explain this.
The brandy helped the sense of conspiracy which grew on us and was warming. Aunt Phemie became thoughtful. I challenged her. But she said she was only trying to think who the fellow could be whom I met in the gorge. Obviously he was a visitor to the town who had followed the stream from the town into the hills. His description suggested to her that he was not the usual kind of visitor or tripper. He sounded more like an artist or musician, she thought. There was a nephew of the provost who had been studying in Rome before the war, but he couldnât be anything like thirty-five. However, it would be someone like that, and in my overwrought condition I had naturallyâand so on. I could see she honestly thought this and was not now merely comforting me. To her it was absurd that the man could be the murderer.
It was then that a section of my past came back on me with a strange fatality, and I shook my head and said it wasnât absurd. I said that murderers were like that now. I said that murderers were no longer the âcriminal typeâ. Murderers were normal now. They just murdered. When you believe in nothing, why should you believe in not murdering ⦠?
I was saying a lot more like this, when I saw her eyes. There was in them not horror so much as a sort of horror of concern for me. I did not mind it. I felt suddenly alien and cool, with the trembling gone. I was not talking rationally so much as seeing in pictures. I was not arguing from what the radio called âthe wave of crimeâ sweeping the country. The aftermath of war. The gas chambers. The mass butcheries. Jewish families are taking off their clothes, folding them, placing them in little heaps where they are told. They do this tidily. You can hear the whining sounds in their nostrils. Love sounds and love words and farewell. The naked family, one family and another and another, in the trenches they have dug. A young man is sitting on the edge of the trench with, a tommy gun on his knees. He is smoking a cigarette. You hear it on the radio. You get used to it. But what I see in picturesâI canât go on. Ran, Ran, do you hear me crying to you? Itâs not for myself Iâm crying. Shall I ever be able to tell youââ
4
You have no idea what the coming of the postman means once a day. Itâs the bright spot, the extra, and you never fear him. I was up here at my window trying to pretend I was not waiting for him. And actually, looking over some of this dreadful stuff I have written, I had forgotten him. I was vowing to myself that henceforth I should send you nothing but sunshine when the iron gate clicked. Thereâs a short curving drive of trees. Behold him in his dark blueâadmirable colourâand round hard hat with attractive peak. Up goes my temperature, suspended goes my breath. By flattening nose against glass and forehead hard against angle of window frame, I can just see him. Out goes his arm. I hear the wire in the wall before the bell in the kitchen. Nose over postal bag, he rummages among the oats. Elderly and grizzled, he snorts, for Aunt Phemie has appeared though I canât see her. Have disciplined myself now never to rush for postman. From him Aunt Phemie gets news, if any. Her daily moment. Out comes the little bundle tied with string. Deft unwinding of string and putting of same in mouth. Mumble mumble, but the hands deal the cards. My heart faints for I fancy I see something known. It vanishes towards Aunt Phemie. Thatâs all to-day. String is winding round reduced bundle. Short news bulletin begins. It goes on. And on, Cheery farewell, and off the elderly but deft legs go. I wait in breathless suspense. Nan! In a moment I am there.
I hope I thank Aunt Phemie. Innocent of shame I turn to stairs. Youâll burst your heart, lassie! calls Aunt Phemie. It feels like bursting. I subside on bed. The envelope has its own face, charged with character. I am positively shy of
The brandy helped the sense of conspiracy which grew on us and was warming. Aunt Phemie became thoughtful. I challenged her. But she said she was only trying to think who the fellow could be whom I met in the gorge. Obviously he was a visitor to the town who had followed the stream from the town into the hills. His description suggested to her that he was not the usual kind of visitor or tripper. He sounded more like an artist or musician, she thought. There was a nephew of the provost who had been studying in Rome before the war, but he couldnât be anything like thirty-five. However, it would be someone like that, and in my overwrought condition I had naturallyâand so on. I could see she honestly thought this and was not now merely comforting me. To her it was absurd that the man could be the murderer.
It was then that a section of my past came back on me with a strange fatality, and I shook my head and said it wasnât absurd. I said that murderers were like that now. I said that murderers were no longer the âcriminal typeâ. Murderers were normal now. They just murdered. When you believe in nothing, why should you believe in not murdering ⦠?
I was saying a lot more like this, when I saw her eyes. There was in them not horror so much as a sort of horror of concern for me. I did not mind it. I felt suddenly alien and cool, with the trembling gone. I was not talking rationally so much as seeing in pictures. I was not arguing from what the radio called âthe wave of crimeâ sweeping the country. The aftermath of war. The gas chambers. The mass butcheries. Jewish families are taking off their clothes, folding them, placing them in little heaps where they are told. They do this tidily. You can hear the whining sounds in their nostrils. Love sounds and love words and farewell. The naked family, one family and another and another, in the trenches they have dug. A young man is sitting on the edge of the trench with, a tommy gun on his knees. He is smoking a cigarette. You hear it on the radio. You get used to it. But what I see in picturesâI canât go on. Ran, Ran, do you hear me crying to you? Itâs not for myself Iâm crying. Shall I ever be able to tell youââ
4
You have no idea what the coming of the postman means once a day. Itâs the bright spot, the extra, and you never fear him. I was up here at my window trying to pretend I was not waiting for him. And actually, looking over some of this dreadful stuff I have written, I had forgotten him. I was vowing to myself that henceforth I should send you nothing but sunshine when the iron gate clicked. Thereâs a short curving drive of trees. Behold him in his dark blueâadmirable colourâand round hard hat with attractive peak. Up goes my temperature, suspended goes my breath. By flattening nose against glass and forehead hard against angle of window frame, I can just see him. Out goes his arm. I hear the wire in the wall before the bell in the kitchen. Nose over postal bag, he rummages among the oats. Elderly and grizzled, he snorts, for Aunt Phemie has appeared though I canât see her. Have disciplined myself now never to rush for postman. From him Aunt Phemie gets news, if any. Her daily moment. Out comes the little bundle tied with string. Deft unwinding of string and putting of same in mouth. Mumble mumble, but the hands deal the cards. My heart faints for I fancy I see something known. It vanishes towards Aunt Phemie. Thatâs all to-day. String is winding round reduced bundle. Short news bulletin begins. It goes on. And on, Cheery farewell, and off the elderly but deft legs go. I wait in breathless suspense. Nan! In a moment I am there.
I hope I thank Aunt Phemie. Innocent of shame I turn to stairs. Youâll burst your heart, lassie! calls Aunt Phemie. It feels like bursting. I subside on bed. The envelope has its own face, charged with character. I am positively shy of
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