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Title: The MisanthropeAuthor: J. D. Beresford* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *eBook No.: 0603001h.htmlEdition: 1Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: Latin-1(ISO-8859-1)--8 bitDate first posted: July 2006Date most recently updated: July 2006This eBook was produced by: Richard ScottProject Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editionswhich are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright noticeis included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particularpaper edition.Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check thecopyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing thisfile.This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the termsof the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online athttp://gutenberg.net.au/licence.html
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Since I have returned from the rock and discussed the story in allits bearings, I have begun to wonder if the man made a fool of me. Inthe deeps of my consciousness I feel that he did not.
Nevertheless, I cannot resist the effect of all the laughter thathas been evoked by my narrative.
Here on the mainland the whole thing seems unlikely, grotesque,foolish. On the rock the man's confession carried absolute conviction.The setting is everything; and I am, perhaps, thankful that my presentcircumstances are so beautifully conducive to sanity. No oneappreciates the mystery of life more than I do; but when the mysteryinvolves such a doubt of oneself, I find it pleasanter to forget.Naturally, I do not want to believe the story. If I did I should knowmyself to be some kind of human horror. And the terror of it all liesin the fact that I may never know precisely what kind...
Before I went we had eliminated the facile and banal explanationthat the man was mad, and had fallen back upon the two inevitablealternatives: Crime and Disappointed Love. We were human and romantic,and we tried desperately hard not to be too obvious.
Once before a man had made the same attempt and had built or triedto build a house on the Gulland rock; but he had been defeated within afortnight, and what was left of his building was taken off the islandand turned into a tin church. It is there still. We all went to Trevoneand ruminated over and round it, perhaps with some faint hope that oneof us might, all-unknowing, have the abilities of a psychometrist.
Nothing came of that visit but a slight intensification of thosetheories that were already becoming a little stale. We compared theearly failure of thirty years ago, the attempt that was baffled, withthe present success. For this new misanthrope had lived on the Gullandthrough the whole winter--and still lived. Indeed, the fact of hispresence on that awful lump of rock was now accepted by the countrypeople; to them he was scarcely a shade madder than the other visitors;that remunerative, recurrent host that this year broke their journey toBedruthan in order to stand on Trevone beach and stare foolishly at thejust visible hut that stuck like a cubical gall on the landward face ofthat humped, desolate island.
We all did that; stared at nothing in particular and meditatedenormously; but in what I felt at the time was a wild spirit ofadventure, I went out one night to the point of Gunver Head and saw anactual light within that distant hut; a patch of golden lichen on themother parasite.
Some aspect of humanity I found in that light it was that finallydecided me; that and some quality of sympathy, perhaps with thehermit--mad, criminal, or lovelorn?--who had found sanctuary from thepestilent touch of the encroaching crowd. It was, in fact, a wildishnight, and I stayed until the little yellow speck went out, and all Icould see through the murk was an occasional canopy of curving spraywhen the elbow of the Trevone Light touched a bare corner of that blackGulland.
The making of a decision was no difficult matter, but while I waitedfor the necessary calm that would permit the occasional boat to landprovisions on the island two miles out from the mainland, I sufferedqualms of doubt and nervousness. And I suffered them alone, for I haddetermined that no hint of my adventure should be given to anyone ofour party until the voyage had been made. They might think that I hadgone fishing, an excuse which had all the air of probability given toit by the coming of the boatman to say that the tide and wind wouldserve that morning. I had warned--and bribed--him to give no clue to myfriends of the goal of my proposed excursion.
My nervousness suffered no decrease as we approached the rock andsaw the authentic figure of its single inhabitant awaiting our arrival.I had some consolation in the thought that he would be in some wayprepared by the sight of our surprisingly passengered boat; but my mindshuddered at the necessity for using some conventional form of addressif I would make at once my introduction and excuse. The civilisedopening was so hopelessly incapable of expressing my sympathy,presenting instead so unmistakably, it seemed to me, the singlesolution of common curiosity. I wondered that he had not--as theboatman so clearly assured me was the case--had other prying visitorsbefore me.
My self-consciousness increased as we came nearer to the singleopening among the spiked rocks, that served as a miniature harbour athalf-tide. I felt that I was being watched by the man who now stoodawaiting us at the water's edge. And suddenly my spirit broke, Idecided that I could not force myself upon him, that I would remain inthe boat while its cargo was delivered, and then return with theboatmen to Trevone. So resolute was I in this plan that when we hadpulled in to the tiny landing-place, I kept my gaze steadfastly avertedfrom the man I had come to see, and stared solemnly out at the humpedback of Trevone, seen now in an entirely new aspect.
The sound of the hermit's voice startled me from a perfectly genuineabstraction.
"Fairly decent weather to-day," he remarked with, I thought, a touchof nervousness. He had, I remembered, addressed the same remark to theboatmen, who were now conveying their cargo up to the hut.
I looked up and met his stare. He was, indeed, regarding me with acurious effect of concentration, as if he were eager to note everydetail of my expression.
"Jolly," I replied. "Been pretty beastly the last day or two. Keptyou rather short, hasn't it?"
"I make allowances for that," he said. "Keep a reserve, you know.Are you I staying over there?" He nodded towards the bay.
"For a week or two," I told him, and we began to discuss the countryaround Harlyn with the eagerness of two strangers who find a commontopic at a dull reception.
"Never been on the Gulland before, I suppose?" he ventured at last,when the boatmen had discharged their load and were evidently ready tobe off.
"No, no, I haven't," I said, and hesitated. I felt that theinvitation must come from him.
He boggled over it by saying, "Dashed awkward place to get to, andnothing to see, of course. I don't know if you're at all keen onfishing?"
"Rather," I said with enthusiasm. "There's deep water on the otherside of the rock," he went on. "In the right weather you get splendidbass there." He stopped and then added, "It'll be absolutely top holefor 'em, this afternoon."
"Perhaps I could come back..." I began; but the boatman interruptedme at once.
"Yew can coom back to-morrow, sure 'nough," he said. "Tide onlyserves wance avery twalve hours."
"If you'd care to stay, now..." began the hermit.
"Thanks! it's awfully good of you. I should like to of all things,"I said. I stayed on the clear understanding that the boatmen were tofetch me the next morning. At first there was really very little thatseemed in any way strange about the man on the Gulland.
His name, he told me, was William Copley, but it appeared that hewas no relation to the Copleys I knew. And if he had shaved he wouldhave looked a very ordinary type of Englishman roughing it on aholiday. His age I judged to be between thirty and forty.
Only two things about him struck me as a little queer during ourvery successful afternoon's fishing. The first was that intenseappraising stare of his, as if he tried to fathom the very depths ofone's being. The second was an inexplicable devotion to one particularform of ceremony. As our intimacy grew, he dropped the ordinary formalpoliteness of a host; but he insisted always on one observance that Isupposed at first to be the merely conventional business of givingprecedence.
Nothing would induce him to go in front of me. He sent me ahead evenas we explored the little purlieus of his rock--the only level squareyard on the whole island was in the floor of the hut. But presently Inoticed that this peculiarity went still further, and that he would notturn his back on me for a single moment.
That discovery intrigued one. I still excluded the explanation ofmadness--Copley's manner and conversation were so convincingly sane.But I reverted to and elaborated those other two suggestions that hadbeen made. I could not avoid the inference that the man must in somestrange way be afraid of me; and I hesitated as to whether he wereflying from some form of justice or from revenge, perhaps a vendetta.Either theory seemed to account for his intense, ap-praising stare. Iinferred that his longing for companionship had grown so strong that hehad determined to risk the possibility of my being an emissary, sent bysome--to me--exquisitely romantic person or persons who desiredCopley's death. I recalled, and wallowed in, some of the marvellousimaginings of the novelist. I wondered if I could make Copley speak byconvincing him of my innocent identity. How I thrilled at theprospect!
But the explanation of it all came without any effort on mypart.
He sent me out of the hut while he prepared our supper--quite amagnificent meal, by the way.
I saw his reason at once; he could not manage all that business ofcooking and laying the table without turning his back on me. One thing,however, puzzled me a little; he drew down the blind of the littlesquare window as soon as I had gone outside.
Naturally, I made no demur. I climbed down to the edge of thesea--it was a glorious evening--and waited until he called me. He stoodat the door of the hut until I was within a few feet of him, and thenretreated into the room and sat down with his back to the wall.
We discussed our afternoon's sport as we had supper, but when we hadfinished and our pipes were going, he said, suddenly:
"I don't see why I shouldn't tell you."
Like a fool, I agreed eagerly, when I might so easily have stoppedhim...
"It began when I was quite a kid," he said. "My mother found mecrying in the garden; and all I could tell her was that Claude, myelder brother, looked 'horrid.' I couldn't bear the sight of him fordays afterwards, either; but I was such a perfectly normal child thatthey weren't seriously perturbed about this one idiosyncrasy of mine.They thought that Claude had 'made a face' at me, and frightened me. Myfather whacked me for it eventually.
"Perhaps that whacking stuck in my mind. Anyway, I didn't confide mypeculiarity to anyone until I was nearly seventeen. I was ashamed ofit, of course. I am still--in a way.".He stopped and looked down,pushed his plate away from him, and folded his arms on the table. I waspining to ask a question, but I was afraid to interrupt. And after amoment's hesitation he looked up and held my gaze again, but nowwithout that inquiring look of his.
Rather, he seemed to be looking for sympathy.
"I told my house-master," he said. "He was a splendid chap, and hewas very decent about it; took it all quite seriously and advised me toconsult an oculist, which I did. I went in the holidays with thepater--I had given him a more reasonable account of my trouble--and hetook me to the best man in London. He was tremendously interested, andit proves that there must be something in it, that it can't beimagination, because he really found a defect in my eyes, somethingquite new to him, he said. He called it a new form of astigmatism; but,of course, as he pointed out, no glasses would be any use to me."
"But what...?" I began, unable to keep down my curiosity anylonger.
Copley hesitated, and dropped his eyes. "Astigmatism, you know," hesaid, "is a defect--I quote the dictionary, I learned that definitionby heart; I often puzzle over it still--'causing images of lines havinga certain direction to be indistinctly seen, while those of linestransverse to the former are distinctly seen.' Only mine is peculiar inthe fact that my sight is perfectly normal except when I look back atanyone over my shoulder." He looked up, almost pathetically.
I could see that he hoped I might understand without furtherexplanation.
I had to confess myself utterly mystified. What had this triflingdefect of vision to do with his coming to live on the Gulland, Iwondered.
I frowned my perplexity. "But I don't see..." I said.
He knocked out his pipe and began to scrape the bowl with hispocket-knife. "Well, mine is a kind of moral astigmatism, too," hesaid. "At least, it gives me a kind of moral insight. I'm afraid I mustcall it insight. I've proved in some cases that..." He dropped hisvoice. He was apparently deeply engrossed in the scraping out of hispipe. He kept his eyes on it as he continued.
"Normally, you understand, when I look at people straight in theface, I see them as anybody else sees them. But when I look back atthem over my shoulder I see...oh! I see all their vices and defects.Their faces remain, in a sense, the same, perfectly recognisable, Imean, but distorted--beastly...There was my brotherClaude--good-looking chap, he was--but when I saw him...that way...hehad a nose like a parrot, and he looked sort of weakly voracious...andvicious." He stopped and shuddered slightly, and then added: "And oneknows, now, that he is like that, too. He's just been hammered on theStock Exchange. Rotten sort of failure it was..."
"And then Denison, my house-master, you know; such a decent chap. Inever looked at him, that way, until the end of my last term at school.I had got into the habit, more or less, of never looking over myshoulder, you see. But I was always getting caught. That was aninstance. I was playing for the School against the Old Boys. Denisoncalled out, 'Good luck, old chap,' just as I was going in, and I forgotand looked back at him..."
I waited, breathless, and as he did not go on, I prompted him with"Was he...'wrong,' too?"
Copley nodded. "Weak, poor devil. His eyes were all right, but theywere fighting his mouth, if you know what I mean. There would have beenan awful scandal at the school there, four years after I left, if theyhadn't hushed it up and got Denison out of the country.
"Then, if you want any more instances, there was the oculist--big,fine chap, he was. Of course, he made me look at him over my shoulder,to test me. He asked me what I saw, and I told, more or less. He wassimply livid for a moment. He was a sensualist, you see; and when I sawhim that way he looked like some filthy old hog.
"The thing that really finished me," he went on, after a longinterval, "was the breaking off of my engagement to Helen. We werefrightfully in love with one another, and I told her about my trouble.She was very sympathetic, and I suppose rather sentimentally romantic,too. She believed it was some sort of spell that had been put on me. Ithink, anyway, she had a theory that if I once saw anybody truly andordinarily over my shoulder, I should never have any more trouble--thespell-would-be-broken sort of thing. And, of course, she wanted to bethe person. I didn't resist her much. I was infatuated, I suppose.Anyway, I thought she was perfection and that it was simply impossiblethat I could find any defect in her. So I agreed, and looked--thatway..."
His voice had fallen to an even note of despondency, as though thetelling of this final tragedy in his life had brought him to theindifference of despair. "I looked," he continued, "and saw a creaturewith no chin and watery, doting eyes; a faithful, slobbery thing--eugh!I can't...I never spoke to her again...
"That broke me, you know," he said presently. "After that I didn'tcare. I used to look at everyone that way, until I had to get away fromhumanity. I was living in a world of beasts. Most of them looked likesome beast or bird or other. The strong were vicious and criminal; andthe weak were loathsome. I couldn't stick it. In the end--I had to comehere away from them all."
A thought occurred to me. "Have you ever looked at yourself in theglass?" I asked.
He nodded. "I'm no better than the rest of them," he said. "That'swhy I grew this rotten beard. I hadn't got a looking-glass here."
"And you can't keep a stiff neck, as it were," I asked, "going aboutlooking humanity straight in the face?"
"The temptation is too strong," Copley said. "And it gets stronger.Curiosity, partly, I suppose; but partly it's the momentary sense ofsuperiority it gives you. You see them like that, you know, and forgethow you look yourself. And then after a bit it sickens you."
"You haven't..." I said, and hesitated. I wanted to know and yet Iwas horribly afraid. "You haven't," I began again, "er--youhaven't--er--looked at me yet...that way?"
"Not yet," he said.
"Do you suppose..."
"Probably. You look all right, of course. But then so did heaps ofthe others."
"You've no idea how I should look to you, that way?"
"Absolutely none. I've been trying to guess, but I can't."
"You wouldn't care...?"
"Not now," he said sharply. "Perhaps, just before you go."
"You feel fairly certain, then...?"
He nodded with disgusting conviction.
I went to bed, wondering whether Helen's theory wasn't a true one;and if I might not break the spell for poor Copley.
The boatmen came for me soon after eleven next morning.
I had shaken off some of the feeling of superstitious horror thathad held me overnight, and I had not repeated my request to Copley; norhad he offered to look into the dark places of my soul.
He came down after me to the landing-place and we shook handswarmly, but he said nothing about my revisiting him.
And then, just as we were putting off, he turned back towards thehut and looked at me over his shoulder--just one quick glance.
"Wait," I commanded the boatmen, and I stood up and called tohim.
"I say, Copley," I shouted.
He turned and looked at me, and I saw that his face wastransfigured. He wore an expression of foolish disgust and loathing. Ihad seen something like it on the face of an idiot child who was justgoing to be sick.
I dropped down into the boat and turned my back on him.
I wondered then if that was how he had seen himself in theglass.
But since I have only wondered what it was he saw in me...
And I can never go back to ask him.
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