Weirdbook #43. Darrell Schweitzer

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IN MEMORIAM: JOSEPH S. PULVER, SR.

      (July 5, 1955 – April 24, 2020)

      Along the shore, the cloud waves break,

      The twin suns sink behind the lake,

      The shadows lengthen

      In Carcosa.

      Strange is the night where black stars rise,

      And strange moons circle through the skies,

      But stranger still is

      Lost Carcosa.

      Songs that the Hyades shall sing,

      Where flap the tatters of the King,

      Must die unheard in

      Dim Carcosa.

      Song of my soul, my voice is dead,

      Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed

      Shall dry and die in

      Lost Carcosa.

      —“Cassilda’s Song”

      The King in Yellow

      Act 1, Scene 2

AN AMERICAN STORY, by Darrell Schweitzer

      “But I can’t tell an English club story,” I protested. “I’m an American.”

      The circumstances were extraordinary enough that you might have thought that I could. Here I was, in this day and age, in one of those old-fashioned London gentlemen’s clubs of the sort most people think only exist in old books or BBC serials. I had travelled in Great Britain extensively, on both literary and business matters. I had many British friends. I had even made something of a hobby of British regional accents, which I could definitely hear, if not reproduce (nor would I insult my hosts by trying). In Yorkshire they speak in a distinct manner, in the Midlands quite another, in Devon, very differently, and none of these could be mistaken for the speech of London. Once, in Scotland, I had even asked a local about James Doohan’s accent on Star Trek and was told that 1) he was doing it very badly and 2) if Scotty were an engineer he would be an Edinburgh University man, and the first thing he would do would be lose that accent.

      So I think it’s safe to say that I was that rare sort of American who understood just enough of British culture and ways to appreciate that the two societies are not the same, and that I had, just barely, glimpsed beneath the surface where tourists never see at all. It was enough to make me understand why I couldn’t tell a proper English club story. I couldn’t tell this audience what English life was about, when they knew more about every aspect of it than I did.

      “Oh do go on, old chap!” my Brit friends said. They used such expressions as “Smashing!” and “Capital!” and “Jolly good!” which surely do not exist in living memory outside of a P.G. Wodehouse novel, and—here’s the important part—every last one of them rendered these phrases in a perfect imitation of a Hollywood fake English accent, which is not the same as an American snob’s fake English accent, or even an American theatre accent. That was when I realized I was helpless in the presence of ancient and inscrutable subtlety and cultivation, like a round-eyed barbarian surrounded by Chinese mandarins. These fellows could not only cross the divide between cultures, but turn around and look back from the other side.

      They had me. I was after all, a guest. I despite my long acquaintance with some of them, I was only allowed in the club on the basis of a letter from my late father, and even then some will doubtless conclude that it was only two world wars and the loss of the empire which caused such a lowering of standards. But there I was, and as I sputtered and hesitated somebody pressed a fresh whiskey into my hand.

      Right.

      Blame the whiskey.

      The fire in the fireplace burned low. Everyone leaned toward me attentively.

      * * * *

      You will have to excuse me for being vague about the geography and other details (I began), because I have this story second-hand at best. It happened to my father, before I was born. Now my late father, James Simpkins, was widely travelled, particularly in the company of his closest English friend, Frederick Darblethwaite—that’s not his real name, I hasten to add. Those two, I am sure, could have told many fine stories, and indeed my dad told me some of them, including, in confidence, the one I am about to relate now.

      It seems that he and Freddy—that’s what he called him—were not only close pals—not mates, because an Englishman and an American can never really be “mates” in that sense—but colleagues during the Second World War. They engaged in top secret research and carried out certain missions, the nature of which I am not at liberty to divulge even now.

      Let us just say that on a certain afternoon some while after the conclusion of the war, my dad was being driven in the pouring rain through what looked to him like very bleak English countryside, green enough to be sure, but grey with rain, a monotony of low, rolling hills, and little clusters of trees which doubtless have a name, a forester, and are recorded in the Domesday Book—one of the perceptions Americans have of England is that there is no empty, unused land there, any more than there are any serious distances—but I digress. It must have been weariness or the monotony of the ride which caused him to dose off.

      He awoke to a thump, as the car’s wheel splashed in and out of a particularly large pothole as they passed through the narrow streets of one of those thatched-roofed villages which you only expect to see on National Geographic specials or on quaint postcards. He later learned the name of the place was—call it Nether Cheebleford. Where precisely it was, I suppose you could figure out on a map, but he didn’t and I haven’t.

      Just before he reached the castle he fumbled about, because he had dropped the note he’d been holding in his hands onto the floor of the car. He found it, and glanced at it one more time before he put it in his pocket. It was a calling card which had been left at his hotel. There was a coat of arms on it, and a message scribbled on the reverse read:

      Jim—

      Come see me at once. I have something quite extraordinary to show you.

      —Freddy.

      The reason for the coat of arms, not to mention the perfectly maintained, ancient limousine which looked like it belonged in a museum, driven by a button-lipped, uniformed chauffeur who looked like he belonged in a museum, plus the castle which had been converted into a country-house sometime in the 18th century (“The best time to do it,” it was later explained) was that my father’s friend’s father had recently died and Freddy had inherited castle, grounds, limousine, chauffeur, coat of arms, and all. He was now Lord Cheebleford, and my dad—never mind all his long acquaintance with Englishmen, the safaris, and close cooperation during the war—by being on a first-name basis with an actual lord was definitely moving up in society.

      The house was one of those establishments you think only exist on the BBC or in Wodehouse novels. There were servants lined up to greet him, a butler, several footmen, maids, the whole works. Then Freddy came bounding down the front stairs with something less than the customary English reserve, pumped my dad’s hand vigorously, and said, “How good СКАЧАТЬ