Point Counter Point

the latest book on pedagogical methods, Mr. Quarles would wake up to the discovery that, unless something were drastically done, his sons were likely to grow up into idiots and cripples, weak-minded, and with bodies poisoned by the wrong food and distorted by improper exercise. And then, for a few weeks, the two boys would be stuffed with raw carrots or overdone beef (it depended on the doctor Mr. Quarles happened to have met); would be drilled, or taught folk-dancing and eurhythmics; would be made to learn poetry by rote (if it happened to be the memory that was important at the moment), or else (if it happened to be the ratiocinative faculties) would be turned out into the garden, told to plant sticks in the lawn and, by measuring the shadow at different hours of the day, made to discover for themselves the principles of trigonometry. While the fit lasted, life for the two boys was almost intolerable. And if Mrs. Quarles protested, Sidney flew into a rage and told her that she was a selfishly doting mother, to whom the true welfare of her children meant nothing. Mrs. Quarles did not insist too strongly; for she knew that, thwarted, Sidney would probably become more obstinate; humoured, he would forget his enthusiasm. And, in fact, after a few weeks, Sidney would duly tire of labours which produced no quick and obvious results. His hygiene had not made the boys perceptibly larger or stronger; they had not grown appreciably more intelligent for his pedagogy. All that they quite indubitably were was a daily and hourly bore. “Affairs of greater moment” would occupy more and more of his attention, until gradually, like the Cheshire cat, he had faded altogether out of the world of the schoolroom and the nursery into higher and more comfortable spheres. The boys settled down again to happiness.

Arrested at the door of his father’s room by the sounds from within, Philip listened. His face took on an expression of anxiety, even of alarm. That voice? And his father, he had been told, was alone. Talking to himself? Was he as bad as all that? Bracing himself, Philip opened the door and was immediately reassured to find that what he had taken for insanity was only dictation to the dictaphone. Propped up on pillows, Mr. Quarles was half sitting, half lying in his bed. His face, his very scalp were flushed and shining, and his pink silk pyjamas were like an intensified continuation of the same fever. The dictaphone stood on the table by his bed; Mr. Quarles was talking into the mouthpiece of its flexible speaking tube. “True greatness,” he was saying sonorously, “is inversely proportional to myahr immediate success. Ah, hyah you are!” he cried, looking round as the door opened. He stopped the clockwork of the machine, hung up the speaking tube, and stretched out a welcoming hand. Simple gestures. But there was something, it seemed to Philip, extravagant about all his movements. It was as though he were on the stage. The eyes which he turned on Philip were unnaturally bright. “I’m so glad you’ve come. So glad, dyah boy.” He patted Philip’s hand; the loud voice suddenly trembled.

Unused to such demonstrations, Philip was embarrassed. “Well, how are you feeling?” he asked with an assumption of cheeriness.

Mr. Quarles shook his head and pressed his son’s hand without speaking. Philip was more than ever embarrassed at seeing that the tears had come into his eyes. How could one go on hating and being angry?

“But you’ll be all right,” he said, trying to be reassuring. “It’s just a question of resting for a bit.”

Mr. Quarles tightened the clasp of his hand. “Don’t tell your mother,” he said, “but I feel that the end’s nyah.”

“But that’s nonsense, Father. You mustn’t talk like that.”

“Nyah,” Mr. Quarles repeated, obstinately nodding, “very nyah. That’s why I’m so glad you’re hyah. I should have been unhappah to die when you were at the other end of the wahld. But with you hyah, I feel I can go”⁠—his voice trembled again⁠—“quite contentedlah.” Once more he squeezed Philip’s hand. He was convinced that he had always been a devoted father, living for nothing but his children. And so he had been, every now and then. “Yes, quite contentedlah.” He pulled out his handkerchief, blew his nose, and while he was doing so, surreptitiously wiped his eyes.

“But you’re not going to die.”

“Yes, yes,” Mr. Quarles insisted. “I can feel it.” He genuinely did feel it; he believed he was going to die, because there was at least a part of his mind that desired to die. These complications of the last weeks had been too much for him; and the future promised to be worse, if that were possible. To fade out, painlessly⁠—that would be the best solution of all his problems. He wished, he believed; and, believing in his approaching death, he pitied himself as a victim and at the same time admired himself for the resigned nobility with which he supported his fate.

“But you’re not going to die,” Philip dully insisted, not knowing what consolation, beyond mere denial, to offer. He had no gift for dealing extempore with the emotional situations of practical life. “There’s nothing⁠ ⁠…” He was going to say, “There’s nothing the matter with you,” but checked himself, reflecting, before it was too late, that his father might be offended.

“Let’s say no more about it.” Mr. Quarles spoke tartly; there was a look of annoyance in his eye. Philip remembered what his mother had said about humouring him. He kept silence. “One can’t quarrel with Destinah,” Mr. Quarles went on in another tone. “Destinah,” he repeated with a sigh. “You’ve been fortunate, dyah boy; you discovered your vocation from the farst. Fate has treated you well.”

Philip nodded. He had often thought so himself, with a certain apprehension even. He had an obscure belief in nemesis.

“Whereas in my case⁠ ⁠…” Mr. Quarles did not finish the sentence, but raised his hand and