By the end of the first week in December all the students had assembled; they numbered just less than a hundred and filled three of the seven floors of Les Alpes. Only a small proportion were not allowed up, for a clause governing their selection had required that the condition of the majority should not have evolved beyond the earliest stages of the illness. A considerable number, like John Cotterell, were actually convalescent. For the most part they tended to remain in their national groups, strolling together in the corridors, eating together, and congregating in the evening in the rooms of those who were confined to bed. On the days of mass screenings and consultations the Service Médical resembled the clearing-house of an international port; individual accents were lost in the general uproar and only gestures and colouring remained to indicate the nationality of otherwise anonymous, half-nude bodies.
Everybody was well installed; everybody was pleased to be in the Haute Savoie at so treacherous a period of the year; those who were allowed out delighted in the crisp air and the sunlit snow. But by the end of the first week various private and unexpressed impressions attained quite suddenly the status of a communal conviction, and as such became the subject of general discussion—the food was rotten. The nearly black bread served for breakfast was often stale and sometimes sour; there was no general allocation of milk and all beverages were pre-sweetened with saccharin; the two main meals were insufficient and prepared from inferior ingredients; tea could only be distinguished from breakfast by the fact that there was even less butter and no jam, and the thin coffee was replaced by what John Cotterell termed ‘tea-type tea’.
Dissatisfaction at last became vocal. M. Halfont and Dr. Vernet received the complaints sympathetically, and explained that the organisation of the kitchen—the staff of which had recently been considerably augmented owing to the sudden increase in the numbers at the sanatorium—was temporarily imperfect. But it was only a question of remaining patient for a little longer, after which it was hoped that a cuisine agreeable to everybody would be available.
The approach of Christmas became evident in the initiation of extensive preparations at Les Alpes. Private patients took their meals at different times from the students, but it had been decided that at the special dinner to be served on Christmas Eve everyone would eat together. All the separate tables were to be placed end-to-end in a gigantic horse-shoe; private patients, nurses and staff would be seated at one half, the students at the other. Then it was announced that the dinner was to be followed by a fancy dress ball, and everyone who was going to attend was requested to busy himself or herself with the preparation of a costume. Private patients telephoned a local costumier: the students set to work with needle and cotton, ransacked the attics and store-rooms of the sanatorium for old curtains and worn-out, discarded linen.
A great Christmas tree was erected in the salle à manger, and stars, crescents and lanterns decorated the lofty ceiling. Individual rooms reflected the taste and temperament (and often the state of health) of their occupants. In some the walls disappeared under a mass of improvised decorations; in others the owners had arranged elaborately dressed trees or crèches; in most was greater or lesser evidence of festivity. But here and and there was a room which—like an extinct star still fixed within its radiant galaxy—lacked even the addition of a single candle or Christmas card to mitigate the austerity of its habitual appearance.
Angus Gray and William Davis went out together one afternoon and came back with branches of holly, which they divided among the rooms of their compatriots. John MacAllister and David Bean modelled in silhouette from cardboard and coloured paper a disconcerting variety of surgical instruments. John Cotterell was wholly occupied with the design and execution of his costume.
The snow fell in such quantities that the roads of the village were impassable each morning until after the passage of the snow-plough.
Deliveries of mail were non-stop. Emile, combining seasonal exertion with seasonal indulgence, staggered at all hours up and down the passages, muttering and recriminating, eyeing his clients both defiantly and ingratiatingly, and distributing parcels like curses.
Paul—as he had anticipated—was refused permission to attend the Christmas Eve dinner. As the hour approached, his door opened every few minutes and someone entered either to exhibit his costume or to demand advice or assistance in respect of an adjustment. Feeling like an ailing seamstress behind the wings of a provincial music-hall, he sat up in bed and acquitted himself as well as he was able, sewing and pinning, altering and fitting.
The costumes varied in ingenuity. Kubahskoi made a passable mandarin, John MacAllister an impressive chef de gare. (He had engaged the co-operation of the stationmaster of Brisset.) Angus Gray had gallantly sacrificed his great moustaches to the accomplishment of a change of sex. David Bean had covered his face with burnt cork and had suspended brass curtain rings from his ears. His body was draped in a sheet; a carving knife hung about his waist. With unerring taste and technique he had affiliated himself to the D.P.s of every improvised fancy dress ball, that roving, ubiquitous band of gipsies cum sheiks cum pirates cum hunters cum dustmen.
John Cotterell, crushed at last by the accumulated weight of his own ingenuity, tore up all his intricate designs, and, to the scandal of the sanatorium, wore nothing more than a set of Sœur Jeanne’s underwear and a top hat.
By dinner-time the rooms and corridors on Paul’s floor had become deserted and silent. It was the moment which secretly and with impatience he had been awaiting.
Ever since Dr. Vernet’s announcement in respect of treatment to come, Paul had decided that, when alone on Christmas Eve, he would engage in a systematic appraisal of his situation, after which he would re-orientate himself to it. How would he accomplish this? He had no very exact idea. But each time that he suffered a sudden moment of anguish in thinking of what lay ahead, he had managed to calm himself by saying: “I need not trouble myself with this now. I will settle it all on Christmas Eve.”
At last, it had required little effort to refer all his doubts and dread to this single evening of resolution. “After all,” he had told himself, “I am free. If I stay here and accept treatment, it is of my own volition. If I decide that I don’t wish it, I have only to explain to Dr. Vernet, and then pack my bags. The worst I have to fear is death, which, after all, is always inevitable. On the other hand if I stay and agree to undergo whatever treatment is proposed, I can regard it dispassionately, almost in the light of an experiment which I myself am making. All that matters is that it should be I who consciously make the choice; on Christmas Eve, when completely alone, I shall weigh up all the alternatives and decide.”
And now the evening had arrived, and, instead of carrying out his intentions, he lay basking in the voluptuousness of the silence and the sensation of being alone. ‘Oh,’ he thought, ‘I have time, I have the whole evening before me.’ On a sudden impulse of curiosity he got out of bed and wandered about the room, considering its changed aspect from various unfamiliar angles. For a few minutes he stood in the doorway, figuring to himself how it must appear when—he and Kubahskoi both in their beds—Dr. Vernet entered on one of his rounds.
His feet dragged about in a pile of paper wrappings, lengths of paper streamers and clippings of material. Suddenly irritated by the general disorder, he started to sweep the floor, using at first the edge of one of his slippers, then a carton and a newspaper. He closed the cupboard doors, aligned scrupulously the drawers of the commode, tidied the beds and the bedside tables, rearranged the bottles on the glass shelf above the wash-basin. Then he glanced through Kubahskoi’s books, all of which were in languages which he did not understand.
As he climbed back into bed he reflected that it would be a pity not to take advantage of the rare silence by reading until the arrival of his supper tray. ‘For even when I have finished eating,’ he told himself, ‘there will still be some hours before me in which to make my decision.’
By nine o’clock his meal had not arrived; he realised with indifference that, in the course of all the extra activity in the kitchens, he had been forgotten. He remembered that in the pocket of his greatcoat there was a packet of biscuits which he had purchased during the journey but which he had not opened. He fetched it, ate those in the top layer which were broken, and then resumed his reading.
Some time later he heard the sound of singing from the direction of the salle à manger; it swelled, then fell completely away. There was no wind and through the window he could see the snow falling as lightly and silently as within a Victorian glass globe.
In this preternatural silence Paul found that his attention was being compelled hypnotically by the rhythm of the sentences he was reading, whilst he was not assimilating their meaning. Then the print seemed to project three-dimensionally from the page, and to slide across it. It was all a trick of his position and of the lighting; to break the spell he heaped up the pillows behind him and sat up with the book resting on his lap.
Then the noise made in turning over the pages disconcerted him, so he eased them up at the corner, raised them lightly and silently compressed their surface with his free hand. Another hour passed and there was still no sound to indicate that the dinner was over and that the diners were returning.
He took a handful of biscuits from the packet on the table de nuit, but the subsequent noise of crunching was so startling that he replaced the remainder by the side of his bed. His reading was once more becoming compulsive, and the silence of the sanatorium, earlier so welcome, began to oppress him. He felt suddenly that he wasn’t alone in the room and twice looked up sharply in the direction of the door.
At last he closed his book, but lay for a long time without changing his position. The tendency of everything to slide … he clutched involuntarily at consciousness and shuddered with the jolt as the dissolving room reintegrated. ‘It is true,’ he thought, ‘one does fall asleep. I was, literally, falling …’
A faint sound caused him to turn to the window. A face was pressed against the glass, eyes were watching him. His body grew rigid as the window started to swing apart.
Into the room, walking, tottering, came the slight figure of a young woman. She was dressed in a sleeveless nightdress, her matted hair was thinly veiled with snow, her bare feet were thickened with contusions. She knocked over a small table, staggered and nearly fell. Then, steadying herself by holding on to the wash-stand, she fixed Paul with her eyes and raised a warning finger to her lips.
Like the shackled protagonist of a nightmare, Paul watched as, supporting herself against the wall, she edged her way along it. As she approached, he threw aside the blankets. Then her knees sagged; precipitating herself forward, she collapsed across the end of his bed.
The sound of voices in the corridor. She started to shudder, tried desperately to speak, but when she opened her mouth, she could do no more than swallow and exhale great gulps of air. Then, with a gesture of impatience, she thrust her hand into the bosom of her night-dress and pulled out an envelope. The sound which she succeeded in forcing at last from her throat came in the form of an uncontrolled, inarticulate cry. Terror in her eyes, and a restraining hand clamped too late to her lips as she grasped the significance of her error. Silence. The clatter of approaching footsteps. She flung Paul the envelope and backed unsteadily towards the window.
The door was thrown open and in ran the doctors Vernet and Bruneau, unbuttoned white coats flying flapping over carnival costumes. The young woman crouched back against the wall; the doctors closed in on each side of her. She darted suddenly forward, falling to her knees as each grabbed a separate arm. Between them they dragged her to the door. “Assassins! Assassins!” she screamed, throwing herself backwards, her head barely clearing the floor, her hair sweeping it. As Dr. Vernet pulled open the door, her face banged against the handle. She screamed and started to struggle violently. Once in the passage she gave another scream, but this time it was cut short.
Paul lay staring at the trail of wet footprints which led from the window—the only perceptible evidence of his recent visitation. Then suddenly he remembered the envelope. Where was it. With shaking hands he pulled aside the duvet, then the top blanket; it fell out of a fold on to the floor. The writing was indecipherable, the stamp torn and stained.
The door had swung shut; it reopened briskly to admit Dr. Vernet. Now carrying his white coat over his arm, he was dressed as a rather stocky harlequin.
“A little accident, monsieur,” he explained, smiling broadly. “Normally I treat patients’ visitors with more respect.” Then noticing the letter in Paul’s hand, and saying, “Ah, vous permettez,” he plucked it away. “Tiens!” he commented, “another letter to her husband—that would have caused unnecessary grief and misunderstanding to her husband. She is mad of course, tubercular meningitis, the last phase is approaching. And she thinks”—he laughed pleasantly——“she thinks that we are trying to kill her. But what is irritating is that she will try to write to her husband that we are murdering her, and she now suspects, moreover with complete justification, that we are intercepting her letters. Thus the reason for her visit to you—she was looking more for a postman than a lover. She must have clambered along the side of the balconies, really a remarkable achievement in her condition. She would have been moved from this floor with the other private patients when the students arrived, but I didn’t insist, for I knew that she hadn’t long. And of course normally she is not left alone, but Christmas Eve …” and he shrugged his shoulders.
Dr. Bruneau walked into the room. “Maintenant tout va bien,” he said to Dr. Vernet. In one hand he was carrying a hypodermic syringe with a long needle attached, in the other a false nose. He went straight over to a mirror, slipped off his white jacket and rearranged his costume, that of a Renaissance jester.
“Have you ever reflected on the recalcitrance of the human organism, Monsieur Davenant?” asked Dr. Vernet mildly as he watched his colleague adjusting his gartered hose. “It seems often to be possessed of a will which delights in opposing itself to our own. And whilst in many instances it may be too stubborn to get well, it can at the same time be too stubborn to die. But I fear, nevertheless, that the night air will not have helped the condition of our patient; her temperature was 41° at six o’clock.” Then, looking at his watch: “Nearly midnight, we must get back to our festivities. A pity you cannot be there, but another year, perhaps …” He tapped Dr. Bruneau’s shoulder with a wand and cried: “Hop-là, Buffon, tu viens?” Dr. Bruneau leapt in the air in mock surprise.
A scream came from down the passage. “Nom de Dieu!” ejaculated Dr. Vernet, and both men raced from the room. Paul jumped from his bed. A second scream came from the direction of the balconies. Stopping only to throw his greatcoat about his shoulders, he ran out through the still open windows. Leaning over the balcony rail he saw, four floors below, the body of his visitor, her night-dress about her waist, one arm stretched above her head, the other crumpled beneath her. Also leaning over the balcony of a room a little farther up were the doctors Vernet and Bruneau. A nursing sister was explaining hysterically what had happened. Dr. Vernet silenced her peremptorily and the three figures re-entered the room.
Paul looked down at the body; broken and disjointed, its stillness betokened no serenity.
It had stopped snowing and the night was brilliant. The sky hung like a gold lace shawl above the infinite winter landscape; the vast Arve valley, seeming to radiate its own luminosity, shone with the quiet distinctness of an illuminated shop window in a midnight town. The village clocks began to chime and were joined an instant later by the bells of the churches. From a nearby Catholic church came the faint sound of the singing of the midnight mass.
Down below, three figures emerged with torches from the entrance of Les Alpes; Paul distinguished Dr. Vernet and Dr. Bruneau, the latter still carrying his false nose in his hand. The third, a short, broad-shouldered man, was revealed by his staggering gait as Emile the concierge. In a little posse they advanced towards the corpse, their steps hampered by the depth of the drifted snow. Dr. Vernet arrived first, seized for a moment the girl’s wrist, then let it fall back to the ground. He muttered an order to Emile, and returned with Dr. Bruneau to the porch of the building. Emile bent down, grasped the corpse about its waist, and started to drag it across the snow, its heels marking two parallel lines. Then, in answer to an impatient cry from Dr. Vernet, he stopped, leant over and heaved it on to his shoulder. A false step, the snow reached up to his knees, and he nearly fell; swearing, he righted himself, then, trying to catch hold of a waving foot, the heel of which was banging against his back, he turned in a series of frustrated circles like a senile dog pursuing its tail. “Dépêchez-vous,” came angrily from the porch. Emile secured the ankle, and stumbled to where the two doctors were waiting for him.
Paul remained staring down at where the body had been lying; its outline could barely be distinguished, for the snow which marked it had been trampled flat. Then as the cold began to penetrate his greatcoat, he turned away.
When, some hours later, Kubahskoi returned to his room, Paul was lying in bed with his eyes closed and the light extinguished. Kubahskoi, believing Paul to be sleeping, undressed quickly and quietly in the dark.
At last Paul did sleep, and it was to dream that he was wandering about Les Alpes, which had become as empty as an abandoned shell; the rooms and corridors were thick with weeds, and the walls were lined with creepers. He entered his own room, which was derelict; the unmade beds and furniture were covered with undergrowth and foliage. Under some compulsion he crossed to the wash-basin and turned on the light above the mirror. Reflected in the glass, staring back at him, was a skull.
He woke as the sun was colouring the summits of the mountains in shades of rose and crimson, and he discerned in his nostrils the acrid smell of his own mortality.
And as he started to cough and to expectorate, which he always did on first waking, he wondered in great wretchedness of spirit to what end the dreary formality of treatment was soon to be initiated, when his course was so clearly set for death.
The concept of death circumscribed all his thoughts. He remembered how once he had watched a group of young children playing in a tomb-strewn churchyard during a long afternoon in midsummer, running between the irregular headstones and over the grave-mounds as unaware of what lay beneath as mice frisking about the lids of coffins in the funeral parlour of an undertaker. Under the short print summer dresses and the daisy chains, locked tightly within the confines of each skull was death, death which would feed and blossom on the tender soil of their flesh, absorbing first beauty, then health, then existence itself. And they would return to their playground at the last, but to lie beneath its surface, and other children would play above their heads, whilst even the last remnant of life, the little flesh still adhering to their bones, would be eaten away.
And it seemed to Paul that youth was bred by age simply that, at the end, its eyes might be closed and the shame of its nakedness be hidden in the ground. And he reflected how the last descendants of man, deprived irrevocably of the seemly privilege of private decay and earth-obscured disintegration, would rot in the full light of an indifferent sky.
Over the mountains the sun was rising, transforming all that it illuminated, metamorphosing the mute wastes of white into glazed expanses of red and gold. Before the monstrous light, shadows were dispelled, shrinking, turning in upon themselves, retreating down the sides of the great slopes, uncovering in their flight the surfaces of immense forests and glaciers, drifting, falling away like the wisps of dreams in the brain of a waking giant, as they dissolved in the onrush of the self-renewing sun.
And Paul, who asked for no more than the shadow, buried his head beneath his pillows to avoid the sight of the heartless illumination of the world. And he felt, like a blow upon his back, the utter indifference of nature for man, and the indifference was more bitter than hostility, for hostility is personal and related to its object.
His sickness was of life, and he knew within him that that sickness had preceded the sickness of his body, rendering propitious the terrain of his lungs for the hosts of tubercules which they now pastured. And drenching his mind with the force of a cloudburst came the realisation that in rejecting life he had of necessity chosen death, and that from death, when it is self-willed, there is no escape.
Throughout the following day he appeared absorbed in thought, and he spoke to no one of the events of the previous evening. And when it was again night, and the students assembled in the passages to sing the carols of each nation, he lay with his head on his pillow and his eyes shut, oblivious of the sound they were making.
He was dominated by the idea that it would be better if he killed himself now, voluntarily, before the machine of hygiene swabbed him out of life with antiseptic and hypodermic. A violent death, proudly chosen, at least expressed the protest which the other in its muteness lacked; and as a swimmer rubs water on his back and shoulders to condition himself to full immersion, so Paul envisaged and rehearsed mentally that moment when, poised upon the rail of his balcony, he would precipitate himself into space. And he thought of how little pain would be involved in gaining so great a good, and he twisted with exasperation in his bed that he did not leap up that very instant to throw himself in the wake of his visitor of Christmas Eve.