The Beast in the Jungle

He had thought himself, so long as nobody knew, the most disinterested person in the world, carrying his concentrated burden, his perpetual suspense, ever so quietly, holding his tongue about it, giving others no glimpse of it nor of its effect upon his life, asking of them no allowance and only making on his side all those that were asked.  He hadn’t disturbed people with the queerness of their having to know a haunted man, though he had had moments of rather special temptation on hearing them say they were forsooth “unsettled.”  If they were as unsettled as he was—he who had never been settled for an hour in his life—they would know what it meant.  Yet it wasn’t, all the same, for him to make them, and he listened to them civilly enough.  This was why he had such good—though possibly such rather colourless—manners; this was why, above all, he could regard himself, in a greedy world, as decently—as in fact perhaps even a little sublimely—unselfish.  Our point is accordingly that he valued this character quite sufficiently to measure his present danger of letting it lapse, against which he promised himself to be much on his guard.  He was quite ready, none the less, to be selfish just a little, since surely no more charming occasion for it had come to him.  “Just a little,” in a word, was just as much as Miss Bartram, taking one day with another, would let him.  He never would be in the least coercive, and would keep well before him the lines on which consideration for her—the very highest—ought to proceed.  He would thoroughly establish the heads under which her affairs, her requirements, her peculiarities—he went so far as to give them the latitude of that name—would come into their intercourse.  All this naturally was a sign of how much he took the intercourse itself for granted.  There was nothing more to be done about that.  It simply existed; had sprung into being with her first penetrating question to him in the autumn light there at Weatherend.  The real form it should have taken on the basis that stood out large was the form of their marrying.  But the devil in this was that the very basis itself put marrying out of the question.  His conviction, his apprehension, his obsession, in short, wasn’t a privilege he could invite a woman to share; and that consequence of it was precisely what was the matter with him.  Something or other lay in wait for him, amid the twists and the turns of the months and the years, like a crouching Beast in the Jungle.  It signified little whether the crouching Beast were destined to slay him or to be slain.  The definite point was the inevitable spring of the creature; and the definite lesson from that was that a man of feeling didn’t cause himself to be accompanied by a lady on a tiger-hunt.  Such was the image under which he had ended by figuring his life.

They had at first, none the less, in the scattered hours spent together, made no allusion to that view of it; which was a sign he was handsomely alert to give that he didn’t expect, that he in fact didn’t care, always to be talking about it.  Such a feature in one’s outlook was really like a hump on one’s back.  The difference it made every minute of the day existed quite independently of discussion.  One discussed of course like a hunchback, for there was always, if nothing else, the hunchback face.  That remained, and she was watching him; but people watched best, as a general thing, in silence, so that such would be predominantly the manner of their vigil.  Yet he didn’t want, at the same time, to be tense and solemn; tense and solemn was what he imagined he too much showed for with other people.  The thing to be, with the one person who knew, was easy and natural—to make the reference rather than be seeming to avoid it, to avoid it rather than be seeming to make it, and to keep it, in any case, familiar, facetious even, rather than pedantic and portentous.  Some such consideration as the latter was doubtless in his mind for instance when he wrote pleasantly to Miss Bartram that perhaps the great thing he had so long felt as in the lap of the gods was no more than this circumstance, which touched him so nearly, of her acquiring a house in London.  It was the first allusion they had yet again made, needing any other hitherto so little; but when she replied, after having given him the news, that she was by no means satisfied with such a trifle as the climax to so special a suspense, she almost set him wondering if she hadn’t even a larger conception of singularity for him than he had for himself.  He was at all events destined to become aware little by little, as time went by, that she was all the while looking at his life, judging it, measuring it, in the light of the thing she knew, which grew to be at last, with the consecration of the years, never mentioned between them save as “the real truth” about him.  That had always been his own form of reference to it, but she adopted the form so quietly that, looking back at the end of a period, he knew there was no moment at which it was traceable that she had, as he might say, got inside his idea, or exchanged the attitude of beautifully indulging for that of still more beautifully believing him.

It was always open to him to accuse her of seeing him but as the most harmless of maniacs, and this, in the long run—since it covered so much ground—was his easiest description of their friendship.  He had a screw loose for her but she liked him in spite of it and was practically, against the rest of the world, his kind wise keeper, unremunerated but fairly amused and, in the absence of other near ties, not disreputably occupied.  The rest of the world of course thought him queer, but she, she only, knew how, and above all why, queer; which was precisely what enabled her to dispose the concealing veil in the right folds.  She took his gaiety from him—since it had to pass with them for gaiety—as she took everything else; but she certainly so far justified by her unerring touch his finer sense of the degree to which he had ended by convincing her.  She at least never spoke of the secret of his life except as “the real truth about you,” and she had in fact a wonderful way of making it seem, as such, the secret of her own life too.  That was in fine how he so constantly felt her as allowing for him; he couldn’t on the whole call it anything else.  He allowed for himself, but she, exactly, allowed still more; partly because, better placed for a sight of the matter, she traced his unhappy perversion through reaches of its course into which he could scarce follow it.  He knew how he felt, but, besides knowing that, she knew how he looked as well; he knew each of the things of importance he was insidiously kept from doing, but she could add up the amount they made, understand how much, with a lighter weight on his spirit, he might have done, and thereby establish how, clever as he was, he fell short.  Above all she was in the secret of the difference between the forms he went through—those of his little office under Government, those of caring for his modest patrimony, for his library, for his garden in the country, for the people in London whose invitations he accepted and repaid—and the detachment that reigned beneath them and that made of all behaviour, all that could in the least be called behaviour, a long act of dissimulation.  What it had come to was that he wore a mask painted with the social simper, out of the eye-holes of which there looked eyes of an expression not in the least matching the other features.  This the stupid world, even after years, had never more than half discovered.  It was only May Bartram who had, and she achieved, by an art indescribable, the feat of at once—or perhaps it was only alternately—meeting the eyes from in front and mingling her own vision, as from over his shoulder, with their peep through the apertures.

So while they grew older together she did watch with him, and so she let this association give shape and colour to her own existence.  Beneath her forms as well detachment had learned to sit, and behaviour had become for her, in the social sense, a false account of herself.  There was but one account of her that would have been true all the while and that she could give straight to nobody, least of all to John Marcher.  Her whole attitude was a virtual statement, but the perception of that only seemed called to take its place for him as one of the many things necessarily crowded out of his consciousness.  If she had moreover, like himself, to make sacrifices to their real truth, it was to be granted that her compensation might have affected her as more prompt and more natural.  They had long periods, in this London time, during which, when they were together, a stranger might have listened to them without in the least pricking up his ears; on the other hand the real truth was equally liable at any moment to rise to the surface, and the auditor would then have wondered indeed what they were talking about.  They had from an early hour made up their mind that society was, luckily, unintelligent, and the margin allowed them by this had fairly become one of their commonplaces.  Yet there were still moments when the situation turned almost fresh—usually under the effect of some expression drawn from herself.  Her expressions doubtless repeated themselves, but her intervals were generous.  “What saves us, you know, is that we answer so completely to so usual an appearance: that of the man and woman whose friendship has become such a daily habit—or almost—as to be at last indispensable.”  That for instance was a remark she had frequently enough had occasion to make, though she had given it at different times different developments.  What we are especially concerned with is the turn it happened to take from her one afternoon when he had come to see her in honour of her birthday.  This anniversary had fallen on a Sunday, at a season of thick fog and general outward gloom; but he had brought her his customary offering, having known her now long enough to have established a hundred small traditions.  It was one of his proofs to himself, the present he made her on her birthday, that he hadn’t sunk into real selfishness.  It was mostly nothing more than a small trinket, but it was always fine of its kind, and he was regularly careful to pay for it more than he thought he could afford.  “Our habit saves you, at least, don’t you see? because it makes you, after all, for the vulgar, indistinguishable from other men.  What’s the most inveterate mark of men in general?  Why the capacity to spend endless time with dull women—to spend it I won’t say without being bored, but without minding that they are, without being driven off at a tangent by it; which comes to the same thing.  I’m your dull woman, a part of the daily bread for which you pray at church.  That covers your tracks more than anything.”

“And what covers yours?” asked Marcher, whom his dull woman could mostly to this extent amuse.  “I see of course what you mean by your saving me, in this way and that, so far as other people are concerned—I’ve seen it all along.  Only what is it that saves you?  I often think, you know, of that.”

She looked as if she sometimes thought of that too, but rather in a different way.  “Where other people, you mean, are concerned?”

“Well, you’re really so in with me, you know—as a sort of result of my being so in with yourself.  I mean of my having such an immense regard for you, being so tremendously mindful of all you’ve done for me.  I sometimes ask myself if it’s quite fair.  Fair I mean to have so involved and—since one may say it—interested you.  I almost feel as if you hadn’t really had time to do anything else.”

“Anything else but be interested?” she asked.  “Ah what else does one ever want to be?  If I’ve been ‘watching’ with you, as we long ago agreed I was to do, watching’s always in itself an absorption.”

“Oh certainly,” John Marcher said, “if you hadn’t had your curiosity—!  Only doesn’t it sometimes come to you as time goes on that your curiosity isn’t being particularly repaid?”

May Bartram had a pause.  “Do you ask that, by any chance, because you feel at all that yours isn’t?  I mean because you have to wait so long.”

Oh he understood what she meant!  “For the thing to happen that never does happen?  For the Beast to jump out?  No, I’m just where I was about it.  It isn’t a matter as to which I can choose, I can decide for a change.  It isn’t one as to which there can be a change.  It’s in the lap of the gods.  One’s in the hands of one’s law—there one is.  As to the form the law will take, the way it will operate, that’s its own affair.”

“Yes,” Miss Bartram replied; “of course one’s fate’s coming, of course it has come in its own form and its own way, all the while.  Only, you know, the form and the way in your case were to have been—well, something so exceptional and, as one may say, so particularly your own.”

Something in this made him look at her with suspicion.  “You say ‘were to have been,’ as if in your heart you had begun to doubt.”

“Oh!” she vaguely protested.

“As if you believed,” he went on, “that nothing will now take place.”

She shook her head slowly but rather inscrutably.  “You’re far from my thought.”

He continued to look at her.  “What then is the matter with you?”

“Well,” she said after another wait, “the matter with me is simply that I’m more sure than ever my curiosity, as you call it, will be but too well repaid.”

They were frankly grave now; he had got up from his seat, had turned once more about the little drawing-room to which, year after year, he brought his inevitable topic; in which he had, as he might have said, tasted their intimate community with every sauce, where every object was as familiar to him as the things of his own house and the very carpets were worn with his fitful walk very much as the desks in old counting-houses are worn by the elbows of generations of clerks.  The generations of his nervous moods had been at work there, and the place was the written history of his whole middle life.  Under the impression of what his friend had just said he knew himself, for some reason, more aware of these things; which made him, after a moment, stop again before her.  “Is it possibly that you’ve grown afraid?”

“Afraid?”  He thought, as she repeated the word, that his question had made her, a little, change colour; so that, lest he should have touched on a truth, he explained very kindly: “You remember that that was what you asked me long ago—that first day at Weatherend.”

“Oh yes, and you told me you didn’t know—that I was to see for myself.  We’ve said little about it since, even in so long a time.”

“Precisely,” Marcher interposed—“quite as if it were too delicate a matter for us to make free with.  Quite as if we might find, on pressure, that I am afraid.  For then,” he said, “we shouldn’t, should we? quite know what to do.”

She had for the time no answer to this question.  “There have been days when I thought you were.  Only, of course,” she added, “there have been days when we have thought almost anything.”

“Everything.  Oh!” Marcher softly groaned, as with a gasp, half spent, at the face, more uncovered just then than it had been for a long while, of the imagination always with them.  It had always had it’s incalculable moments of glaring out, quite as with the very eyes of the very Beast, and, used as he was to them, they could still draw from him the tribute of a sigh that rose from the depths of his being.  All they had thought, first and last, rolled over him; the past seemed to have been reduced to mere barren speculation.  This in fact was what the place had just struck him as so full of—the simplification of everything but the state of suspense.  That remained only by seeming to hang in the void surrounding it.  Even his original fear, if fear it as had been, had lost itself in the desert.  “I judge, however,” he continued, “that you see I’m not afraid now.”

“What I see, as I make it out, is that you’ve achieved something almost unprecedented in the way of getting used to danger.  Living with it so long and so closely you’ve lost your sense of it; you know it’s there, but you’re indifferent, and you cease even, as of old, to have to whistle in the dark.  Considering what the danger is,” May Bartram wound up, “I’m bound to say I don’t think your attitude could well be surpassed.”

John Marcher faintly smiled.  “It’s heroic?”

“Certainly—call it that.”

It was what he would have liked indeed to call it.  “I am then a man of courage?”

“That’s what you were to show me.”

He still, however, wondered.  “But doesn’t the man of courage know what he’s afraid of—or not afraid of?  I don’t know that, you see.  I don’t focus it.  I can’t name it.  I only know I’m exposed.”

“Yes, but exposed—how shall I say?—so directly.  So intimately.  That’s surely enough.”

“Enough to make you feel then—as what we may call the end and the upshot of our watch—that I’m not afraid?”

“You’re not afraid.  But it isn’t,” she said, “the end of our watch.  That is it isn’t the end of yours.  You’ve everything still to see.”

“Then why haven’t you?” he asked.  He had had, all along, to-day, the sense of her keeping something back, and he still had it.  As this was his first impression of that it quite made a date.  The case was the more marked as she didn’t at first answer; which in turn made him go on.  “You know something I don’t.”  Then his voice, for that of a man of courage, trembled a little.  “You know what’s to happen.”  Her silence, with the face she showed, was almost a confession—it made him sure.  “You know, and you’re afraid to tell me.  It’s so bad that you’re afraid I’ll find out.”

All this might be true, for she did look as if, unexpectedly to her, he had crossed some mystic line that she had secretly drawn round her.  Yet she might, after all, not have worried; and the real climax was that he himself, at all events, needn’t.  “You’ll never find out.”