The Magus - John Fowles [86]
�ie von deutschen Besetzungstruppen unmenschliche Grausamkeiten_... "There is an English translation at the back." I turned to it, and read: _Report of the inhuman atrocities committed by German Occupation troops under the command of Colonel Wilhelm Dietrich Wimmel on the island of Phraxos between September 30 and October 2, 1943_. I turned a page. _On the morning of September 29, 1943, four soldiers of No. io Observation-Post, Argolis Command, situated on the cape known as Bourani on the south coast of the island of Phraxos, being off duty, were given permission to swim. At 12: 45_... Conchis spoke. "Read the last paragraph." _I swear by God and by all that is sacred to me that the above events have been exactly and truthfully described. I observed them all with my own eyes and I did not intervene. For this reason I condemn myself to death._ I looked up. "A good German," "No. Unless you think suicide is good. It is not. Despair is a disease, and as evil as Wimmel's disease." I suddenly remembered Blake--what was it, _Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires_. A text I had once often used to seduce--myself as well as others. Conchis went on. "You must make up your mind, Nicholas. Either you enlist under the _kapetan_, that murderer who knew only one word, but the only word, or you enlist under Anton. You watch and you despair. Or you despair and you watch. In the first case, you commit physical suicide; in the second, moral." "I can still feel pity for him." "You _can_. But ought you to?" I was thinking of Alison, and I knew I had no choice. I felt pity for her as I felt pity for that unknown German's face on a few feet of flickering film. And perhaps an admiration, that admiration which is really envy of those who have gone further along one's own road: they had both despaired enough to watch no more. While mine was the moral suicide. I said, "Yes. He couldn't help himself." "Then you are sick, my young friend. You live by death. Not by life." "That's a matter of opinion." "No. Of conviction. Because the event I have told you is the only European story. It is what Europe is. A Colonel Wimmel. A rebel without a name. An Anton torn between them, killing himself when it is too late. Like a child." "Perhaps I have no choice." He looked at me, but said nothing. I felt all his energy then, his fierceness, his heartlessness, his impatience with my stupidity, my melancholy, my selfishness. His hatred not only of me, but of all he had decided I stood for; something passive, abdicating, English, in life. He was like a man who wanted to change all; and could not; so burned with his impotence; and had only me, an infinitely small microcosm, to convert or detest. For the first time he seemed naked, without any masks; as if all that had gone before had been to bring me to this point, this last confrontation with the black summit of his life. We remained staring at each other. He could say no more to me, and I could mean no more to him. He stood and picked up the file. "To bed." I stood as well. "I'll wait a little." "Very well. But no one will come." "Good night, Mr. Conchis." "Good night, Nicholas." He gave me a last look, grave and penetrating, the eyes of a mathdor after the _estocado_, then disappeared indoors. I smoked one cigarette, another. There was a great stewing stillness, an oppressiveness, a silence. The gibbous moon hung over the earth, a dead thing over a dying thing. I got up and walked to the seat where we had sat before dinner. I had not expected such a finale; the statue of stone in the laughing door. I thought again, in the grey silences of the night, not of Julie, but of Alison. Staring out to sea, I forced myself to think of her not as someone doing something at that moment, sleeping or breathing or working, somewhere, but as a shovelful of ashes, a futility, a descent out of reality, a dropping object that dwindled, dwindled, left nothing behind except a smudge like a fallen speck of soot on paper. As something too small to mourn; the very word "mourn" was archaic and superstitious, of the age of Browne, or Hervey; yet Donne was right, her death detracted, would for ever detract, from my life. Each death laid a dreadful charge of complicity on the living; each death was incongenerous, its guilt irreducible, its sadness immortal; a bracelet of bright hair about the bone. I did not pray for her, because prayer has no efficacy; I did not cry for her, because only extroverts cry twice; I sat in the silence of that night, that infinite hostility to man, to permanence, to love, remembering her, remembering her.