous interventions.'

      'And that would never do,' the doctor agreed.  'Not that anything ever happens by chance, of course.  One takes the card the conjuror forces on one – the card which one has oneself made it inevitable that he should force on one.  It's a matter of cause and effect.'  Then, without a pause, 'What's your profession?' he asked.

      'I suppose you'd say I was a sociologist.  Was one, at any rate.'

      'Indeed! Is that so?'  The doctor seemed surprised and pleased.  'Mine's anthropology,' he went on.  'Been living with the Lacandones in Chiapas these last months.  Nice people when you get to know them.  And I've collected a lot of material.  Are you married, by the way?'

      'No.'

      'Never been married?'

      'No.'

      Dr Miller shook his head.  'That's bad, Anthony Beavis,' he said.  'You ought to have been.'

      'What makes you say that?'

      'I can see it in your face.  Here, and here.'  He touched his lips, his forehead.  'I was married.  For fourteen years.  Then my wife died.  Blackwater fever it was.  We were working in West Africa then.  She was qualified too.  Knew her job better, in some ways, than I did.'  He sighed.  'You'd have made a good husband, you know.  Perhaps you will do, even now.  How old are you?'

      'Forty-three.'

      'And look younger.  Though I don't like that sallow skin of yours,' he protested with sudden vehemence.  'Do you suffer much from constipation?'

      'Well, no,” Anthony answered, smiling, and wondered whether it would be agreeable if everyone were to talk to one in this sort of way.  A bit tiring, perhaps, to have to treat all the people you meet as human beings, every one of them with a right to know all about you; but more interesting than treating them as objects, as mere lumps of meat dumped down beside you in the bus, jostling you on the pavements.  'Not much,' he qualified.

      'You mean, not manifestly,' said the doctor.  'Any eczema?'

      'Occasional touches.'

      'And the hair tends to be scurfy.'  Dr Miller nodded his own confirmation to this statement.  'And you get headaches, don't you?'

      Anthony had to admit that he sometimes did.

      'And, of course, stiff necks and attacks of lumbago.  I know.  I know.  A few years more and it'll be settled in as sciatica or arthritis.'  The doctor was silent for a moment while he looked enquiringly into Anthony's face.  'Yes, that sallow skin,' he repeated, and shook his head.  'And the irony, the scepticism, the what's-the-good-of-it-all attitude!  Negative really.  Everything you think is negative.'

      Anthony laughed; but laughed to hide a certain disquiet.  This being on human terms with everyone you met could be a bit embarrassing.

      'Oh, don't imagine I'm criticizing!' cried the doctor, and there was a note of genuine compunction in his voice.

      Anthony went on laughing, unconvincingly.

      'Don't get it into your head that I'm blaming you in any way.'

      Stretching out a hand, he patted Anthony affectionately on the shoulder.  'We're all of us what we are; and when it comes to turning ourselves into what we ought to be – well, it isn't easy.  No, it isn't easy, Anthony Beavis.  How can you expect to think in anything but a negative way, when you've got chronic intestinal poisoning?  Had it from birth, I guess.  Inherited it.  And at the same time stooping, as you do.  Slumped down on your mule like that – it's awful.  Pressing down on the vertebrae like a ton of bricks.  One can almost hear the poor things grinding together.  And when the spine's in that state, what happens to the rest of the machine?  It's frightful to think of.'

      'And yet,' said Anthony, feeling a little piqued by this remorseless enumeration of his physical defects, 'I'm still alive.  I'm here to tell the tale.'

      'Somebody's here to tell the tale,' the doctor answered.  'But is he the one you'd like him to be?'

      Anthony did not answer, only smiled uncomfortably.

      'And when that somebody won't be telling the tale much longer, if you're not careful.  I'm serious,' he insisted.  'Perfectly serious.  You've go to change if you want to go on existing.  And if it's a matter of changing – why, you need all the help you can get, from God's to the doctor's.  I tell you this because I like you,' he explained.  'I think you're worth changing.'

      'Thank you,' said Anthony, smiling this time with pleasure.

      'Speaking as a doctor, I'd suggest a course of colonic irrigation to start with.'

      'And speaking for God,' said Anthony, allowing his pleasure to overflow in good-humoured mockery, 'a course of prayer and fasting.'

      'No, not fasting,' the doctor protested very seriously, 'not fasting.  Only a proper diet.  No butcher's meat; it's poison, so far as you're concerned.  And no milk; it'll only blow you up with wind.  Take it in the form of cheese and butter; never liquid.  And a minimum of eggs.  And, of course, only one heavy meal a day.  You don't need half the stuff you're eating.  As for prayer …' He sighed and wrinkled his forehead into a pensive frown.  'I've never really liked it, you know.  Not what's ordinarily meant by prayer, at any rate.  All that asking for special favours and guidances and forgivenesses – I've always found that it tends to make one egotistical, preoccupied with one's own ridiculous self-important little personality.  When you pray in the ordinary way, you're merely rubbing yourself into yourself.  You return to your own vomit, if you see what I mean.  Whereas what we're all looking for is some way of getting beyond our own vomit.'

      Some way, Anthony was thinking, of getting beyond the books, beyond the perfumed and resilient flesh of women, beyond fear and sloth, beyond the painful but secretly flattering vision of the world as menagerie and asylum.

      'Beyond the piddling, twopenny-halfpenny personality,' said the doctor, 'with all its wretched little virtues and vices, all its silly cravings and silly pretensions.  But, if you're not careful, prayer just confirms you in the bad habit of being personal.  I tell you, I've observed it clinically, and it seems to have much the same effect on people as butcher's meat.  Prayer makes you more yourself, more separate.  Just as a rump-steak does.  Look at the correlation between religion and diet.  Christians eat meat, drink alcohol, smoke tobacco; and Christianity exalts personality, insists on the value of petitionary prayer, teaches that God feels anger and approves the persecution of heretics.  It's the same with the Jews and the Moslems.  Kosher and an indignant Jehovah.  Mutton and beef – and personal survival among the houris, avenging Allah and holy wars.  Now look at the Buddhists.  Vegetables and water.  And what's their philosophy?  They don't exalt personality; they try to transcend it.  They don't imagine that God can be angry; when they're unenlightened, they think he's compassionate, and when they're enlightened, they think he doesn't exist, except as an impersonal mind of the universal.  Hence they don't offer petitionary prayer; they meditate – or, in other words, try to merge their own minds in the universal mind.  Finally, they don't believe in special providences for individuals; they believe in a moral order, where every event has its cause and produces its effect – where the card's forced upon you by the conjuror, but only because your previous actions have forced the conjuror to force it upon you.  What worlds away from Jehovah and God the Father and everlasting, individual souls!  The fact is, of course, that we think as we eat.  I eat like a Buddhist, because I find it keeps me well and happy; and the result is that I think like a Buddhist – and, thinking like a Buddhist, I'm confirmed in my determination to eat like one.'

      'And now you're recommending me to eat like one.'

      'More or less.'

      'And do you also want me to think like one?'

      'In the long run you won't be able to avoid it.  But, of course, it's better to do it consciously.'

      'Well, as a matter of fact,' said Anthony, 'I do think like a Buddhist already.  Not in all ways perhaps, but certainly in many ways.  In spite of roast beef.'

      'You think you think like a Buddhist,' said the doctor.  'But you don't.  Thinking negatively isn't thinking like a Buddhist; it's thinking like a Christian who's eating more butcher's meat than his intestine can deal with.'

      Anthony laughed.

      'Oh, I know it sounds funny,' said the doctor.  'But that's only because you're a dualist.'

      'I'm not.'

      'Not in theory perhaps.  But in practice – how can you be anything but a dualist?  What are you, Anthony Beavis?  A clever man – that's obvious.  But it's equally obvious that you've got an unconscious body.  An efficient thinking apparatus and a hopelessly stupid set of muscles and bones and viscera.  Of course you're a dualist.  You live your dualism.  And one of the reasons you live it is because you poison yourself with too much animal protein.  Like millions of other people, of course!  What's the greatest enemy of Christianity today?  Frozen meat.  In the past only members of the upper classes were thoroughly sceptical, despairing, negative.  Why?  Among other reasons, because they were the only people who could afford to eat too much meat.  Now there's cheap Canterbury Lamb and Argentine chilled beef.  Even the poor can afford to poison themselves into complete scepticism and despair.  And only the most violent stimuli will rouse them to purposive activity, and, what's worse, the only activity they'll undertake is diabolic.  They can only be stimulated by hysterical appeals to persecute Jews, or murder socialists, or go to war.  You personally happen to be too intelligent to be a fascist or a nationalist; but again, it's a matter of theory, not of life.  Believe me, Anthony Beavis, your intestines are ripe for fascism and nationalism.  They're making you long to be shaken out of the horrible negativity to which they've condemned you – to be shaken by violence into violence.'

      'As a matter of fact,' said Anthony, 'that's one of the reasons why I'm here.'  He waved his hand towards the tumbled chaos of the mountains.  'Simply to be shaken out of negativity.  We were on our way to a revolution when poor Staithes got hurt.'

      The doctor nodded.  'You see,' he said, 'you see!  And do you suppose you'd be here if you had a healthy intestine?'

      'Well, I don't really know,' Anthony answered, laughing.

      'You know quite well that you wouldn't,' said the doctor almost severely.  'Not on that kind of lunatic's errand, at any rate.  For, of course, you might be here as an anthropologist, say, or a teacher, a healer, whatever you like, so long as it meant understanding people and helping them.'

      Anthony nodded his head slowly, but did not speak; and for a long way they rode along in silence.

 

      There was light out of doors, and it was cleaner under the sky than in the little rancho.  Dr Miller had chosen as his operating theatre a little clearing in the woods, outside the village.

      'Beyond the range of the flies, let's hope,' he said, but without seeming too confident of it.

      A hearth had been built by his two mozos, and on the fire stood a cauldron of boiling water.  They had borrowed a table from the schoolmaster and some stools, with bowls for the disinfectant, and a cotton sheet to cover the bedstead.

      Dr Miller had given him a dose of Nembutal, and when the time came, Mark was carried out unconscious to the clearing among the pine trees.  All the boys in the village escorted the stretcher and stood round in attentive silence while the patient was lifted on to the bed.  Trousered, and in their wide hats, with their little blankets folded over their shoulders, they seemed, not children, but the absurd and derisive parodies of grown men.

      Anthony, who had been holding the gangrened leg, straightened himself up, and, looking round, saw the ring of brown faces and the glitter of all those black, blank eyes.  At the sight he found his growing apprehension abruptly transformed into uncontrollable anger.

      'Go away!' he shouted in English, and advanced towards them, waving his arms.  'Away, you little beasts, away!'

      The children retreated, but slowly, reluctantly, with the manifest intention of returning the moment he should turn his back.

      Anthony made a quick dart and caught one small boy by the arm.

      'Little beast!'

      He shook the child violently, then, carried away by an irresistible impulse to inflict pain, gave him a cuff over the head that sent the big hat flying between the trees.

      Uttering no cry, the child ran away after its companions.  Anthony made a last menacing gesture in their direction, then turned and walked back towards the centre of the clearing.  He had not taken more than a few steps when a stone, well aimed, caught him full between the shoulders.  He swung rung furiously, exploding into such obscenities as he had not uttered since he was at school.

      Dr Miller, who was washing his hands at the table, looked up.  'What's the matter?' he asked.

      'The little devils are throwing stones.'

      'Serve you right,' said the doctor unsympathetically.  'Leave them alone, and come and do your duty.'

      The unfamiliarly clerical and military word startled him into the uncomfortable realization that he had been behaving like a fool.  With the realization of his discreditable folly came the impulse to justify it.  It was in a tone of pained indignation that he spoke.  'You're not going to let them look on, are you?'

      'How am I to prevent them looking on, if they want to?' asked the doctor, drying his hands as he spoke.  'And now, Anthony Beavis,' he went on sternly, 'pull yourself together.  This is going to be difficult enough anyhow, without your being hysterical.'

      Silenced, and because he was ashamed of himself, angry with Miller, Anthony washed his hands and put on the clean shirt which had to do duty as overall.

      'Now,' said the doctor, and stepped forward.  'We must begin by draining the leg of blood.'

      'The' leg, not 'his' leg, Anthony was thinking, as he stood beside the doctor, looking down on the man sleeping on the bed.  Something impersonal, belonging to nobody in particular.  The leg.  But Mark's face, Mark's sleeping face, now so incredibly calm, so smooth, in spite of the emaciation, as though this death-like stupor had drawn a new skin across the flayed and twisted muscles – this could never bee merely 'the' face.  It was 'his', for all its unlikeness to that contemptuous, suffering mask through which at ordinary times Mark looked out at the world.  All the more genuinely his, perhaps, just because of that unlikeness.  He remembered suddenly what Mark had said to him, beside the Mediterranean, only four months before, when he had woken to see those eyes, now shut, but then wide open and bright with derision, sardonically examining him through the mosquito net.  Perhaps one really is what one seems to be in sleep.  Innocence and peace – the mind's essence, and all the rest mere accident.

      'Take his foot,' Dr Miller ordered, 'and lift the leg as nearly vertical as you can.'

      Anthony did as he was told.  Raised in this grotesque way, the horribly swollen and discoloured leg seemed more impersonal, more a mere thing than ever.  The stink of mortified flesh was in his nostrils.  From behind them, among the trees, a voice said something incomprehensible; there was a snicker of laughter.

      'Now leave the foot to the mozo and stand by here.'  Anthony obeyed, and smelt again the resin of the forest.  'Hold that bottle for me.'

      There was an astonished murmur of 'Amarillo!' as the doctor painted the thigh with flavine.  Anthony looked again at his friend's face; it remained undisturbed in its serenity.  Essentially still and pure.  The leg with its black dead flesh' the saw there in the bowl of permanganate solution, the knives and forceps; the fascinated children peering out of the forest – all were somehow irrelevant to the essential Mark.

      'Now the chloroform,' said Dr Miller.  'And the cotton wool.  I'll show you how to use it.  Then you'll have to go on by yourself.'

      He opened the bottle, and the smell of pine trees in the sunshine was overlaid by a rasping and nauseating sweetness.

      'There, do you see the trick?' asked the doctor.  'Like that.  Go on with that.  I'll tell you when to stop.  I've got to put on the tourniquet.'

      There were no birds in the trees, hardly, even, any insects.  The wood was deathly still.  This sunny clearing was a little island of speech and movement in an ocean of silence.  And at the centre of that island lay another silence, intenser, more complete than the silence of the forest.

      The tourniquet was in place.  Dr Miller ordered the mozo to lower the grotesquely hoisted leg.  He pulled up a stool to the bedside, sat down, then rose again and, as he washed his hands for the last time, explained to Anthony that he would have to operate sitting down. The bed was too low for him to be able to stand.  Taking his seat once more, he dipped into the bowl of permanganate for a scalpel.

      At the sight of those broad flaps of skin turned back, like the peel of a huge banana, but from a red and bleeding fruit, Anthony was seized with a horrible sensation of nausea.  The saliva came pouring into his mouth and he had to keep swallowing and swallowing to get rid of it.  Involuntarily, he gave vent to a retching cough.

      'Steady now,' said the doctor without looking up.  With an artery forceps, he secured the end of an oozing vessel.

      'Think of it scientifically.'  He made another sweeping cut through the red flesh.  'And if you must be sick,' he went on with sudden asperity, 'for God's sake go and do it quickly!'  Then, in another tone – the tone of the professor who demonstrates an interesting point to his students, 'One has to but back the nerves a long way,' he said.  'There's a tremendous retraction as the tissues heal up.  Anyhow,' he added, 'he'll probably have to have a re-amputation at home.  It won't be a beautiful stump, I'm afraid.'

      Calm and at peace, innocent of all craving, all malice, all ambition – it was the face of one who has made himself free, one for whom there are no more bars or chains, no more sepulchres under a stone, and on whom the birdlime no longer sticks.  The face of one who has made himself free … But in fact, Anthony reflected, in fact he had had his freedom forced upon him by this evil-smelling vapour.  Was it possible to be one's own liberator?  There were snares; but also there was a way of walking out of them.  Prisons; but they could be opened.  And if the torture-chambers could never be abolished, perhaps the tortures could be made to seem irrelevant.  As completely irrelevant as now to Mark this sound of sawing, as this revolting rasp and squeak of the steel teeth biting into the bone, of the steel blade rubbing back and forth in the deepening groove.  Mark lay there serene, almost smiling.