This Was Ivor Trent полностью

“You are about forty. You know your world well. You always knew what you wanted, and had the requisite ability to get it. You’ve travelled a lot—obviously. You’ve been in difficult situations, have had to handle men—and you have been successful because your instinct is more developed than your intelligence. You might belong to one of several activities. You might be, for example, the South American manager of a big exporting firm. You might be a mining engineer. Or, just conceivably, an explorer.”

Wrayburn broke off. Again he extended his arm, and began to snap his fingers to summon the waiter.

“My weak China tea,” he demanded, when that individual appeared, without glancing at him.

“Things went on pretty well with you till a few years ago, I imagine,” Wrayburn continued in the maimer of a lecturer. “Then you probably fell in love and it wasn’t wholly successful.”

“I married three years ago and—two years later—my wife died,” Rendell said simply.

“I felt it wasn’t wholly successful. Just one minute!”

The tea had arrived. It was inspected minutely—and eventually accepted.

“Since then,” Wrayburn continued, as if no interruption had occurred, “you’ve found yourself in a world of which you know nothing—the interior world. You were only familiar with the external one.” A pause, then he added: “Mr. Peter Marsden told me that a book of Trent’s had interested you. That fact, and your going to Number 77, and your appearance makes what I’ve told you very obvious.”

Rendell put his cigarette in the ash-tray, then stared uneasily at his companion. Wrayburn’s analysis compelled respect.

“Look here,” he said at last, “I may as well admit——”

But Wrayburn waved him into silence.

“Confirmation is of no interest. It’s all very obvious—and rather tedious. I merely wanted to demonstrate that how long one person has known another is not remotely to do with anything. That had to be established before we could discuss Trent productively.”

Rendell realised that he must surrender all hope of gaining the initiative in this conversation unless he could produce an analysis of Wrayburn as penetrating as the one just delivered by that psychologist. Recognising his inability, he said slowly:

“Couldn’t say much about you, I’m afraid. Nothing positive, anyway. I could only say what you’re not.”

“That’s intelligent—quite intelligent,” Wrayburn replied, a sudden flush invading his countenance and vanishing instantly. “Just one minute! This tea is not right.”

“Have some black coffee?”

“If I had one cup of black coffee, my good man, I should suffer certain peculiar physical disabilities for a fairly extensive period.”

He had the tea removed, then, having asked Rendell, who was about to light another cigarette, whether this was an essential proceeding on his part and, if not, whether he would refrain—he proceeded to give a brief account of himself, which was a miracle of lucidity and detachment.

Wrayburn did not remember his parents, did not admit the existence of relatives, had no money, but had, nevertheless, acquired an extensive education by means of scholarships, and a clairvoyant faculty for detecting anything that was going for nothing. On coming down from Cambridge, this faculty—and a gift for organisation—had enabled him to make what he referred to as a “tight-rope” living in a series of miscellaneous activities. He had served as a courier to a rich American family. He had been a lecturer, an interpreter, a translator, and a reviewer. He had travelled as a tutor with several distinguished families. He had catalogued private libraries, organised a medical conference, and generally held a bewildering number of appointments—all of a transitory nature.

Rendell watched him as he listened, amazed at the will of this fragile-looking man who narrated his experiences with the detachment of an onlooker. There was heroism and pathos in this creature pitting himself against the world and wresting from it a precarious and solitary existence. For Rendell was convinced that Wrayburn was solitary, although it transpired that he had numerous acquaintances. Also, it was very obvious that, physically, Wrayburn lived on the frontier of life. His references to his health, and to the many and involved precautions necessary “to enable him to function,” were too numerous and detailed to leave a remnant of doubt. Finally, Rendell decided that only his eyes were alive, but in them shone the light of a cold implacable will. He had no illusions about himself, and none concerning the world outside him.

“I am a completely negative and wholly conscious person,” he announced in conclusion, his right hand coaxing his beard to its maximum dimension. “I am outside life as it is lived. I know it. I accept it. People like me have to come to terms with actuality, once and finally. I have looked at life through the dirty windows of innumerable bed-sitting-rooms in many cities. My destiny is to observe. That’s why your appearance told me a good deal.”