light, and round these people are gathered for reassurance cooking,
singing, resting - sincerely feeling (largely owing
to respite from the surrounding darkness and danger) that
they are having the time of their lives. There are bodies in
that wood, too; some of them murdered, or dead by their
own hand. It is not a bit like Midsummer Night's Dream.
And if it were not for Aphrodite, none of this would happen.
There would be no forest: a plain, perhaps, or mountains,
with dangers of their own; but not the dark forest by night.
A. E. Housman and the cursed trouble; Swinburne;
Thomas Hardy; Queen Elizabeth the first; Miss Jones of
Chislehurst crying her eyes out in her bedroom, utterly unable
to account for her third broken engagement; the dreadful
necrophiliac Christie skulking, with insomnia and diarrhoea,
among his handiwork, foreseeing the certain outcome.
There are people who, having good reason - so they thought
- to suppose that they were fully in control of where they
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were going and feeling perfectly safe, have discovered, suddenly
or gradually, that they were not. The clutch at the
stomach, the shock of realizing that you are lost and know
no way to put things right, is a horrible one. You can hear
the others in the dark. But where exactly are they? Why have
you suddenly and inexplicably been seized with dizziness,
with breathlessness, with cramp? And what is that moving
in the bushes?
Perhaps it will all turn out to be a false alarm - a moment's
panic about nothing. Perhaps it will not. Perhaps it is
here for life.
Again and again I tried to remember that I had made a
long and tiring journey; that these were strange surroundings,
people, food; that the heat and humidity were enough
to trouble anyone who had never previously experienced
them; and that I had undergone emotional strain and tension.
Any man who has suffered this experience will know
the sense of helplessness, humiliation and misery which it
inflicts. He jests at scars that never felt a wound. That, indeed
- the thought that you are ridiculous, contemptible even in
your wretchedness and that others might laugh if they
knew - is the worst of it. And like all severe troubles bereavement,
loss or disappointment - it is isolating.
I think, now, that it was her beauty that daunted me at
the deepest level - that more-than-credible beauty, like the
slender towers of a city gleaming far above the up-turned,
staring faces of the little band of adventurers from the outlands,
who could never have anticipated or imagined any
prize like this. It is not defended and they know it, yet still
they stand muttering, reluctant to follow their captain to
the gates. Or like the candle-lit silver and glass on a nobleman's
table, by their mere glittering presence confusing
some humble guest who is simply not used to such things; so
that despite his friendly host, who is aware of all he is feeling
and sincerely wishes to dispel his embarrassment, he loses
even his normal savoir-faire, finding, as in a dream, that he
has put mustard on his fish or taken a spoon to a pear. 'This
can't be for me,' I once heard a little girl say in the children's
ward of Newbury hospital when, having drawn her
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number in the Christmas raffle, they brought her the gold
lame doll from the top of the tree: and for some time she
could not bring herself to touch it, hiding under the blankets
from the kindly laughter of the nurses.
Kathe, however, did not laugh. Throughout these sad days,
during which I came to be obsessed by the cause of my unhappiness,
there remained something mysterious and even
exciting in her calm, happy assurance. She plainly did not
regard my trouble in the same light that I did. Like St Paul's
centurion on the ship driven up and down in Adria, I began
to feel that she might know something I didn't. She not only
seemed, she clearly was, perfectly content and undisturbed;
and gave the impression of knowing beyond a doubt that all
would be well, though unable to explain why to someone
lacking her singular, transcendental vision. In fact, I was to
come to realize that Kathe was a kind of erotic saint, possessing
the power to impart faith, to convert, to heal.
She made no direct attempt to arouse or stimulate me,
simply holding me in her arms, kissing me, caressing my
shoulders and body entirely for her own enjoyment and again
and again telling me, in many different ways, how deeply she
loved me and how happy she was. Even in my disappointment
I found her company enchanting and her beauty a rapture.
One would have supposed that she was having the time of
her life. Indeed, I am inclined to believe that she really was,
for was she not exercising her metier:1 She never seemed
appearing in the least affected by it.
'How can you feel so happy?' I asked her one sweltering
night, as we lay beneath the electric fan, hearing from time
to time feet passing outside, or the intermittent, plangent
drip of water from the shower in the next room. 'Why don't
you reproach me? Aren't you disappointed?'
She did not answer at once, but turned on her back,
stretching pleasurably, arching herself and lifting her breasts
in her cupped hands. Then, putting one hand on mine, she
paused, wrinkling her brow, like one considering how best
to put what she wants to say into words. At length, laying
her head back on the pillow, she said, 'My darling, you just
162
r
don't understand, do you? This is love. I am your lover. We
are making love. This is what I was born for, what I was
made for. I could cry for joy. Can't you see?'
'Oh, why do you say that,' I cried petulantly, 'when you
know very well -'
She silenced me, first with a finger on my lips and then
with a kiss.
'Such a silly sweetheart I never saw. You think it's a little
pond of boats, don't you? Chug, chug! Come in Number
Five, your time is up! Darling, it's a great ocean, limitless waves,
gulls, strange creatures moving in the deep - stretching
beyond the horizon and past the clock! Oh, how can I
explain?' She rolled over and took me in her arms, lying half
on top of me. 'One doesn't order the ocean about. What you
see as a speck on the window-pane is really a great palace,
far off; only they look the same against the light and anyway
you're just waking up. Oh, Alan, Alan, darling - dear, dear
Alan - I could smother you, you're so beautiful and ridiculous.
As if there were anything wrong! There's nothing
wrong, darling, nothing, nothing! What are you in such a
hurry about?' And then, suddenly giggling, but nevertheless
managing a very fair imitation of Mr Steinberg, 'I guess Romiddley
wasn't built in a day.'
; I was about to reply when, she added, 'In fact I will
smother you - stop you talking nonsense.' And, kneeling
above me, she pressed her breasts together over my face. I
could feel each nipple in the outer corners of my eyelids.
'And that doesn't work either,' I thought, in my selfish
misery. Yet this was no part of her intention. She could not
explain what I know now - all that I was to learn from her.
I weep as I recall this.
Another day she said, 'It's the paradox of your love, my
darling. It's the ice-burn. Can't you see?'
'The ice-burn?'
'You don't know about the ice-burn? I'll tell you. Sometimes,
in the North, in winter, the ice forms right across the
curved top of a hill. Then, when the sun shines, the ice becomes
like a magnifying glass, so that the sun burns off all
the grass and heather underneath. Later, the ice melts and
163
all through spring the hill's bare until the grass grows
again.'
'No, I didn't know that. But I don't see - you say this is
like the ice-burn?'
']a, das ist Paradox. Don't you see, the ice is what burns the
last thing you'd expect to burn anything, and yet it
does? You love me, don't you? I can feel it pouring all over
me - I'm drenched in your love. So are you. And that has
an unexpected effect; but it's a natural effect, all the same.'
She paused. 'Not like - oh, well, silly things that weren't
love at all - could never be love.' For a moment she clenched
her fists and then burst out, 'Destroy the past! Destroy
it!'
'What are you talking about?' I asked, surprised by her
vehemence.
'No matter, sir, what I have heard or known.'
'Good heavens, Kathe! Do you know Antony and Cleopatra?'
'Antony and Cleopatra? No. I just heard - oh, well, an
English person - say that once, and I thought it sounded nice.
Is that what it is? No wonder. That's Cleopatra speaking,
nicht wahr? Ah, well, that just shows you who I rreally am,
doesn't it?'
One morning, some days after our marriage, the two of
us were in Baskin Robbins, eating ice-cream. I had no particular
fancy for ice-cream - or for anything else, much but
there seemed nowhere to go and nothing to do, and
Kathe always took pleasure in eating. Although, out of my
love for her, I was putting the best face on things I could,
open admiration, not infrequently backed up with direct
compliments, which Kathe excited wherever we went, was
beginning to be more than I could bear. To the unspoken
question I thought I could perceive in every male face,
'What's he got that I haven't?', I might, I thought bitterly,
have answered, 'Less than nothing.' Deeper down, I was wondering
with anxiety what would be the outcome of this distressing
situation. How long would Kathe be able to keep up
what, despite all she could say and do, I could not help re164
J
garding as her generous pretence that all was well? And after
that -?
Casual acquaintances start easily enough in America,
where people seldom hesitate to speak to you if they feel inclined;
and after some ten minutes in the ice-cream parlour
we found ourselves - I forget exactly how - in conversation
with a tall, thin, fair-haired young man, who told us that
his name was Lee Dubose, that he was studying English
Literature and American history at the university and that
his home was not far from Tallahassee, 'up in the Panhandle'.
Having confirmed what his ears had told him - that I was
British - he not unnaturally asked what had brought us to
Gainesville, to which we replied that we were on holiday and
had been lent a place to stay by a friend.
'Oh, neat!' said Mr Dubose, as warmly as though any
good fortune of ours were something that gave him personal
satisfaction. 'Ah wondered how y'all came to be in
Gainesville; only it's not a part of Florida that usually
attracts vacationers, you know. All the same, there are some
nice spots around here, if you know where to find them.
Have y'all been out to the Itchetucknee Spring yet?'
'Where?' I asked.
Mr Dubose kindly repeated it. 'It's an Indian name, I
guess,' he explained. 'Well, if you haven't been there I'd say
you certainly should. It's real pretty and a great place for
swimming. Do y'all like swimming?'
'Oh, yes, very much,' said Kathe. 'Oh, we must go, Alan!
Do tell us more about it, Lee. Is it far?'
'Well, it's about thirty miles out of tahn,' replied Mr
Dubose, taking another dig at his Pecan Delight. 'It's the
source of the Itchetucknee river - that runs west into the
Sewanee - and it's in a nature reserve - real forest swamp
country. They've built some changing huts near the pool, but
otherwise it's pretty wild all around. There are two pools,
about four hundred yards apart - the Jug Spring and the
Itchetucknee Spring. The Jug Spring's bigger and deeper the
Scuba-diving guys go there quite a bit - but the Itchetucknee's
the prettiest. That's where they shot a lot of the
sequences from the Dorothy Lamour films that were sup165
posed to take place in the South Seas. Are y'all good
swimmers?'
'We reckon we are,' I said. 'Why, though? It sounds easy
enough.'
'Oh, sure, the Springs are real nice for bathing, no problem.
But some folks like to swim down the creek and on
along the Itchetucknee river. If you do that you have to
swim down three or four miles. A lot of guys float down on
inner tubes, but better swimmers generally prefer just a
snorkel mask and flippers. Only you can't turn back, you
see - no way - and you can't leave the river until you get
down to the next park area, because it's all like I said, swamp
country, both banks. I've done it on a tube. It's real neat you
see turtles and quite a few birds - herons and so on.
They're not afraid of folks in the water as long as they're not
making a lot of noise. I once saw a couple of gators - small
ones. Gators aren't dangerous as long as they're not fooled
with or molested, you know.'
'But what d'you do with your towels and clothes?' I
asked.
'Yeah, well, you kinda need a buddy, I guess; some guy
has to stick with the car, drive down with the clothes and so
on and meet up with you down the other end.'
'Oh, I would love to do it!' said Kathe. 'Oh, Alan darling,
do let's go!'
'You figure she's a good enough swimmer?' said Mr Dubose
to me.
'She's just fine!' answered Kathe, looking at him as though
he had given her a diamond necklace. 'Especially in warm
water.'
'Do you have a buddy for the car?'
'No,' I said, 'I'm afraid that's a snag. But there are always
taxis, I suppose -'
'Ah, forget it!' said Mr Dubose. 'I just had me a great
idea. Why do
n't I come along for the ride? I can read Great
Expectations by the creek as well as any place else.'
We closed with this offer at once, only insisting that we
should take him out to dinner that evening - he looked, I
thought, as though he could do with it.
166
'I don't have a car right now, though,' said Mr Dubose.
'What is your car, stick shift or automatic?'
'It can be anything you like. I haven't hired it yet."
'Well, a Dasher, maybe. Would that be O.K.?'
It transpired that this was what the Americans call a
Volkswagen Passat. We agreed to pick Lee up that afternoon
and went off to buy snorkel masks and flippers, Kathe as excited
as a child.
'I must say I think it's very nice of him to take it on,' I
remarked.
'Yes, isn't it?" answered Kathe, swinging forward on my
arm and taking a few dancing steps backwards in front of
me. I realized that Mr Dubose had had incentive.
We were in luck, since the afternoon, for once in a way,
was cloudy. Their climate pampers the Floridians and by
English standards they are hypersensitive about weather and
water. For them, 78� Fahrenheit is rather cold for bathing.
Accordingly, when we reached the Ichetucknee Spring, there
was hardly anyone there.
The pool was entrancingly beautiful, no more than thirty
or forty yards across; lying, as Lee had said, in a forest glade
and surrounded by trees, flowering creepers and a green
abundance of ferns. On one side, in a glade, were a few stout
wooden tables and one or two iron fire-baskets for charcoal
barbecuing. The springs rose, at a depth of about fifteen
feet, in the centre of the pool and on the west side of the
'creek', no more than five feet wide, flowed away through
tangled vegetation. Several cardinals, rather tame, were
hanging about for what they could get and a brownuniformed,
scout-hatted ranger, pistol in belt, gave us good
day, said he guessed I was British and it was real nice to
see us. We strolled up to the changing hut. In America
(where many people seem habitually to use the foulest language,
even in the presence of women) changing in the open
tends to provoke outraged opposition. You can even get
arrested.
Kathe, in her white bikini, not only looked superb, but
also extraordinarily business-like. One swimmer - like one
cricketer - can recognize another. Kathe could not have
167
appeared anything but a swimmer if she had turned out in
an overall and gum-boots. Leaving her mask and flippers on
the bank, she plunged straight into the pool with a taut,
springy dive and swam across. Then, duck-diving, she disappeared
for about ten seconds, came up and returned on
an easy back-crawl. It was obvious that she could swim for
miles. Lee Dubose and I smiled and nodded to one another
and followed her in.
My spirits began to rise. Here at least was something I
could do, one natural function I could fulfil. What a pleasure
it is to swim a long distance in the open with someone who
is up to it! The obvious admiration for Kathe of both Lee
and the ranger filled me with pride and delight. Yet these
feelings would have been no less if she and I had been alone.
This mutual exercise of accomplishment, if it could not cure
it, could at least distance and ease my trouble, as a melody
can comfort a sick man. Without speaking - there was no
need to speak - we began putting each other through our
paces; racing across the pool, swimming together under
water, diving down towards where the springs, half-hidden
beneath a tangle of sunken branches, whelmed up cold
against face and shoulders. Kathe was like a dancer: even
if she had had no particular beauty of face or body, she
would still have been exquisitely beautiful in this.
After a time she returned to the bank and pulled on her
flippers. As I followed her and stood up in the shallow water,
she held out her mask to me, inside upwards.
'Spit on the glass for me, darling, please. We forgot to get
any anti-mist stuff, but spit's nearly as good. We forgot to
boil these mouthpieces, too, but never mind: let's just bite
hard on them for a minute or two and then I think we're
ready to go.'
'How long does the swim usually take?' I asked Lee.
'Oh, hour and a half, hour and a quarter maybe. No hurry,
take your time. I'm O.K. Maybe I'll just stick around here