to have a room aired for Captain Bain. Let Mr. Apollinax know that we have a guest; I’ll talk with him presently. And send a brace of the young men to collect that fellow Pereira, or whatever his name may be, and put him to bed. The pistol is to be delivered into Apollinax’s hands, remember. Smart, now, if you please.”
Sweeney hesitated. The Archvicar stared him down. For a moment, Sweeney felt giddy. Knock, knock, knock. “You’ve had a cream of a nightmare dream...” Why hang about arguing with lunatics? “Oh, hell,” Sweeney sighed. He strode back across the bridge toward the Lodging.
Marina, with Madame and the Sicilian maid beside her, slowly followed the Archvicar and the lean newcomer back toward the house. The Archvicar bewildered her now: he seemed more peremptory and passionate, when the mood was upon him, than ever her father the General had been. Musing on the terrible story of the Third Laird, she caught snatches at the same time of the conversation between the Archvicar and this Captain Bain.
“Odd chaps you have for keepers,” Bain was saying.
“But weren’t they always, during the last Lord’s time?”
“Aye, but those men were hired as much to keep Balgrummo in as to keep others out-not that Alec Balgrummo would have broken his word.” Captain Bain, though grimacing with pain now and again as he walked, already seemed half recovered from his fall.
“It’s much the same here still, Bain.”
“Really? You mean that I’ve fallen into a private madhouse?”
“You can judge for yourself of that, Bain. In theory, at least, this is a conference concerned with the life of the spirit. But no one is to leave the policies all this week. Will you conform? There’s not much to be said for the food here, but you ought to have a good rest after that tumble of yours.” Marina noticed that the chi-chi quality had vanished altogether from the Archvicar’s speech, as he talked with Bain. What a protean old man he was! Or was he so old? And did he really need those goggles of his?
“That’s very good of you, my-very good of you, Archvicar. Frankly, I haven’t a shilling in my sporran at the moment, so your hospitality is doubly welcome. Never could keep money. I was cowman on a farm near Londonderry, and got into a scrape with some gunmen, and left in rather a hurry. Almost thought I was back there again when that keeper chap of yours prodded me with that pistol.”
“There’s another eccentricity about this gathering,” the Archvicar added. “Everyone here assumes a name from T.S. Eliot’s poems, and takes a role, too. It’s something of a game, though I’m not well informed about the rules, and have no notion of how the game is supposed to end, or who the winners are supposed to be. Mr. Apollinax tells us that it’s all a form of spiritual therapy.”
“A chap may as well have the game as the name.” Bain readjusted the bandage on his forehead. “Who is this Apollinax?”
“That’s a mere Eliot name of his, recently chosen; he’s had many names, I believe. He’s the principal in all this, and my employer. The old people here, and the young ones too, expect him to work a cure of souls-that’s a way of putting it. The newest name suits him; one can fancy him ‘where worried bodies of drowned men drift down in the green silence.’ And ‘Gerontion’ fits me like a glove. Yet for the others, why the names from Eliot...”
“Eliot? Edited some London paper, didn’t he? Wrote a poem about somebody who didn’t dare to eat a peach, I recall, and another about an old man-I say, that’s your name, isn’t it, Gerontion? Better not to ask your real name at the moment, I take it. Quite. Will Eliot be here at the Lodging?” The Archvicar gave him a long look. “Eliot died some years ago.”
“I didn’t know; but then, I’m afraid I’m vague much of the time, what with the old head wound. What name will you give me?”
“It will have to be approved by Mr. Apollinax:
Sweeney hesitated. The Archvicar stared him down. For a moment, Sweeney felt giddy. Knock, knock, knock. “You’ve had a cream of a nightmare dream...” Why hang about arguing with lunatics? “Oh, hell,” Sweeney sighed. He strode back across the bridge toward the Lodging.
Marina, with Madame and the Sicilian maid beside her, slowly followed the Archvicar and the lean newcomer back toward the house. The Archvicar bewildered her now: he seemed more peremptory and passionate, when the mood was upon him, than ever her father the General had been. Musing on the terrible story of the Third Laird, she caught snatches at the same time of the conversation between the Archvicar and this Captain Bain.
“Odd chaps you have for keepers,” Bain was saying.
“But weren’t they always, during the last Lord’s time?”
“Aye, but those men were hired as much to keep Balgrummo in as to keep others out-not that Alec Balgrummo would have broken his word.” Captain Bain, though grimacing with pain now and again as he walked, already seemed half recovered from his fall.
“It’s much the same here still, Bain.”
“Really? You mean that I’ve fallen into a private madhouse?”
“You can judge for yourself of that, Bain. In theory, at least, this is a conference concerned with the life of the spirit. But no one is to leave the policies all this week. Will you conform? There’s not much to be said for the food here, but you ought to have a good rest after that tumble of yours.” Marina noticed that the chi-chi quality had vanished altogether from the Archvicar’s speech, as he talked with Bain. What a protean old man he was! Or was he so old? And did he really need those goggles of his?
“That’s very good of you, my-very good of you, Archvicar. Frankly, I haven’t a shilling in my sporran at the moment, so your hospitality is doubly welcome. Never could keep money. I was cowman on a farm near Londonderry, and got into a scrape with some gunmen, and left in rather a hurry. Almost thought I was back there again when that keeper chap of yours prodded me with that pistol.”
“There’s another eccentricity about this gathering,” the Archvicar added. “Everyone here assumes a name from T.S. Eliot’s poems, and takes a role, too. It’s something of a game, though I’m not well informed about the rules, and have no notion of how the game is supposed to end, or who the winners are supposed to be. Mr. Apollinax tells us that it’s all a form of spiritual therapy.”
“A chap may as well have the game as the name.” Bain readjusted the bandage on his forehead. “Who is this Apollinax?”
“That’s a mere Eliot name of his, recently chosen; he’s had many names, I believe. He’s the principal in all this, and my employer. The old people here, and the young ones too, expect him to work a cure of souls-that’s a way of putting it. The newest name suits him; one can fancy him ‘where worried bodies of drowned men drift down in the green silence.’ And ‘Gerontion’ fits me like a glove. Yet for the others, why the names from Eliot...”
“Eliot? Edited some London paper, didn’t he? Wrote a poem about somebody who didn’t dare to eat a peach, I recall, and another about an old man-I say, that’s your name, isn’t it, Gerontion? Better not to ask your real name at the moment, I take it. Quite. Will Eliot be here at the Lodging?” The Archvicar gave him a long look. “Eliot died some years ago.”
“I didn’t know; but then, I’m afraid I’m vague much of the time, what with the old head wound. What name will you give me?”
“It will have to be approved by Mr. Apollinax:
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