The History Man

even back. She turned up ten minutes later; she'd got your friend Macintosh, the one who told you things he couldn't possibly know, to drive her home. And as soon as she saw us she went and locked herself in the bathroom. I had to roar at her through the door for half an hour before she'd come out. Then she scarcely glanced at the poor man; just shouted at him for spoiling her lovely evening. If that's normal behaviour, then I'm crazy. Of course you'd explain it all as a typical drunken performance.'

'What's your explanation?' asks Howard. 'Well, obviously,' says Flora, 'she wished to state that she was rejecting all possible appeals he could make. I think she was disappointed he hadn't done the job properly. A fascinating vignette into family life.'

'It's true,' says Howard, 'there's stress there, in that marriage. But that's not to say it wasn't an accident.'

'My God, Howard,' says Flora, 'what are you hiding?'

'Nothing,' says Howard, 'I suppose you think with Barbara that I pushed him through the window. I didn't.'

'The thought never crossed my mind,' says Flora. 'Is that what Barbara thinks? I thought she knew you better.'

'Ah, Flora,' says Howard, 'what a vote of confidence in me.'

'Well, I have been to bed with you, Howard,' says Flora, 'and so I know how your aggression operates. If you wanted someone through a window, you wouldn't push him yourself. You'd get someone else to do it. Or persuade the man he should do it himself, in his own best interests.'

'You don't think he was pushed, then,' says Howard. 'God, no,' says Flora, 'it's not that kind of story. But he could be pushed emotionally. You'd grant that was possible.'

'I might,' says Howard. 'But you'd rather it was all a little act of chance, a happening,' says Flora. 'Part of the fun of your party.'

'It's not what I want it to be,' says ' Howard, 'it's what I think it is.'

'I wonder why you're evading this,' says Flora, 'I really wonder why.'

'Perhaps I'm worried about my insurance responsibility,' says Howard: 'That would be a good bourgeois reaction.'

'You have more of those than you think,' says Flora. 'No, I think there's a better reason. You weren't there, you see. You were busy. So you'd like as ordinary an explanation as possible.'

'Whereas you were there,' says Howard, 'and so you'd like an extraordinary one.'

'It's true, though, isn't it?' asks Flora. 'You'd hate to admit that something really interesting happened at your party, when you were absent. As with Myra. The only significant occurrences are the ones that happened to you. What did happen to you, Howard?'

'Ah,' says Howard, 'so that's what you're after. You've been trying to find out who I was with.'

'Now you're getting uneasy,' says Flora. 'I'm right, aren't I?'

'You sound jealous,' says Howard. 'I don't suffer from female complaints,' says Flora, pulling her coat up over her shoulders, and stubbing out her cigarette in the regulation ashtray, 'Well, you tuck the whole thing away, Howard. Let's say that nothing at all happened.' And Flora gets to her feet, and picks up her umbrella from beside the chair.

'Oh, don't go, Flora,' says Howard, 'you haven't told me anything yet.'

'You've not told me anything,' says Flora. 'You know more than you say. You're not sharing. I think you want to keep Henry for yourself. You want to fathom him in your own way. Redeem him with your own instruments.'

'No, sit down, Flora,' says Howard, 'I really do admit it. The more one thinks, the more it seems not like one of Henry's usual accidents.' Flora smiles, and sits down in the chair again; she flicks her lighter, and lights another cigarette. 'Not at all like,' says Flora. 'You know, I'm sure Henry acted.' Howard looks out of the window; he can see the shuttered concrete of Kaakinen's inspiration, which in its pure whiteness is intended to induce the sense of unadulterated form, and hence belongs really in some distant, Utopian landscape of sun and shadow, in New Mexico, perhaps, or on the Cap d'Agde; here the teeming rain stains it all a dark and dirty grey. 'Acted?' says Howard. 'One doesn't just slip and procure that kind of wound,' says Flora. 'He pressed down into that glass. I think it was a minimal suicide attempt. An act of anger and despair. An appeal.'

'Did Henry tell you that it was?' asks Howard, turning. Flora laughs, and says, 'If only he had. Then we could have brought our superior wisdom to bear, and proved him wrong. No, Henry said nothing at all about it. All he could say was 'Don't tell Howard'. Which shows a real sweetness of nature.'

'Oh, come, Flora,' says Howard, 'there must be a deeper meaning than that.' Flora laughs; she says, 'I'm sure I'm right.'

'The trouble is I can't see it,' says Howard. 'You could convince me about almost anyone except Henry. You say he acted. But Henry doesn't act. All action leads to suffering, someone else's, or one's own. That's why Henry disapproves of it.'

'And that, of course, is why you do approve of it,' says Flora, 'I think you favour the suffering more than the action. But anyway, suicide is the traditional way of nullifying oneself as an actor. You know Hamlet.'

'Honestly, Flora,' says Howard, 'this is getting all too grand for Henry. Henry's not capable of that kind of bargain with the universe. He's not capable of that kind and degree of misery.'

'No, not like you,' says Flora. 'The trouble is, you can't take him seriously. He's on the fringes of your life, so you see him as a buffoon, an accident machine. I don't think you've ever really seen Henry.'

'I've known him a very long time,' says Howard. 'Yes,' says Flora, 'he's become part of your life's furniture. So you can use him and dismiss him. Hence your football story. A story about the fact that one doesn't need to take Henry seriously.'

'You take him too seriously,' says Howard. 'No,' says Flora, 'I just give him his due. You see, to see Henry plain, you have to feel love. And you've never felt love.'

'You're wrong,' says Howard, 'but in any case, when people attempt suicide, they make an accusation. And the accusation is perfectly clear. But there's no sign that Henry's accusing anyone.'

'Well, I'm sure Henry would try to manage even suicide without causing anyone fuss or trouble,' says Flora, 'but I did say a minimal suicide attempt. A gesture to say, look at me, think of me. The trouble is, we're busy people, none of us have the time.'

'Oh, what are we doing now?' asks Howard. 'But, anyway, a radical gesture against the self, but not an absolute one. When a man who publishes, like Henry, chooses his left arm, you can be sure he has hopes of going on writing with his right.' Howard laughs, and says: 'Flora, you're marvellous.'

'So Henry stays alive,' says Flora, 'and we're left free, without guilt, to pursue the gesture and its meaning. And interfere in his life in a well-intentioned way. As I'm sure we shall.'

'You're sure Henry is right-handed?' asks Howard. 'Well, you're his friend; is he?' asks Flora. 'I don't know,' says Howard. 'Well, he is, actually,' says Flora, 'I checked. A kind of love.' Howard says, 'All right, we must look at Henry. But what would you say the meaning was?'

'Well, some of it we've said,' says Flora, 'Henry is caught in an auto-destructive cycle. He doesn't believe in his own being. His aggression is inward, turned against himself. He despises himself, and feels himself despised. He can't make living values or living feelings, and he reaches sudden despair. Last night, in your guest-room. Aren't I right? Isn't that a portrait of Henry?'

Howard sits down in his chair. 'Yes,' he says, 'right as far as it goes. But I think we can go further.'

'Oh, yes?' says Flora, smiling. 'You're seeing simply a purely psychological problem,' says Howard. 'Inevitably, that's your training. Of course I see something else.'

'I've always said the most interesting thing about anyone's misfortune is the way it's adopted by the surrounding parties,' says Flora, 'I suppose you've got a political version.'

'Well,' says Howard, 'a socio-cultural one.'

'So that really to understand Henry,' says Flora, 'we'll need, naturally, a little Marx, a little Freud, and a little social history.'

'How right you are,' says Howard. 'Poor Henry,' says Flora, 'caught in the web of so much concern. I knew, when we got into it, you'd really want him for yourself.'

'It's not a question of that,' says Howard, 'what Henry needs is understanding. And I think I can claim to have some understanding of Henry. After all, we grew up in the same class, same background, same part of the country. His father was a railway clerk, mine worked in a bakery, but the differences of milieu were minimal. And then we