I had been looking forward all day to the visit. Indeed, I had been looking forward to it ever since we had planned our trip to the south of France, and I had arranged the route so that we would pass through Orleans. It was a visit that I had wanted to make for a long time, a kind of pilgrimage to a shrine of happiness now suitably veiled in the rosy mists of youth.
Nineteen years is a long time. One cannot remember everything, and the tendency on occasions such as this is to remember only the happiness. The weather seems always to have been warm and sunny, the days filled with love and laughter, the nights throbbing with the notes of the nightingales in the woods, and, in my case, with the blithe croaking of the amorous frogs in the moat around the chateau.
If I concentrate hard enough, I can, of course, recall that there were minor irritations and frictions, but it is true to say that they never lasted long. We were all too young, too filled with the joy of living; and perhaps the mild and gentle air of the wooded Sologne country was itself an antidote to prolonged bitterness.
Even the pangs of youthful jealousy have a curious sweetness in retrospect, for with the near approach of middle age the emotions, in matters of the heart, tend to be flattened, and the ecstasies and agonies toned down.
One has seen it all before, perhaps many times: this, one says, is where I came in. And if one decides to see the show again, one knows how the reel will run, amiably anticipating the pleasant periods, suitably fortified against the pains and pangs. Such is the penalty and such is the protection which the years bring you.
What makes for happiness depends upon one’s age. We, who stayed at the chateau to learn French, were all young, of varied nationalities, and the road ahead seemed straight and sure, and to lead inevitably to a splendid fulfilment of such vague hopes for the future as we nurtured.
We had no doubts. We worked a little, we played tennis, gardened, and bathed in the lake in front of the ch,teau. In winter we went shooting. We fell in love, I need hardly add, some of us for the first time, and vowed undying faithfulness with all the confidence of extreme youth.
Our love was pure and idealistic, romantic and sweet. Looking back now, with a soul which is tarnished with dishonour and frayed round the edges, I am often amazed at this.
There was no hanky-panky at the chateau. And if I use a coarse music-hall expression in association with something which was fresh and beautiful, I ask you to be charitable, and to blame the span of the years and half a working lifetime which has been spent in different parts of the world. One is inclined to become crude.
I have said that I am often amazed at the unsullied nature of our feelings, and that is strictly true: often, but not always. For now and again, like the memory of the scent of a rose garden to some poor sufferer in a crowded town hospital, I catch a whiff of the fragrance of those earlier feelings, and I understand how we felt. A tune, such as “My Blue Heaven,” will naturally bring it back to me, or a particular type of perfume favoured by the young: but I may also catch it, suddenly and unexpectedly, walking along a street, or even in a crowded public house. It had always been, hitherto, a thin wraith of the real thing, but I felt that if I went back to the chateau, saw it standing there, with its light grey walls and blue shutters, at the end of the long drive of poplars, I would be able to recapture for a space not merely the full flavour of those past days, but also a glimpse of Philip Bartels as he then was.
I think I wanted to refresh my memory of the Bartels of those days almost as much as I wished to inflict upon myself the sweet pain of thinking of times now gone forever.
In spite of all that has happened, in spite of what Macdonald of Scotland Yard, and one or two others, have said, I still regard Bartels not only as my friend but as one of the most lovable characters I have ever known. Perhaps I, alone, understood what he felt.
All day, then, I had looked forward to this visit with a rising emotion, a physical disturbance of the stomach nerves, which amounted to veritable tension.
Two of the other three in our party knew nothing of the excitement within me; they thought of the excursion as only a casual visit to a familiar haunt. To them I must have seemed silent and broody that day. I was even asked, when I made a mere pretence of eating lunch, whether I felt quite fit.
Later that day I left them to stroll round Orleans, and took the car and drove through the little village of Verlin and out again to where the road was bordered by fields of corn, crisply brown and sprinkled with poppies and cornflowers.
The sun was at distant tree-top level when I pulled the car in to the side of the road, a few yards from the end of the poplar drive, and switched off the engine.
The evening was silent except for the creak of a cart on some distant farm and the faraway barking of a dog. The sky was cloudless. I climbed out of the car, and closed the door, and looked up and down the road. There was nobody in sight, and as I made my way towards the end of the avenue leading to the chateau, the sound of my shoes upon the hard road seemed uncannily loud.
For a second I experienced one of those curious sensations in the course of which you wonder whether you are really alive, and then the feeling was past. I walked slowly, now that the fulfilment of my ambition was at hand, wishing to savour every minute, every second.
It was at first my plan to walk down the avenue, but at the last moment I decided against it. The family no longer lived there, and I had heard from one of the brothers that it was now the home of two families of American Air Force officers who were stationed in Orleans. They had set up a kind of communal cocktail bar in the entrance hall. If they were now sitting drinking on the terrace, they would be in a position to watch me walking down the long avenue and to speculate upon what I wanted.
I had no doubt that I would be hospitably received if I explained the nature of my visit, even though I was a stranger, but I did not wish to spend my precious time talking to other people, be they American, English, or French. My rendezvous was with the happy ghosts of the early 1930s, not with the worried flesh and blood of postwar years.
I turned aside, therefore, into the woods which pressed close upon the poplar-lined drive, following a path which I knew well of old, which twisted and turned, but which eventually passed by the tennis courts, and by the side of the house, and led to the rising ground on the other side of the chateau.
It was a path which Bartels and I had often taken together, in the old days, when we wished to cross the Orleans-Blois highway to try for partridges on the land across the road. We preferred it to the avenue, for there was always the chance of a shot at a rabbit or a pigeon.
I trod it now, stepping as quietly as the leaves and twigs would permit, for the closer I came to the house the less I wished to be disturbed. Thus, stealthily, dreading equally the querying word or friendly shout, I returned like a poacher to the scene of my happiness.
I passed the great rabbit burrow, where we had once lost a ferret, and caught a glimpse, as I neared the house, of the cottage where grizzled old Georges Durois, the garde de chasse, used to live with his wife, Marie. Both are long since dead. (How he would grumble when I missed the rabbits which his ferret put out for my inexpert marksmanship!)
Then, close by the house, to the left of the path, I saw a weather-beaten wooden hut and paused, for I did not recall it, though to judge by its appearance it had been there many years. It stood among some young trees, surrounded by brambles and other bushes, and appeared to serve no useful purpose.
I left the path to examine it more closely, but it was empty, rotting, a reminder of death and decomposition, and I turned away; but as I did so I caught a glimpse among the saplings of a sagging post with a metal handle, and looking more closely I saw near at hand some rusting wire netting and another post, and knew that I looked upon all that remained of the tennis courts.
Of all the laughter and youthful energy which this patch of ground had known, nothing now remained; it was just trees and brambles and a hut rotted by the weather.
The back of my throat ached, and I struck a match and lit my pipe. It was something to do, some physical action which might relieve the tension.
Behind me, in the wood, a pair of jays began to call harshly to each other; and above me, in a tall oak, I heard the vigorous rustling of a squirrel shaking the leaves. A descendant, I supposed, of the squirrels I had known and sometimes shot, though always with reluctance, and only to please old Georges Durois; for of all the creatures which look ugly and pathetic dead, and pretty alive, squirrels head the list. I know they do harm, but the harm always seems to me negligible compared with the joy of seeing them about.
Then the jays ceased calling, and the squirrel moved to another tree, and except for the occasional whine of a mosquito the world was still.
I moved back to the path from the remains of the tennis courts, and stood for a moment watching the bend in the path ahead. Surely Ingrid, my loved Ingrid, would come round the corner, in her pleated white tennis skirt, radiating all the glory of her eighteen-year-old vitality; and behind her, plodding heavy-footed but purposeful, dear old slow-witted Danish Hans; and behind him, in a group, Mary, the vivacious little dark-eyed American girl; and Bob, the son of a Bradford wool merchant; and perhaps Freddie Harris, the ambitious cockney who worked in a bank and spent his annual holidays at the chateau to learn French and improve his prospects. And loping along to catch them up, always late, always gentle and good-tempered, would come any moment now old Rolf, the giant Norwegian with the build of an ancient Viking.
But not Philip Bartels. Not yet.
I didn’t expect to see Bartels yet, for Bartels would be dressed in an old pair of flannel bags and an open-necked shirt, sitting by the lake, trying for the fish he so rarely caught.
Then I realized that I was all wrong. It was now about seven o’clock. No wonder they didn’t come. They would be changed for dinner, lounging on the terrace, in the soft evening sunshine, waiting for Madame to invite them into the dining room. So I walked slowly on, more quietly than ever, and turned the bend and stood, partly concealed by a rhododendron bush, and gazed at the house.
It lay quiet and still, bathed in the waning sunlight, the walls glowing warmly, surrounded by the decorative moat. The little light wooden drawbridge, which one man could raise quite easily, was in position, connecting the terrace and the back of the chateau to the broad path which circled the reed-fringed lake and led to the drive between the poplars.
At the far side of the house I could see the hedge of the vegetable garden, where Madame had assigned a small plot of earth to those who wished for it; where I had grown the radishes. I was quite keen on keeping fit in those days, and used to get up at about 8.15 and put on a pair of shorts, and run a couple of times round the lake, and then go and pick some of my radishes.
I would wrap some of them in a handkerchief, and toss a pebble lightly against Ingrid’s window, and when she put her head out, still tousled with sleep, I would throw them up to her. She used to like to eat them with her morning petit dejeuner. I looked at her window now, and then at the door below, leading to the terrace.
Apart from anything else, I knew from my correspondence with the family that Ingrid, whom I had lost, was married and living in Oslo; and loyal but slow-witted old Hans had found the Gestapo too much for him, and was dead. I did not know about Freddie, the bank clerk, but Bob had died at Alamein. And Mary, twice divorced, disillusioned, and hurt, was in Chicago.
But I peopled the terrace with my ghosts, just the same. I stood in the shadow of the rhododendron bush, and brought them all out, and made them stroll up and down and converse, and listened, from where I was, to the sound of their voices and to the occasional laughter.
Later, when I had had enough, I would allow them to drift into the house, and I would go to the most important rendezvous of all, to the place we called L’Etoile, because several paths converged there, so that it bore some resemblance to a star. There, Ingrid would come to meet me, as so often before, walking slowly through the woods with her hands clasped in front of her, arms at full length, a smile upon her face.
Looking back on that visit to the chateau now, seeing myself as I stood watching the empty house by the light of the dying sun, I agree that, at first, it was a pretty maudlin exhibition. I certainly piled it on a bit thick. I had come for sweet suffering, and I saw to it that I got it.
But then, though I fought against it, it all changed, and as the shadows lengthened, the suffering was no longer sweet, but grim.
Some of the figures which I imagined once more upon the terrace were blurred, but Philip Bartels was clear enough.
We used to keep on the terrace one or more long, flexible rods, about six feet tall, which we cut from saplings. A length of thin string was tied to the top of each, and on the other end of the string was a little piece of red flannel. When we had five minutes to while away, we would lean over the side of the terrace and dangle the bit of flannel in front of the numerous frogs which lived in the moat. If a frog bit the flannel, mistaking it for a winged insect, we would whip it out of the water while its mouth was still entangled in the flannel, and then catch it in the grass by the side of the moat.
It didn’t do the frogs any harm or us any good-only once did we decide to catch and kill enough to eat-and the skill lay in trying to deceive the frog by a lifelike manipulation of the bait.
Bartels, the keen fisherman, was naturally the most enthusiastic. He would always stroll out in his dinner jacket for a few minutes with the frogs before dinner. He was very good at frog-fishing. Sometimes Ingrid would lean over the terrace wall to watch him; and I would stroll out and join them both, because I was terribly jealous where Ingrid was concerned.
Bartels was my best friend. But Ingrid was my love. However, I realize now that I need not have worried. Knowing how I felt, Bartels was always scrupulously correct in his attitude to Ingrid.
All this I remembered, that wonderful summer night when I revisited the chateau: the chateau which was so quiet, and yet so alive to me who watched from the shadow of the rhododendron bush. I recalled, too, that the time came, many years later, when I myself was not so punctilious; when I acted craftily towards my best friend, with results which even to this day I find it difficult to assess.
I saw Bartels clearly that evening.
He stood out sharp-cut from the rest, leaning over the terrace wall. Once, he looked up and glanced for several long seconds towards where I stood, and so real did he seem that even now there are occasions when I wonder whether he was really summoned to the scene only by my imagination.
I saw him, a slenderly built figure of nineteen, with a lean face browned by the summer sun. He was not good-looking; indeed, in some ways there was something slightly comical about him. His features were reasonably regular, and the nose was straight and delicately chiselled; but he wore spectacles, of which the frames were of tortoiseshell and the side-pieces of gold; and although he kept his hair fairly well ordered, there were some hairs, on the crown of his head, which insisted upon sticking up. He had, too, a very wide mouth, of which the lips were rather thin and bloodless. So that sometimes, with his unruly hair and big mouth, he bore a faint resemblance to a cross between Donald Duck and one of the frogs he was so keen on catching.
I think his voice was his most attractive feature, that and his gentle, generous nature and ready sense of humour. His voice was deep and rich, and he always spoke very slowly and deliberately, and, when he looked towards me that evening, I seemed to hear him call to me, as he had often called before: “Come and look here, Pete-there’s a big one here going to bite!”
Yet although he was keen on gun and rod, I have seen him painstakingly rescue a drowning fly from a glass of wine, and place it on the window ledge in the sun. On another occasion I saw him spend five minutes trying to manoeuvre a daddy-long-legs out of a window. And once, in the autumn, when a butterfly which had flown into the drawing room fluttered into the fire, Bartels swung away from the grate with a gasp of horror, his hands over his face.
It was pain and suffering, for any living thing, which he abhorred, not death. He was unimpressed by death.
“What the hell difference do a few more days or years of life make in the limitless infinity of time?” he said once. “Death is of no consequence. It only seems of consequence because people decline to recognize its inevitability. They fight against it, instead of accepting it for what it is, as normal an event as birth.”
I remember we were leaning over the terrace wall looking down at the frogs in the moat when he said it; one evening, it was, before dinner. He turned to go inside, but as he did so, he added:
“It’s not dying that matters, it’s how you die. It’s the way in which you die.”
Hence the fly in the wine and the daddy-long-legs episodes; and his horror when the butterfly flew into the fire. Hence, too, the fact that he never took long, doubtful shots at wild game. He shot to kill.
He didn’t mind killing. But it had to be in the right conditions. Pity and ruthlessness lay tranquilly together in his soul. A curious mixture, indeed.
That, then, was the Philip Bartels of those days.
I made my way round the house to the rising ground which faced that part of the drive which curved to the front door. I went to L’Etoile, and sat on a fallen tree trunk, and waited as I had so often waited for Ingrid, in such a position that I could watch, between the trees, the front door through which she used to come to meet me.
But she didn’t come.
She never came to me that evening. Instead, there was Bartels again, pushing the front door open, coming out and making his way towards me, his shotgun on his arm, a bag of cartridges over his shoulder.
I saw him pause and look back at the house; stand looking up at one of the windows, just as he paused and looked up at another window nearly twenty years later.
And I realized that the window he was looking at was the window of the room which Beatrice had occupied.
I remember very clearly the evening when Beatrice Wilson arrived. It was a July evening, and very hot, with that humid, sticky heat which is perhaps the sole disadvantage of the beautiful Sologne area. But now there were clouds gathering on the horizon, and every promise of the storm which would bring freshness and relief in its train.
Despite the heat, we had played tennis in the afternoon, had changed into evening dress and dined, and were sitting languidly on the terrace drinking coffee, when the family car which had fetched Beatrice from Orleans station swept round the drive to the front door. As always, we were filled with mild curiosity about the newcomer.
Those of us who were English had adopted other nationalities, in accordance with an innocent subterfuge dear to the heart of Madame. I was to pretend to be a Swede. This arrangement had two advantages: it removed from the newcomer the temptation to speak English, and it provoked a good deal of fun and many tricky situations, all of which encouraged French conversation.
I heard Madame greet Beatrice Wilson in the hall behind us, heard her go up to her room to wash. Then she came down and was introduced to us.
She was a lovely-looking girl of about eighteen. Slim, in those days, with red hair and the milk-and-
roses complexion which goes with hair of that colour. Her features were regular and her eyes hazel. But I think that what impressed me most was her complete self-possession. She must have been aware that she was being summed up, by seven or eight young people, with all the critical and ruthless acumen of the young; yet so far from being disconcerted she appeared to be coolly indulging in some summing up herself. She gazed at each one of us in turn, reflectively, as she was introduced, and when she spoke, she used her limited school French to the best advantage.
I formed the opinion that Beatrice Wilson was likely to be a pleasant acquisition to our company, and so it proved.
Two weeks after she arrived I had to leave, but Philip Bartels stayed on for another three months. By the time I left, I had mentally noted that now, instead of changing into old clothes and slouching off by himself to fish or shoot, Bartels had taken to changing into white flannels and was prone to join us on the tennis courts in the afternoons. Moreover, it often chanced that he walked to and from the courts with Beatrice, and for tea and after-dinner coffee his chair was usually close to hers.
I was there to learn French because I was going into the hotel business; Bartels, because he was to join a well-known firm of wine importers; and Beatrice because her father, a solicitor in Worthing, thought that all his three children should be able to speak it.
I remember thinking, before I left, that Bartels might get hurt, in the end, by the cool-headed Beatrice, because she did not seem to me to be the right type for him. I had no worse a premonition than that. But then I am not psychic. Not like Bartels’ aunt Emily and aunt Rose, thank God.
I had come to the chateau that summer evening to dream only of the pleasant remote past, but instead, little by little, I found myself mentally drawing nearer and nearer to the events of a nearer date, of 26 February, that cold night of pain and anguish and fear. It was the last thing I wished; I was going on holiday to the south, partly, at least, to wipe out the memories of it all.
I suppose it happened because the events of February had occupied so much of my mind; so that even when I was not consciously thinking about the matter, it all lay there in my subconscious, ready to leap out and colour my thoughts, and even to some extent my actions.
For hours I would be free of the memories of that nightmare period, and then some little incident, some careless phrase from a stranger, perhaps, would bring me face to face with it; and off I would start, churning it all over and over again. Or perhaps the reason was that my own conscience was not clear in the matter.
Perhaps I had really come to the chateau, not so much from a nostalgic yearning for the scenes of youthful happiness, as I thought, nor even to meet again the image of my first love: else why did she not come when I sat on the log in the place called L’Etoile? Why was it Bartels whom my imagination summoned for me, if I did not feel the need for a final showdown with him?
But there I am wrong. The showdown was not to be with him. He always thought of me as his friend. The showdown was with myself.
I often wonder whether Bartels thought of me as he drove to London on the night of 26 February, with one eye on the dashboard clock and fear rising in his throat. I think he did.
If he didn’t, he should have done, because I was responsible for his-what? I was about to write: because I was responsible for his downfall. But upon further reflection I think I could as well write that I was responsible for his salvation. It depends upon what you regard as salvation. I don’t know for certain.
But I was certainly responsible for his fear. Terror, you could call it, just as you could consider his fear of enclosed spaces, of suffocation, to be terror.
I only saw two examples of it at the chateau. Once, during a visit to one or two of the more historic chateaux of the Loire, we stopped by the wayside for a picnic.
We spread some rugs in a field off the highway, and ate the food and drank the wine; and afterwards lay about for a while, smoking and talking and joking. In due course, one or two of the more active spirits began to lark about.
I think it was Danish Hans who crept up behind Bartels and flung a rug over his head and held him tight within its folds. I shall never forget the wild struggle which ensued, the sight of Bartels’ thrashing arms and legs, the upsetting of the wine bottle and picnic utensils, and, when he finally released himself, Bartels’ eyes, at first wild with terror and then hot and angry.
“Don’t ever do that again,” he said, and got up and walked some distance away and sat down by himself. We looked at each other silently, as people often will who find themselves in the presence of something they don’t understand. Nobody said anything. And in due course, though still somewhat subdued, we went upon our way.
The other occasion was when we were playing some hide-and-seek kind of game one evening. Somebody, I forget whom, knowing that Mary and Bartels were hiding together in a bedroom, locked the door on them, proposing to make a joke of it later, and to tell Bartels that he would have to marry the girl now.
But it didn’t work out that way.
We had to unlock the door almost at once in answer to the terrible, incessant banging upon it, and the unnaturally high-pitched shouts of Philip Bartels from within.
Later, I asked Mary what had happened, but she wouldn’t discuss it. She just said: “I don’t think he likes being locked in. Some people have that fear. Claustrophobia, or something.”
She quickly changed the subject. I formed the impression that what she had seen had been so upsetting that she did not wish to talk about it.