The Man Who Wanted to Smell Books Read online

  But the house was never spoken of except by name. It had a definite position on the map and in guidebooks; it stood high up and could be seen from a long distance, and the paths, the lines of trees and hedges, the position of the long, wedge-shaped flower-beds surrounding it had all been designed, from the beginning, to point out the house dramatically and give it an importance which it might well have lost as time went on. For the family who made their pilgrimage daily up and down over the thick layer of sharp-edged stones had never asked why this house and everything in it must be cherished long after it had ceased to provide any comfort for themselves. Habits laid down long before they were born had become laws for them, and because a time was coming when there would be no one left to whom this special care could be handed on, the house exacted from them – the last of the family – a greater effort than had ever been made before. As it grew older it was merciless in its demands. Year after year it was buttressed and strengthened. Ladders were never away from the walls while it was painted, pointed and chiselled. There was a continual scraping, hammering and screwing going on inside and out. Yet underneath it all remained the gnawing anxiety that some day something would begin to crumble or rot, that something absolutely essential to the safety of the house would start to rattle or swing suddenly loose. Ivy, too eager to hide the sharpness of its staring eyes, was torn from around the windows. Hedges were continually being cut back so that its view should be unimpeded, and the branches of old trees, dripping too near the roof, were lopped back to raw stumps at the first patch of damp which appeared on the ceilings.

  The family who lived in the house made no demands for themselves. In their own eyes they had very little importance at all, and compared to the house and the heavy accumulation of stuff which it contained, they felt themselves to be lightweights. Their modesty was unnatural; they had never been noticed and did not wish to be, and most of their leisure time was spent inside the house, as though, if they were seen too often, their peculiar lack of distinction might take something from the importance of the place, and let down those people who stared confidently at them from their frames on mantelpieces and the tops of writing-desks. Yet inside the house there was little room for the five of them. It was not so large, after all, and every room was crammed with the possessions of those ancestors and relations who had been a great deal wealthier, more popular, generous, artistic, more widely travelled and more extraordinary in every way than themselves. People had obviously strewn gifts on them wherever they went, had photographed them leaning against giant tree-trunks in California, holding their hats on the decks of Atlantic liners, sitting at the centre of intimate picnic parties on the banks of unknown rivers, or smiling and waving from the windows of train carriages. If they had also sacrificed themselves to a house, then the service had taken the form of a perpetual treasure-hunt and they showed no signs of the strain, except for a wanness under tropical skies, or a certain puffiness about the eyes owing to the difficulties and uncertainties of getting the kind of food they were accustomed to. Most of the time, however, they had been flamboyant creatures, always on the move; and as though to carry on this tradition in the only way possible, the two sisters kept the treasures which had belonged to them always in motion so that, with constant shifting and rearranging, the objects might still seem to have a restless life of their own.

  So they polished and dusted, and carried the fragile tables, jingling with curios, from one corner to the other; or placed some ornament nearer the window at a certain time of day so that the sunlight might, for an hour or two, strike the rare metal or glass; or turned some piece of china round into the shadow so that a chip or crack might be hidden. They knelt, side by side, both straining at the handles of huge bottom drawers which held leaden wads of white linen, yards of lace and silk, and the caps and aprons, tunics, collars, petticoats and stockings of national costumes from all over the world. These they were constantly folding and shaking and wrapping up with fresh supplies of mothball, and when the time came to shut the drawer again, they would push with their heads down, gasping, and straining the muscles of their stomachs in order to confine the bulging piles of stuff to their former space. The pressure behind the door of every cupboard and beneath the lids of chests was terrifying even to those who were used to it. At times the five of them could feel the pressure inside their own heads, and a suffocating weight would lie on their chests when they woke in the night and thought of the straining house ready, perhaps, to split, ready to crack if it were not carefully handled. When, on stormy nights, they thought of the fragile things poised on tables, and the heavy objects hanging from the walls on old cords, every nerve in their bodies would tighten with the effort which, even flat on their backs, they made to resist the fraying and the splintering which might be going on there in the darkness. Above all, it was the long attic at the top of the house which crushed them. In the daytime they were conscious of it, like a great layer of heavy atmosphere. But at night, alone in their own rooms, staring at the ceiling, they felt their own identity lost under the mass of stuff up there which weighed on their lids even when they had shut their eyes, and bulged through grotesquely into their dreams when they were asleep.

  The family seldom took a holiday away from the house, and to one another they showed the special loyalty of a group of people living under a tyrant whom they respected and even reverenced. The rigid timetable which they kept to, and the discomforts which they endured for the sake of the house, had kept down all superfluous flesh and feeling and prevented any extravagance showing in their expressions or behaviour. They were all silent people, chillingly resigned – the men, relieved to be away from one another in the daytime, were also relieved to be back again in the evening to a relationship which seemed to go on forever, safely, monotonously, unlike the precarious relationships which they caught glimpses of on their way back and forth to the house. There had been certain incidents in the past – times when someone had tried to advise or interfere, or shown some sneering disregard for the house and its property by trying to remove one of them away from the others into marriage or to some prosperous post abroad, or into debts just deep enough to give a taste of risk and pleasure. But all that was a long time ago. No interference from without had come for many years.

  It was from inside the house, however, that the greatest disturbance was to come – beginning with an unimportant incident which occurred in its pressure-centre – the attic. It was a mild Autumn afternoon, and the elder sister, Edith, had gone up to look for a small table-lamp which she knew had been lying for many years under a heap of unidentified stuff. Indeed, nothing had been moved in the attic for a long time except the soft, outer layer of cloths, pillows and bedspreads which covered the broken, upturned furniture and the tangle of springs and wire like flesh covering the sensitive bones and nerves of an old invalid. In the course of years, however, one or two lanes had been hollowed out through the pile and one deep cave made out of two sides of tightly-wedged furniture, covered over at the top with various lighter objects which included folded tents and fishing rods, umbrellas, golf clubs, curtain-rails and a pair of broken crutches. Over everything else were two heavy lids of linoleum which had, at one time, been sliced into curious shapes to fit the awkward cupboards under the stair. At the far end of this hollow Edith had found the lamp she was looking for, but in pulling the flex she had also dislodged a heavy, mantelpiece clock. The square block of black marble and metal, built with side pillars to resemble a Greek temple, fell across her foot, all its machinery jangling and whirring for a second as she screamed.

  It was nearly suppertime. The whole family had been sitting together downstairs waiting for her to come down, and now they came up to the attic – not quickly, for that was not their habit, but close on one another’s heels, and apprehensively. They noticed, before anything else, that their sister was angry, and because they had never before seen an expression like this on her face, it appeared to them more like some momentary madness, caused by the pain. Two bro
thers bent over to examine her foot – the others bent with equal solicitude over the clock which chimed softly, once, as it was gently lifted and put into a safe corner.

  ‘Not even the glass smashed,’ murmured the younger sister as she peered into its face and ran her fingers round the rim. Edith now began to sob wildly, and three of them helped her down the attic stairs to her bedroom, as one ran to phone the doctor. They were now amazed and alarmed at this breakdown of her reserve. It was, after all, nothing so serious, as the doctor assured them later that evening. She must lie up for a day or two and have her foot bound – three days at the most, if she wished to be on the safe side.

  It was very soon clear that Edith not only wanted to be on the safe side, but that she had made up her mind to stay there indefinitely. She rested for three days and, when her foot was healed, discovered that she was far too tired to move the rest of her body. With the voice of authority which belonged to her as the oldest of the family, but which she had never used before, she informed her brothers and sister that she had decided to stay in bed and regain some of the strength which she had lost in the house over a great number of years. They accepted the announcement silently and did not discuss it any more than they had thought of discussing other unaccountable things which had happened to them. By keeping silent, and simply not paying too much attention, they had vanquished all sorts of mysteries – from the appearance of apparitions to the turning up of unexpected visitors. Nevertheless, coming from within the family, Edith’s words struck them as ominous.

  On the day after this – a Sunday – the four of them went up and down many times during the afternoon and evening to visit her. Propped bolt upright against her pillows, and framed by the gilt, knobbed bedhead, their sister allowed herself to be identified for the first time. So this was Edith – this stern woman in the fancy bedjacket who stared back at them without a hint of guilt or misgiving in her blue eyes. On the days following they came in with their trays and books and newspapers, on tiptoe or shuffling awkwardly according to their moods, but as time went on they became more wary under her gaze.

  For Edith, who had seldom sat down in her life except to get nearer some bit of work, now seemed to want only to lie and watch them coming and going, following all their movements with a close attention embarrassing to people who were unused to walking sympathetically in and out of sickrooms. She would discuss the affairs of the day with them, or listen to the account of some mishap in house or office, but not as though she could ever be involved herself again. Though looking attentively, while they spoke, at their faces, she gave the impression that she was studying the movements of their lips and eyes with amusement, rather as a foreigner might listen to a language he does not quite understand, while unwilling to be done altogether out of his entertainment.

  After ten days, when Edith’s foot had long been completely healed, her sister sat down on the edge of the bed one afternoon when she had removed the tea-tray, and carefully took Edith’s hand in her own. It was not easy to take this hand for it was a large one, and felt hard and strong under Clara’s timid fingers. But, flushing slightly, she kept an awkward grip on it.

  ‘Now, Edith,’ she said, smiling gravely at the space of wall directly above her sister’s head, ‘you will tell me what is wrong, will you not? There is something wrong, of course, or else you would not stay in bed long after the doctor has said you may get up – you would not cause us such serious worry for nothing. No, Edith, you would not, and you must tell me at once what is the matter!’

  Her voice, slow and persuasive at the beginning, ended quickly on a note of nervous disapproval. Edith, meantime, had withdrawn her hand to flick up the lace of her collar, and answered calmly enough.

  ‘Why, of course I will tell you, Clara. But surely I have told you all often enough what is the matter. I will tell you again, if it is any help. I am seriously tired – that is all. I have been like that for years, so I did not expect any of you to notice. But lately the pressure has grown worse, much worse, so there is nothing for it but to give up for a while until something can be done about it.’

  ‘Well, I am glad you have told me at last,’ replied her sister, smiling her strained and patient smile. Not finding Edith’s hand again on the coverlet, she smoothed her own mechanically as she talked. ‘Of course we can take life more easily after this – I shall see to it. You will rest in the afternoons, and Martha can stay later. But, at any rate, I can relieve your mind on one thing. The blood-pressure you mentioned just now; do you think Dr Fisher has taken no account of these things, or that we should ever let him overlook anything as important as that?’ Clara leaned forward, widening her tired eyes in an effort to make them look triumphant. She spoke slowly and emphatically: ‘No, Edith – the last time the doctor was here he said that there was absolutely nothing wrong with your lungs, your heart or your blood-pressure. Everything is normal. It is nerves, Edith. There – I’ve told you now. It is only right you should know what he said – just a little worry about yourself after the shock of your accident. You have given yourself too much time to brood, that is all. And you must not talk about this blood-pressure again!’

  ‘Oh, but I didn’t say blood-pressure!’ exclaimed Edith with a frown. ‘It is not a pressure from inside at all. It is from outside – from the house. Don’t say you haven’t felt the weight of all that junk, Clara! Don’t tell me you are going to put up with it indefinitely – that ton weight on top of us till we die!’

  Clara shuddered at ‘junk’ as though her sister had spoken an obscene word. Never, not in the worst moments of the spring-cleaning, had such a word been even whispered between them, and, seriously alarmed, she got up swiftly and began to arrange the little objects on the mantelpiece, with her back to Edith as though she had not heard.

  ‘Moving them about will not help in the least, Clara, as you know,’ Edith remarked quietly, as she watched her. ‘We have been doing it for years to try and relieve the pressure. There is not a thing in this house which has ever been in the same place for more than an hour at a time. But it does no good. The only way is to get rid of it all. Indeed, it must be done, and I will not be able to get out of bed until it is!’

  When the doctor came on a special visit the next afternoon he was in no hurry to be away. He went softly about the large bedroom, looking about him easily and picking up various objects from desk and mantelpiece which he said were of rare value – collectors’ pieces, he called them as he turned them about in his hands admiringly. He studied the photographs for a long time and asked about the relations, and as he crossed over to the bed, he tapped the chairs with his fingers and slid his hand down the length of the wardrobe with an envious sigh. It might have been the house which he had come to examine and to praise for its excellent health and appearance, and he seemed almost reluctant to have to turn his attention to Edith.

  It was not an uncommon thing, he told her, when he had settled down at last, to feel, in certain cases of mild nervous disorder, the kind of symptoms which she had described to her sister. On the contrary, it was quite a common experence to have the feeling of heaviness in the limbs – a sensation of pressure in the chest or head – yes, and even a feeling of suffocation – of being unable to breathe freely for the weight on the chest – a sensation, perhaps, of cramp about the heart. He smiled, and stretched his fingers tightly across his chest, then bound them around his head to express the familiar meaning. In most cases, he assured her, after a little rest, these common nervous symptoms disappeared very quickly – once the patient showed herself willing to get up and get on with her normal work. And this – he impressed it upon her as he got to his feet briskly – was the most important part of what he had to say. For there was absolutely nothing organically wrong with her. He repeated this as he went out of the door, and again to the family who were waiting downstairs to hear his verdict. But he was in a hurry now, and no longer took any notice of the precious things which jingled along the shelves of the hall as he strode past with his
heavy tread.

  A few days later Clara was having supper upstairs alone with her sister. A heavy responsibility had fallen on her – not only for the whole house and its upkeep, but also for the care of a woman whose thoughts, day and night, were now directed on this house with a ruthlessness never before known to the family. Edith’s eyes could no longer be said to rest on objects; she now raked through them with a glance so reckless and scathing that the more fragile stuff could not be expected to last long under it. This evening, however, after the meal, she lay for some time with her eyes shut, and Clara, praying that the obsession was passing, drew in deep breaths at the open window. It was a beautiful October evening. Below her the weekly gardener was brushing up the leaves, and soon the smoke from his bonfire drifted through the room. To Clara the smell was a narcotic, reminiscent of autumn days stretching back through monotonous years, and of the blue haze which hung in the wintry, upper rooms of the house – scarcely opened except for the spring and autumn cleaning. But Edith opened her eyes and sniffed the air with triumph.