This Was Ivor Trent полностью

They won’t listen! If only they would listen! They keep telling me that I collapsed, that I am ill. They argue, talk, give instructions. Yes, all of them! The doctor, the nurse, Mrs. Frazer—endlessly, endlessly!

A thick mist separates me from them. Their voices reach me, but I cannot see them. When I speak, they do not seem to hear. It maddens me. I begin to shout, then hands seize me, force me down on to the bed, and voices—interminable voices—tell me that I must be still, that I must be calm, and that then I shall soon be well.

And I tell them (again and again I tell them) that I was alone in the fog, leaning over the low Embankment wall. The river was invisible: all was drifting desolation. Then I turned and saw—Him. A man from the Future faced me. He stood there with the signature of God across his forehead. I gazed at him as the damned gaze at an angel.

But they will not listen! They keep promising me that, if only I will be calm, I shall soon be well. They are trying to drag me back to my old life. And I tell them (I keep telling them) that when I saw Him my old life ended. At that actual moment when I looked into his eyes, I died—and I was born. Again and again I tell them, but they won’t listen—they won’t listen!

They repeat endlessly that I collapsed when Mrs. Frazer opened the door last Sunday night. Am I to tell them that I fainted because my whole being was rent by Fear and Ecstasy? Am I to tell them that?

I must learn to be silent. I must pretend to agree with them. I must let them think that I want to get well, that I want to become again the man I was. Somehow, I must do this. I must make them believe that I am slowly recovering, then the doctor will come less frequently. The nurse will go. Mrs. Frazer will attend to me. I shall be free. The nights will be mine.

It is useless to tell them of Him. They will only think I am mad. But, having seen him, how shall I live in the world? How shall I endure to look back on my old life? I am like one new-born, but one who is nevertheless fettered by the terrible memories of a dead man. And the name of the dead man is Ivor Trent.

People will come up to this dead man. They will say to him: “So glad you’re well again. You had a bad time, I’m afraid. Well, don’t overdo it. You’re highly-strung, you know. You’ve got to allow for that. Now, take my tip, and go easy for a bit. Have a good time for a few months. Enjoy yourself, and don’t think about anything.”

Who is to answer them—the dead Ivor Trent or the living?

But now—now, at this actual moment—I must pretend to believe all they say. I will not speak of him again. I will tell them nothing about him. They will only believe that he is a possibility if they, too, have a vision of him. Unless and until that happens, they will deny him. They will say that he is madness.

I will learn to be silent.

“My mystery is for me and for the sons of my house.”

Already they believe I am better. They no longer use the word “delirious.” They say now that I am “very excited.” How tediously easy it is to deceive people. . . .

Letters and telegrams keep coming for me. I asked Mrs. Frazer how it is that people have discovered I am here. She was very embarrassed, but eventually I learned that her husband told a journalist I was in the house. I have seen the paragraph in the newspaper. It says that I am in a delirious condition. Everyone will learn that I have had these rooms for years, that all my books have been written here. Captain Frazer will reveal all he knows. That is certain. My secret is mine no longer.

Mrs. Frazer also told me that she has a new lodger. It is Rendell, the man who dined with Marsden last Sunday. She was eager to talk about him. Evidently the doctor has told her to encourage “rational” conversation. She said that Rendell came to inquire about me on Monday night, and suddenly decided to take a room. Why has he come? Why is he so interested in a man he does not know? Perhaps the story he told Marsden last Sunday was lies.

Anyway, what does all this matter to me? I will see no one. I will not open any letters. Let them all make what they can of my secret. Yes, all of them! Not one of them has met me. Each mistook a mask for a face.

I will reveal here the mask—and the face.

Where shall I begin? With the conversation between Marsden and Rendell? Yes, that will do. I will begin there—and work backwards.

Marsden told Rendell how I had delivered him from a bully, and how—years later—I stayed with him in his cottage and “brought him back to life.” He added that he believed, on each occasion, I had been concerned only with myself. Rendell did not understand that, so Marsden explained that I had helped him only because I wanted to test the power of my own will. (This idea was Wrayburn’s, not Marsden’s, but that doesn’t matter.)

Well, it is true. In all my relations with others I have been concerned only with myself.