Sweet Dreams

~ ~ ~

At the office Howard surrounds himself with a team of young men and women just down from university. They are all newly married, with small babies who are allowed to stay up to dinner to talk amusingly about sex. They wear brightly coloured shirts, and their hair falls in front of their eyes as they talk.

Howard is very fond of them all. They are his creations — he has chosen them himself, and provided each one with a livelihood and a way of being. And they amuse him. He is tickled by the idea they all have of him as a fool and a hypocrite and a mass-murderer. He plays up to them, producing shocking ideas and attitudes which he lets himself half-believe. They know that he is playing a part; they are amused by his attempts to amuse them; and grow fond of him; and thereby demonstrate their own tolerance to themselves; and grow even fonder of him as the occasion of the demonstration. He enjoys their affection. And what he enjoys even more is the knowledge that their affection is based upon patronizing him from what they take to be their greater radicalism; while in fact, under the surface, he is more radical than they will ever be. He feels the piquant double pleasure of the secret millionaire who has won everyone’s heart even in apparent poverty.

The radicalism of the young people in his office consists in this: that they want to create an ideal world flowing with milk and honey, where man is brother to man, and lives in harmony with nature; where ice is warm to the touch, and no ocean is too wide for a child to wade across, bucket and spade in hand.

But he can see, from the vantage-point of his experience of life, how shallow and patronizing this conception of happiness is. His radicalism now takes this form (and Freddie is in more or less complete agreement): to help all men enjoy the same possibilities for happiness as he does himself — no less.

And what has made his own life in this society so deeply pleasurable (as he now sees, looking back on it) is the difficulty of it, the opportunity it has offered to strive and overcome. He has had to struggle with nature; compete with the most brilliant men and women of his generation; labour to outstrip his own achievements. His life here has been one long series of decisions taken with difficulty, of crises resolved. And in the process he has developed and grown. His intelligence and sensibility and compassion have been stretched.

His life has a sense of purposive onward movement. This is the heart of the matter.

So the universe he is trying to build is one which offers its inhabitants the possibility of moral action; one which challenges its inhabitants to transcend it.

He discreetly steers the old Alps plan through, and fosters ambitious projects to stud shipping routes with underwater rocks, and the atmosphere with unpredictable patterns of clear-air turbulence. He throws his weight behind the creation of a vast sub-arctic tundra, where labour camps could be built and great writers developed. He’s also intrigued by a proposal for a desert with just enough vegetation to support a group of nomadic tribes, and exactly the right mix of privation to enable these tribes to develop a monotheistic religion. Monotheism could be a very suggestive metaphor, he feels.

“Because what we’re aiming at,” he philosophizes to his young graduates, when he invites them round to dinner, in twos and threes, together with the Chases or the Waylands, and sometimes Freddie and Caroline, “is something deeper than a little physical hardship. What we have to build is a universe so manifestly and intrinsically unjust that its inhabitants cannot fail to rebel against it. Permanent revolution — this is the only interesting human condition. Only in rejecting the terms on which life is offered to him can a man discover his real dignity, his real self.”

The young graduates lift the hair out of their eyes, and for an instant glance round the room at the rather good, slightly worn furnishings. Then they look at each other and quickly look away again, trying not to smile.

“That’s why,” says Howard, “we must make sure that the terms they are offered are self-evidently unacceptable…. Another slice of lamb, anyone? More beans …? Because the greatness of man is to see that things might be otherwise — to look at the world around him, and to see another world beneath its surface.”

He stands there, carving knife and fork poised over the remains of the gigot aux haricots, and looks inquiringly round the table at the brightly coloured shirts and three-piece suits, and sees, beneath the surface, emaciated men in rags and foot-clouts, holding out tin bowls for a little soup, their eyes reflecting the freezing emptiness of the tundra.

“This is our task,” he says, emphasizing each phrase with a wave of the carving-knife; “to provide the harsh materials on which men’s imaginations can be exercised, and to offer, through the cultured and civilized life that we ourselves lead here in the metropolis, some intimation of the world they might envisage.”

“Meanwhile,” murmurs Miriam Bernstein, “here we all sit waiting for second helpings.”

And even now that he has achieved all this he doesn’t stand still. He continues to grow.

Day by day he develops and becomes yet more mature.

His understanding of the world continues to deepen.

So does his understanding of himself.

His relationship with the universe becomes more subtle and devious.

Things couldn’t be better. Because every day they are.

So when one fine morning he comes into his inner office and his principal private secretary says that Phil Schaffer has phoned, he stops in his tracks, grinning. The idea of going out to the suburb with the dog track, and confronting the confusions and embarrassments of his past life with the formidable armoury of maturity and understanding that he now possesses, appears suddenly very sweet. For there is one small drawback to things getting better and better all the time. The better they get, the better they could have been; and no one likes to leave a past behind him that could have been better.

“I’ll be back some time this afternoon,” he tells his principal private secretary.

“But what about your lunch with the Japanese Prime Minister?” cries his principal private secretary. “What about your State of the Nation speech?”

But Howard only laughs.

He takes one of the smaller cars and drives himself. He doesn’t want to put on any show. It’s going to be difficult enough offering Phil some kind of job without causing offence.

As he waits at a stop-light somewhere out beyond the freight-yards he drums his fingers on the steering wheel and gazes straight in front of him, thinking. He is wondering:

— whether he is on the right road or not;

— whether he should kiss Rose when he arrives;

— whether he will be invited to lunch, and if not, whether he should get a sandwich in a pub instead, and if so, whether he would prefer egg and tomato, or cheese and chutney;

— whether the girl standing on the opposite side of the crossroads, with her face hidden by the long dark hair falling over her shoulders as she waits to cross the road, head turned to watch the oncoming traffic, will look straight ahead so that he can see her face; and if so, whether it will fulfil his hopes; and whether the fulfilment of his hopes would in itself be a kind of disappointment.

The traffic light, which has been green for some time, turns red.

The girl crosses. She does fulfil his hopes, in a way; and the fulfilment of them is in itself a kind of disappointment; and her name is Rose.

“Rose!” he calls, and prinks on the hooter. She turns to look at him in surprise. Grinning and waving, he puts the car into gear and steps on the accelerator. He will zoom up to her, stop with a screech of brakes, and ask her something like when lighting-up time is. She will be half pleased to see him and half disapproving; and that will be the beginning once again of something so painful and awkward that the possibility of happiness must be concealed in it somewhere.

But when he gets to the other side of the crossroads it’s not Rose, after all. It’s a revolving figure, a hundred feet tall, advertising cigarettes. Beyond her, farther along the expressway, are flashing signs bearing the symbols of the Chrysler Corporation and Asahi Pentax. Of course! At sunset, with the sky red and the road wet after a day of storms, he is approaching some great metropolis. A restless excitement stirs in him, a sense of being on the verge of deep and different things….