The Ascent of Rum Doodle Page 9

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  And so, next morning, Wish started first, taking one porter, on an attempt to establish Camp 4. Jungle said he had deteriorated badly and must at all costs go down to Camp I to recuperate. While he was waiting for the day to warm up I tried to persuade him to talk about himself, and was at last able to say tactfully that I understood he had no fiancée. He said that this was the case, and I said that no doubt one of his roving disposition was not naturally disposed to bind himself with home ties. He surprised me by saying that, on the contrary, he felt deeply the need for a home and a loved one. He reminded me that every bird has its nest and every expedition its base. He was in the unhappy position of being, as it were, an expedition without a base, a bird without a nest. During his wanderings, he consoled his lonely heart with dreams of finding its desire. He liked to think that some day, over the brow of some distant hill, he would find his spiritual home; in a small but well-built cottage, with modem plumbing, he would find the soul-mate who had waited faithfully for the lover she had dreamed of for so many lonely years. His wanderings, he said, were all towards somewhere; but where he did not know; this was why he had sometimes been known to lose his way.

  I said that I was touched by his confidence. I said I knew very well how he felt, having myself been a wanderer in my younger days. I asked Jungle whether he had never found a young lady to his taste. He said yes, he had found quite a number; in fact, he was always finding them. He said that, unfortunately, he lost them as quickly as he found them. He was in the habit of taking them on excursions on Saturday afternoons, and almost invariably mislaid them. He had lost three in succession on the South Downs. On the first occasion they had been overtaken by mist and Jungle had instructed his lady to remain where she was while he went for help. He took a northerly course until he reached a farm, then returned due south with a search party. The silly girl must have moved, for they were unable to find her. I asked him whether she had reached home safely. He said that he had not enquired; a girl who moved about in a mist against orders was hardly worth enquiring about. The next lady disappeared while Jungle was swinging his compass. The third became annoyed when Jungle inadvertently led her in a circle, and walked off. He had lost several in the Underground, two or three in Waterloo station, and any number in Hampton Court maze.

  I made the friendly suggestion that next time, having found his lady, Jungle might keep hold of her and refrain from wandering. He said that he had often decided to do this, but it didn’t seem to be in his nature. He was, he said, the victim of a Destiny. It was his Fate to go on finding his heart’s desire and losing it, wandering about the face of the earth, forever homeless and lonely.

  I said that this was the very stuff of Tragedy. It was so poetic that it must be true. I begged Jungle to think of himself as one chosen to fulfil a high and stern purpose; to put away weak desires and accept his Calling.

  He thanked me and said that he would try to do as I suggested. He said that his earthly consolation should be that, himself a wanderer, he might sometimes be granted the privilege of guiding others.

  At this point Pong brought his midday meal, and Jungle departed hurriedly for Camp 1 with his porter.

  Left alone, I tried to meditate upon the responsibilities of leadership, but so weakened were my powers of concentration that I could think of nothing but apricot jam. Camp 1 was out of radio range, but in the evening I had a conversation with Wish, who had established Camp 4 at 33,000 feet. This was indeed good news; it cheered me so much that I was able, with no effort at all, to think of plum jam and marmalade. I asked Wish whether he liked plum jam. I think he thought I was light-headed.

  * * *

  1 This was not true.

  11

  Higher Still

  I WAS SUFFICIENTLY rested next day to set out for Camp 4, which was visible just below the skyline, a single small black dot in a white wilderness. I was now on the face of the mountain itself and the ground was steeper than it had been on the ridge and swept by an icy wind.

  I moved slowly. My knees trembled; my feet turned to ten past ten; I frequently fell on my face. This, added to the fact that I no longer felt a strong desire to look for warples, led me to suspect that I was weakening. I found that my thoughts would rise no higher than my stomach or the next step, whichever was the lower. I was losing control of my destiny and the expedition.

  This would never do. When the leader gives up the team falls to pieces. Who knew what struggles were going on below me? Was I to be the one to fail the party?

  No, I said; I would not fail. I said it was time I stopped feeling sorry for myself. I had been telling myself that I was miserable, and, being a naturally truthful person, I had believed myself. The remedy was plain: I must tell myself something cheerful.

  I told myself that my knees were firm and my feet straight. I told myself that I was gaining strength with every step. I said that my stomach-ache was hardly worth thinking about. I said I was all eagerness to find warples.

  I talked to myself all day. I think I was on the point of convincing myself when, sometime in the late afternoon, I fancied my eyes were getting weak and began to fear snow-blindness. I told myself that it was all imagination. I tried hard to convince myself of this, and it did at last seem that my eyes were improving. But when we reached Camp 4 I found that my goggles had frosted over.

  I found Wish in residence. He gave me a long and interesting list of the scientific apparatus he had seen during the previous day’s climb. He kept me quite busy writing it all down. I would reproduce the list here; but it is not likely to be of general interest, being very like a manufacturer’s catalogue.

  I told Wish that I intended to spend one day at Camp 4 to acclimatize, then push on as quickly as possible in order to make maximum height before my strength gave out. I said I hoped he would accompany me.

  Wish said that that was exactly what he himself would have liked to do. Unfortunately, he had deteriorated during his stay at Camp 4 and must go down to recuperate. He added that this would probably enable him, from Camp 3, to relay messages between myself at Camp 4 and those lower down. It was, he said, essential to make contact with the others, and this was the only practicable way of doing it.

  I could only conclude that Shute was still suffering from shock.

  Burley was still sleeping-bag ridden. But he appeared, good fellow that he is, to see me depart,

  I found myself concentrating on the seat of Constant’s trousers.

  We made no attempt this time to leave Pong behind,

  ‘I will live!’ I cried, and fell flat on my face.

  So down I went to Advanced Base.

  One day later we were all together for the first time for nearly a fortnight.

  He went quite giddy and fell on his hip.

  I hope that I am not being self-indulgent when I ascribe to the effects of altitude my temporary irritation with Wish’s logical conclusions. I recognized the truth of what he said, but it seemed to me at the time that Truth and Wish had ganged up against me. This was ungracious of me, particularly in view of Wish’s sympathy in a similar situation at Camp 3.

  After a frugal supper of lentils and pemmican I found myself sufficiently restored to make inner amends to Wish. This put me in the mood for a good talk, and, Wish being a scientist and used to dealing directly with truth, I saw no harm in confessing outright my interest in the matrimonial state of the party and asking him if he himself had a fiancée. He replied that it was an interesting point. I said yes, it was, and then we fell silent. After a while I reminded him that he had not answered my question and said I hoped he had not taken offence at anything I might have said. He said no, on the contrary; he was touched by my interest. The fact was, it was not quite clear to him either. I said I would be very happy if he would confide in me. He then told me his story, but slowly and with difficulty. Poor fellow, his emotion was so strong that the words did not come easily.

  He had, he said, always wanted a fiancée. Even as a child it had bee
n his heart’s desire. He always asked Father Christmas to send him one, and repeated disappointments had caused him to develop at an early age a sense of disillusion which many a mature man might have envied. When he discovered that Father Christmas did not in fact exist he decided in his small mind that he could no longer place any trust in his parents. From this it was but a short step to doubting everything that was told him. By his sixth birthday he was a complete sceptic.

  He asked me if I could understand his feelings. I said yes; a sensitive and intelligent child might easily react in this way. I myself had long had doubts about the advisability of Father Christmas, and Wish’s experience was of great interest to me. I begged him to continue.

  At the age of seven he asked his father to tell him the facts of life, with particular reference to fiancées. But he found it quite impossible to believe what was told him; it seemed to him, he said, much more unlikely than Father Christmas. In great bewilderment he consulted some of his small friends who, equally puzzled, approached their own parents on the subject. The explanations they brought to him were so varied and contradictory that the poor child was confirmed in his opinion that the whole thing was just another fairy-tale. He became convinced that fiancées were no more real than Father Christmas.

  The parents of his small friends had become alarmed by the sudden outbreak of interest in this delicate subject. Having discovered the author, they held a meeting and, after much careful thought, they clubbed together and bought the boy a catapult, hoping that it would take his mind away from other things.

  Except for the additional expense of broken windows they were quite satisfied with the result. The boy’s natural delight at owning a weapon of destruction drew his attention away from the subject of fiancées, thus relieving an inner tension which might well have resulted in a political career.

  Some years later, during his student days, his interest in the subject was reawakened by a chance remark made by a servant girl. By consulting works of reference and talking to many authorities he acquired an exhaustive knowledge of current beliefs. But his scepticism was still more robust than his credulity. In spite of a strong and self-confessed desire to believe he found it impossible to do so. It seemed, he said, that he alone of the human race was able to see the uncomfortable truth, to stand outside the cosy glow of illusion. He began to believe that his mission in life was to disclose to mankind the light which had revealed itself to him alone. He spoke eloquently and often in discussion and debate and founded a group known as ‘Whence?’ whose motto was ‘Whither?’ He even wrote a monograph entitled Fiancées: The Pathetic Myth which was published by the Sensible Press at 3½d. and remaindered in ten editions.

  He was send down from university for steadfastly refusing to believe anything which was taught him. The Whencians gave him a public send-off and proclaimed him the first martyr of the new lack of faith. But having come down he found, as many a young man had found before him, that the world of men and affairs was a vastly different place from the world of his imaginings. His first rude awakening occurred one Saturday afternoon in the saloon bar of The Psychic Psquirrel. Wish had been holding forth in his usual way and had, he thought, expounded his Theory of Scepticism with particular clarity and brilliance. When he had finished, an elderly, rather disreputable-looking gentleman of the eccentric type spoke a few quiet sentences which quite removed Wish’s self-satisfaction. He said he would not deny that Wish showed certain faint glimmerings of promise as a sceptic. But he had far to go. He must learn the elementary truth that the real sceptic is sceptical by character rather than conviction; the intellectual drapery in which he clothes his scepticism has as little importance as the demonstrations of the believer – it is, indeed, more likely to veil than to reveal the naked Truth. Moreover, knowing that his mind will enable him to doubt everything, the sceptic scorns the crudity of stating his disbelief; he merely lives it. But even this, the gentleman said, was going too far. The true sceptic would refuse even to believe in himself and his own scepticism. He would maintain an openness of mind indistinguishable from complete mindlessness and an openness of character indistinguishable from utter lack of character. His scepticism would find its ultimate expression in the acceptance of random prejudice as being as sound a basis for living as the most carefully reasoned philosophy. This, he said, was the ultimate faith, for it scorned intellectual pretext. He said that the true sceptic was far stronger in faith than any believer.

  Wish left The Psychic Psquirrel a very confused man. He spent a wretched night and awoke with a violent headache and a strong prejudice against alcoholic refreshment in any form and casual conversation with eccentric strangers.

  This prejudice was the turning-point in his life. There was, he said, no arguing about it; sense or nonsense, it was completely convincing to him. This was a revelation. He reasoned that since he must live by prejudice he might as well choose the most comfortable ones he could find. He started to look around, scrutinizing carefully every prejudice he came across, no matter how worn or dilapidated it might appear. He examined thousands: some soft and comfortable, some sharp and excruciating; prejudices large, prejudices small; prejudices personal, national, harmless, deadly, ancient, modern, scientific, superstitious, plebeian, aristocratic, practical, useless, orthodox, heretical: prejudices galore and free for the taking. He felt, he said, like an explorer who comes upon a treasure-chest crammed with the richest and most beautiful gems.

  He picked here and there, deliberately, taking his time. He chose a complete set of prejudices which would last him a lifetime and fit him to deal with any situation. He chose his career. He joined a political party.

  The pride of his collection was his old heart’s desire: the craving for a fiancée. Prejudice had restored what reason had banished. Happily, reverently, with a feeling of miracles performed, he put it back in its old place.

  It didn’t fit.

  He turned it this way and that. He examined it for wear. He reasoned with himself and read long passages from text books. He lied to himself. He took advice from anybody who would tell him what he wanted to hear.

  All in vain!

  Wish said he wondered if I could appreciate his feelings. He had, he said, convinced himself beyond all reasonable doubt that the popular view was the correct one. He could prove it to himself by every known intellectual test. Moreover, he wanted to believe it. In a sense, he did believe it; but not completely. There was always a reserve at the back of his mind, and as time went on this emerged as a conviction that the whole thing was a plot to deceive him: a vast plot which included the writers of books and Wish’s own friends.

  He asked me if I thought him over-fanciful. I said that, on the contrary, I found it extremely interesting, having myself had an experience very similar to his, though perhaps less intense. It happened while I was on my way to Scotland to join some friends for a climbing holiday. Half-way up the Great North Road – I was travelling by bicycle – I began to suspect that Scotland did not exist: that it had been invented just to make a fool of me. All the books I had read, all the stories about thrifty Scotsmen, Shakespeare’s Macbeth, Rabbie Burns, songs about Loch Lomond and Bonnie Charlie: all these were part of the conspiracy. The northerners who pretended to come from Scotland were all in the plot; their accent had been invented for the purpose. I was almost convinced that at Berwick-on-Tweed I should be laughed at by thousands of practical jokers whose entire lives had been devoted to bringing about this one ridiculous event. I became so apprehensive that I was unable to continue my journey by cycle. I thought that if I went by train I should avoid exposure; for if Scotland really did not exist the Railway Company would certainly know about it and would not issue a ticket. But when I got to the booking office I realized that if this was the case I should look just as foolish trying to buy a ticket as if I tried to cycle to Scotland – with no possible chance of pretending that I had really no intention of going further than the border. I realized too that if there actually was a conspiracy the Rail
way Company would be in it and would have false tickets ready at every booking office in case I came along. But it was too late to turn back. I bought a ticket to Berwick, and was almost sure that the clerk looked disappointed. Once on the train I made discreet enquiries of officials and my fellow travellers, besides examining labels on the luggage van, and decided that if it was all part of the conspiracy it was a remarkably thorough business. I decided that Scotland was a calculated risk worth taking. At Berwick I left the train and cycled over the border.

  Wish said that this was exactly the sort of thing he had experienced in regard to fiancées. Unfortunately, he had been able to find no easy solution such as mine. Shortly after the encounter at The Psychic Psquirrel he met a young person who, he said, was exactly the kind of person he would have wished to have as a fiancée if he could have persuaded himself to believe in them. So strong were his feelings that he decided to risk exposure by asking her to be his. To his great delight she promised to do so.

  This occurred just before we left England. For a few days Wish was the happiest mountaineer alive. His dearest childhood dream was realized. He was almost ready to believe in Father Christmas.

  Then came Doubt. Was it true? Could it be true? Was his fiancée, perhaps, in the conspiracy? Would he, on our return home, be exposed to a nation’s ridicule?

  Since then he had been torn between Love and Fear, and had not known a moment’s peace. Nobody, he said, could possibly imagine the torments he had borne.

  He groaned in a most distressing way. Poor fellow! I tried to reassure him that his fears were all fancies; but what could I do against the scepticism of a lifetime? I told him I would not be happy until I had put his mind at ease. I begged him to let me share his thoughts and help him in his struggle. He was pathetically grateful, but would not hear of it. I had, he said, enough responsibility already. He must bear his burden as best he could and face the issue manfully on his return to England. He thanked me for listening to him, but said that it would make it easier for him if we did not refer to the matter again. I promised, but with a lump in my throat, and vowed to myself that I would think less about my own troubles in future.