Prelude To A Certain Midnight

‘Oh, but I know that a man must live,’ said Pink. ‘I do, I do indeed, I honestly and solemnly assure you, but a man can live in all sorts of ways.’

‘Ah, yes, Mr Pink. But I happen to be in my little way a writer.’

‘But, Mr Hemmeridge, so was Thackeray, so was Tolstoy. So is the great Ernest Hemingway.’

‘And so are you, Mr Pink.’

Mr Pink blushed like a fourteen-year-old girl, and said: ‘No, no, really not. Not a writer, only an interpreter and, by the way, Mr Hemmeridge, you are a literary man, and may perhaps advise me. Last night I had an idea.’

‘A revelation surely?’ murmured Tobit Osbert.

Hemmeridge giggled into his glass, but Mr Pink went on very seriously: ‘You know, I believe, that I have been trying to put the eternal truths into everyday language. Well, last night it occurred to me that it might be possible to translate some of the writings of St John of The Cross into popular songs. Take this for instance: “_As to my affairs, daughter, let them not trouble you, for none of them troubles me…. These things are not done by men, but by God, Who knows what is meet for us and ordains things for our good. Think only that God ordaini all. And where there is no love, put love, and you will find love_.” Now what do you say to that as a kind of dance-music song? Title: “_You’ve got to put what you want where you want it_.” Or again, take this passage: “_For, in order to pass from the all to the All, Thou hast to deny thyself wholly in all_.” Now that is, if I may say so. a little elusive to the modern mind. Might one not transcribe it as — “_Go chase yourself and catch yourself_”? What do you think?’

Before Hemmeridge could reply, Mothmar Acord said: ‘I don’t really see what all the kafuffie is about. What is there so extraordinary in a kid being killed? One of these days I dare say there will be a war, and then we’ll knock over millions of ‘em, and congratulate ourselves.’

Thea Olivia, with a little cry of horror, said: ‘You mustn’t say such things!’

Looking down at his freckled hands Mothmar Acord lifted a shoulder and a corner of his mouth and sauntered away to talk to Avril Wensday.

Tobit Osbert said: ‘It seems to me that Mr Acord isn’t quite right in what he said. Dropping a bomb is one thing. Getting hold of someone by the throat and choking them and — excuse me, madam — raping them, is another thing. Look down from a very high building. Look down from the Monument in the City, and even from that little height people don’t look like people any more. You know how it is when you live in a high building. The higher you live, the more you get into the habit of throwing things out of the window. It seems to me that a man in an aeroplane thousands of feet above the ground can throw down bombs, or germs, or anything horrible that you can think of, and still be quite a nice young man.’

‘Until he comes to think of it,’ said Hemmeridge.

‘He knows not what he does,’ said Mr Pink, laying one of his nervous hands upon Osbert’s left shoulder.

‘Yes, Mr Pink, that is more or less what I mean to say. He should be, as it were, forgiven because he sort of does not know what he does. He presses a button or pulls a lever and he’s a mile away from the scene of the crime even before the crime is committed — I mean, before the bomb goes off and kills men, women, and children. But a man who stands about on street corners in the dark and waits for a little girl to pass and takes advantage of the fact that she knows him and trusts him in order to do what that man did who killed Sonia Sabbatani — he is a murderer.’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Pink, biting his nails, ‘but having learned of the effect of a bomb, is your brother …? I wonder…’

He paused and Graham Strindberg said: ‘Yet why should such things be? Why should Evil be? If Evil exists, and is powerful, is God allpowerful? Since there is evil, if God is allpowerful how can he be all-good? If God is all-good how can he be allpowerful?’

With something like irritation, Mr Pink replied:

‘I don’t know, Mr Strindberg.’ He was by this time quietly drunk and his eyes were like stars reflected in the rippling surface of a puddle. ‘I really don’t know, my dear sir! How can I know? God doesn’t tell me his business, does he? Who the deuce are you thatyou must know everything? Do your toe-nails insist on knowing what your head is doing? Does the body of the martyr understand the soul that tells it to burn at the stake? In Macaulay there is an account of an old Puritan after Sedgemoor: he had had his arm smashed and was cutting it off himself with his own knife, sternly repeating the Lord’s Prayer, with a face of iron and no expression of pain. What was that arm to question the will of that man? It was hurt? It was crushed? Its nerves cried out, yes? Yet I tell you that because of the unyielding spirit of. that old man to whom God gave that arm, the misery of his poor flesh brought forth something good and beautiful. You must do what you know is good. Ask no questions. Expect no answers. Have faith. Believe me — do please believe me — God is good. He is! He is!’

‘If He is good, is God allpowerful, then?’ asked Graham Strindberg.

‘Yes!’ shouted Mr Pink.

Tom Beano appeared from nowhere in particular and roared: Don’t make a fool of yourself, Pink! … Is Pink at his old games again?. Godding and Christing? Gooding and evilling? Everything-is-for-the-best-in-this-best-of-all- possible-worlding? … Cut it out, Pink. This is a sociable party. Face facts. Who burned Giordano Bruno?’

Beano flourished a half-empty glass. He was red in the face, and his eyes were narrowed.

‘I don’t know, I’m sure,’ said Thea Olivia.

Tobit Osbert started to say: ‘We were talking about —’

‘— I know, I know, I know,’ said Beano. ‘And there you are again, Pink. Where’s the good in that business?’

‘Beano, you know as well as I do that there isn’t any good in it.,

‘Is there bad in it, Pink?’

‘I should jolly well think so!’

‘Why, then? Come on, Pink. Why? Tell us why!’