Briefing for a Descent Into Hell - Doris May Lessing [109]
By the time the autumn ended, the honeysuckle spray had several times reached the camellia, with the aid of light breezes, and had several times been pulled away again, either by too strong a breeze, or because of its sister strand adding its weight to it.
And all the times between, when the inner strand was not attached to the camellia, it hung there, lightly quivering, always in subtle movement, waiting as it swung for the wind, as a surfer adjusts the balance of his body for an expected wave.
Sometimes, watching, I could feel the process on that wall as a unity: the movement of the honeysuckle spray, the waiting camellia, and the breeze which was not visible at all, except as it lifted the honeysuckle spray up and close to the camellia.
It was not: The honeysuckle spray swings and reaches the camellia.
It was not: The wind blows the spray on to its host.
The two things are the same.
Not until the spring came, when the honeysuckle spray lengthened its growth, and achieved a wider swing, was it certain of a really solid grasp of the camellia.
Now I see a third part of the process.
Not only: The movement of the spray made it reach the camellia,
Or: The wind blew it so it could reach the camellia,
But: The further growth of the honeysuckle made it possible to reach the camellia.
But the element in which this process exists is—Time.
Time is the whole point. Timing.
The surfer on the wave. The plant swinging in the wind. And it’s just the same with—well, everything, and that’s what I have to say, Doctor. Why can’t you see that?
It was ten at night in a ward or room shared by the Professor and three other men. The ward was cosy, with its pink curtains drawn. The Professor was reading that day’s Times. Outside was a wild night, noisy with wind.
Of the other three patients, two were already asleep, their bedside lights off, and one was listening to the radio through headphones.
A girl came into the ward. She wore flowered little-girl pyjamas, and a white fluffy dressing gown. Her señorita’s hair was now loosed from the formal bun, but she had pulled it back and tied it at the nape of her neck, making it a brown bush caught neatly by a pink ribbon bow. She was everything that was proper and right, but poor girl, she could not help herself and now the shock inherent in Miss Violet Stoke’s presence was because the little girl had a sad, knowledgeable woman’s face. She sat on the Professor’s bed and lowered her voice to say furiously: “Is it true?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“But why? Don’t. Please don’t. Oh please please don’t.”
That day the whisper had gone around that Professor Charles Watkins had voluntarily agreed to have electric shock treatment. Some of the patients were indifferent, but not many. Most were agitated by the news. He had become a bit of a symbol. For the Professor, unlike most of them, had had a choice. He had not been given shock treatment when many would have had it, because Doctor Y opposed it, in his case. But now, when he was himself again (except for the fact that he still could not agree that his past was what they said it was) he had said to Doctor Y, and to Doctor X, that he would try it.
He was going to have his first shock the following morning.
Some of the patients reacted as if they were in a prison and one of their number had offered to be electrocuted.
The Professor, an agreeable, smiling, middle-aged man with distinguished greying hair and kindly blue eyes, took the girl’s hand in his, and said: “I’m sorry if you are upset. But I do feel a bit at a loss. For one thing, they won’t hear of our sharing a flat. But I suppose it was unrealistic.”
“It was only unrealistic because we didn’t insist on it. What am I going to do now? Where shall I go? I don’t have anybody.”
“Well, if as I hope I do remember, then I’ll be well and you can come and stay a while