15 - Return (de la Mare version) by Walter de la Mare

In this gripping tale of psychological horror, The Return delves into the complexities of identity, love, and the profound sense of alienation. As Arthur confronts the unsettling reactions of his family and community to his inexplicable transformation, he must also navigate the fragile edges of his own sanity. (Summary by Corinna Schultz)

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter fifteen of The Return by Walter de la Maire.
This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by
Carena Schultz. Raining and gleaming in the sunlight, the hired
landow drove up to the gate. Lawford, peeping between the blinds,

(00:21):
looked down on the coachman with reins hanging loosely from
his red squat thumbed hand, seated in his tight, livery
and indescribable hat on the faded cushions. One thing only
was in his mind, and it was almost with an
audible cry, that he turned towards the figure that edged,
white and trembling into the chill room, to fling herself

(00:43):
into his arms. Don't look at me, he begged her.
Only remember, dearest, I would rather have died down there
and been never seen again than have given you pain.
Run run your mother's calling, Write to me, think of me,
good bye. He threw himself on the bed and lay

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there till evening, till the door had shut gently behind
the last rat to leave the sinking ship. All the clearness,
the calmness were gone again, Round and round in dizzy,
sickening flare and clatter. His thoughts whirled contempt, fear, loathing, blasphemy, laughter, longing.

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There was no end, Death was no end, There was
no meaning, no refuge, no hope, no possible peace. To
give up was to go to perdition. To go forward
was to go mad, And even madness. He sat up
with trembling lips in the twilight. Madness itself was only

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a state, only a state. You might be bereaved and
the pain and hopelessness of that would pass. You might
be cast out, betrayed, deserted, and still be you still
find solitude, lovely and in a brave face, a friend.
But madness it surged in on him with all the

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clearness and emptiness of a dream. And he sat quite still,
his hand clutching the bed clothes, his head askew, waiting
for the sound of footsteps, for the presences and the
voices that have their thin wall dwelling beneath the shallow
crust of consciousness. Inky blackness drifted up in wisps, in
smoke before his eyes. He was powerless to move, to

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cry out. There was no room to turn, no air
to breathe. And yet there was a low, continuous, never
varying stir as of an enormous wheel whirling in the gloom.
Countless infinitesimal faces arched like glimmering pebbles in the huge,
dim colored vault above his head. He heard a voice

(02:59):
above the mom stress rustling of the wheel, clamoring, calling
him back. He was hastening headlong, muttering to himself his
own flat, meaningless name, like a child, repeating as he
runs his errand and then, as if in a charmed
cold pool, he awoke and opened his eyes again on

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the gathering darkness of the great bedroom, and heard a quick, importunate,
long continued knocking on the door below, as of some
one who had already knocked in vain. Cramped and heavy limbed,
he felt his way across the room and lit a candle.
He stood listening awhile his eyes fixed on the door

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that hung a little open. All in the room seemed acutely,
fantastically still. The flame burned, dim misled in the sluggish air.
He stole slowly to the door, looked out, and again
listened again. The knocking broke out more impetuos, and yet

(04:01):
with a certain restraint and caution, shielding the flame of
his candle in the shell of his left hand. Lawford
moved slowly with chin uplifted to the stairs. He bent
forward a little and stood motionless and drawn up the
pupils of his eyes, slowly contracting and expanding as he
gazed down into the carpeted vacant gloom, past the dim

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lowering presence that had fallen back before him. His mouth opened,
Who's there? At last, he called? Thank God? Thank god?
He heard mister Bethany mutter. I mustn't call, Lawford, came
a hurried whisper, as if the old gentleman were pressing
his lips to speak through the letter box. Come down

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and open the door. There's a good fellow I've been
knocking no end of a time. Yes, I am coming,
said Lawford. He shut his mouth and held his breath
and stare by stair. He descended, driving steadily before him.
The crouching, gloating menacing shape darkly lifted up before him

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against the darkness, contending the way with him. Are you ill?
Are you hurt? Has anything happened? Lawford? Came the anxious
old voice, again, striving in vain to be restrained. No, no,
muttered Lawford. I am coming coming slowly, he paused to breathe,

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his hands trembling, his hair lank with sweat, and still
with eyes wide open, he descended against the phantom lurking
in the darkness, an adversary that, if he should, but
for one moment close his lids, he felt, would master
sanity and imagination with its evil. So long as you

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don't get in, he heard himself muttering, So long as
you don't get in, my friend. What's that you're saying?
Came up the muffled, querulous voice. I can't for the
life of me here, my boy, nothing, nothing, came slowly
the answer from the foot of the stairs. I was
only speaking to myself deliberately. With candle held rigidly on

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a level with his eyes, Lawford pushed forward a pace
or two into the airless, empty drawing room and grasped
the handle of the door. He gazed in awhile a black,
oblique shadow flung across his face, his eyes fixed like
an animal's. Then drew the door steadily towards him, and
suddenly some power that had held him tense seemed to fail.

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He thrust out his head and his face, quivering with
fear and loathing, spat defiance, as if in a passion
of triumph into the gloom. Still muttering, he shut the
door and turned the key. In another moment, his light
was gleaming out on the gray, perturbed face and black
narrow shoulders of his visitor. You gave me quite a fright,

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said the old man, almost angrily. Have you hurt your
foot or something? It was very dark, said Lawford down
the stairs. What said mister Bethany, still more angrily, blinking
out of his unspectacled eyes. Has she cut off the gas?
Then you got the note, said Lawford, unmoved, Yes, yes,

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I got the note gone. Oh, yes, all gone. It
was my choice. I preferred it. So mister Bethany sat
down on one of the hard, old wooden chairs that
stood on either side of the lofty hall, and, breathing
rather thickly, rested his hands on his knees. What's happened,
he inquired, looking up into the candle. I forgot my glasses,

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old fool that I am. And can't, my dear fellow,
see you very plainly? But your voice, I think, said Lawford,
I think it's beginning to come back. What the whole thing?
Oh no, my dear dear man, be frank with me,
not the thing, yes, said Lawford, the whole thing, very

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very gradually, imperceptibly. I think even Sheila noticed. But I
rather feel it than see it, That is all I'm
cornering him him. Lawford jerked his candle, as if towards
some definite goal in time, he said. The two faces

(08:26):
with the candle between them, seemed as it were to
gain light each from the other. Well, well, said mister Bethany.
Every man for himself, Lawford, it's the only way. But
what's going to be done, we must be cautious, must
think of of the others. Oh that, said Lawford. She's

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going to squeeze me out. You've squabbled. Oh but my dear, honest, old, honest,
old idiot, there are scores of families here in this parish,
within a stone's throat, that squabble, wrangle all but politely
tear each other's eyes out every day of their earthly lives.

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It's perfectly natural. Where should we, poor old, busybodies be else.
Peace on earth we bring. And it's mainly between husband
and wife, yes, said Lawford. But you see this was
not our earthly life. It was between us. Listen, listen
to the dear mystic, exclaimed, the old creature scoffingly. What

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depths we're touching. Here's the first serious break of his lifetime,
and he's gone stark, staring, transcendental. Ah well, he paused,
and glanced quickly about him with his curious bird like
poise of head. But you're not alone here, he inquired suddenly,
not absolutely alone, yes, said Lawford. But there's plenty to

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think about and read. I haven't thought or read for year, No,
nor I after thirty. My dear boy one merely annotates,
and the books called life bless me. His solemn old
voice is grinding epigrams out of even this poor old
parochial barrel. Organ. You don't suppose you cannot be supposing

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you are the only serious person in the world. Well,
what's more, it's only skin deep, Lawford smiled, skin deep.
But think quietly over it. You'll see. I'm done. Come here,
said mister bethany where's the whiskey? Where's the cigars? You
shall smoke and drink and I'll watch. If it weren't

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for a pitiful old stomach, i'd join you. Come on.
He led the way into the dining room. He looked sparer,
more wizened and sinewy than ever as he stooped to
open the sideboard. Where on earth do they keep everything?
He was muttering to himself. Lawford put the candlestick down
on the table. There's only one thing, he said, watching

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his visitor's rummaging. What precisely do you think they will
do with me? Look here, Lawford snapped, mister Bethany, I've
come round here, hooting through your letter box to Tally's sense,
not sentiment. Why has your wife deserted you without a servant,
without a single It's perfectly monstrous. On my word of honor,

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I prefer it so. I couldn't have gone on alone.
I all but forget this this loopus. Every turn of
her little finger reminded me of it. We are all
of us alone, whether we know it or not. You
said so yourself, and it's better to realize. It's stark
and unconfused. Besides, you have no idea what what odd

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things there may be. There is something on the other side.
I'll win through to that. Mister Bethany had been listening attentively.
He scrambled up from his knees with a half empty
siphon of soda water. See here, Lawford, he said, if
you really want to know what's your most insidious and

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most dangerous symptom just now, it is spiritual pride. You've
won what you think a domestic victory, and you can
scarcely bear the splendor. Oh you may shrug, pray. What
is this other side which the superior, double faced creature
is going to win through to? Now? He wrapped it out,
almost bitterly, almost contemptuously. Lawford hardly heard the question before

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his eyes had suddenly arisen. The peace, the friendly, unquestioning stillness,
the thunderous lullaby, old as the grave. It's only a fancy,
it seemed I could begin again. Well look here, said
mister Bethany, his whole face suddenly lined and gray, with

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a you can't. It's the one solitary thing I've got
to say, as I've said it to myself morn, noon
and night these scores of years. You can't begin again.
It's all a delusion and a snare. You say, we're alone,
So we are, the World's a dream, a stage, a mirage,

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a rack. Call it what you will, but you don't change.
You're no illusion. There's no crying off for you, no
raveling out, no clean leaves. You've got this, this trouble,
this affliction, My dear dear fellow. What shall I say
to tell you how I grieve and groan for you? Oh? Yes,

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and actually laughed. I confess it, a vile, hysterical laughter
to think of it. You've got this almost intolerable burden
to bear. It's calm like a thief in the night.
But bear it you must, and alone. They say death's
a going to bed. I doubt it. But anyhow, life's

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a long undressing. We come in puling and naked, and
every stitch must come off before we get out again.
We must stand on our feet in all our Rebelasian
nakedness and watch the world fade well then, and not
another word of sense shall you worm out of my
worn out old brains after to day? All I say is,

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don't give in. Why if you stood here now freed
from this devilish disguise, the old, fat, sluggish fellow that
sat and yawned his head off under my eyes and
his pew the sunday before last. If I know anything
about human nature, I'd say it to your face and
a fig for your vanity and resignation. Your last state

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would be worse than the first. There he bunched up
a big white handkerchief and mopped it over his head.
That's done, he said, and we won't go back. What
I want to know now is what are you going
to do? Where are you sleeping? What are you going
to think about? I'll stay, Yes, yes, that's what it

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must be. I must stay, and I detest strange beds.
I'll stay. You shan't be alone, do you hear me? Lawford?
You shan't be alone? Lawford gazed gravely. There is just
one little thing I want to ask you before you go.
I've warmed out an extraordinary old French book, and just

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as you say, to pass the time, I've been having
a shot at translating it. But I'm frightfully rusty. It's
old French. Would you mind having a look? Mister Bethany
blinked and listened. He tried for the twentieth time to
judge his friend's eyes to gain as best he could
some sustained and unobserved glance at this baffling face. Where

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is your precious French book? He said, irritably, It's upstairs.
Fire away. Then Lawford rose and glanced about the room.
What no light there either, snapped mister Bethany. Take this.
I don't mind the dark. There'll be plenty of that
for me soon. Lawford hesitated at the door, looking rather

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strangely back. No, he said, there are matches upstairs. He
shut the door after him. The darkness seemed cold and
still as water. He went slowly up, with eyes fixed
wide on the floating luminous gloom, and out of memory
seemed to gather as faintly as in the darkness which

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they had exercised for him, the strange, pitiful eyes of
the night before, And as he mounted a chill, terrible
physical peace seemed to still over him. Mister Bethany was
sitting as he had left him, looking steadily on the floor.
When Lawford returned, he flattened out the book on the

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table with a sniff of impatience, and dragging the candle nearer,
and stooping his nose close to the fusty print. He
began to read. Was this in the house, he inquired? Presently, No,
said Lawford. It was lent to me by a friend,
Herbert Huh. I don't know him anyhow, precious poor stuff.

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This is this Sabbathier, whoever he is, seems to be
a kind of clap trap eighteenth century adventurer who thought
the world would be better off apparently for a long
account of all his sentimental amours Rousseau, with a touch
of don Quixote in his composition, and an echo of
that Prince of Bogi's po What in the name of

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wonder induced you to fix on this for your holiday reading?
Sabathier is alive, isn't he? I never said he wasn't
He's a good deal too much alive for my old wits,
with his ma'amselle this and madame the other, interesting enough
perhaps for the professional literary nose with a taste for pachuli.

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Yet I suppose even that is not a very rare character.
Mister Bethany peered up from the dingy book at his
ingenuous questioner. I should say decidedly that the fellow was
a very rare character, so long as by rare you
don't mean good. It's one of the dullest stupidities of
the present day, my dear fellow, to dote on a

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man simply because he's different from the rest of us.
Once a man strays out of the common herd, he's
more likely to meet wolves in the thickets than angels.
From what I can gather in just these few pages,
this Sabathier appears to have been an amorous, adventurous, emotional
Frenchman who went to the dogs as easily and as

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rapidly as his own nature and his period allowed. And
I should say, Lawford, that he made precious bad reading
for a poor old, troubled hermit like yourself at the
present moment. There's a portrait of him a few pages back.
Mister Bethany, with some little impatience, turned back to the
engraving Nicholas de Sabathier. He muttered, dey. Indeed, he poked

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in at the foxy print with narrowed eyes. I don't
deny it's a striking, even perhaps a rather taking face.
I don't deny it. He gazed on with an even
more acute concentration, and looked up sharply. Look here, Lawford,
what in the name of wonder? What trick are you
playing on me? Now? Trick? Said Lawford, and the world

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fell with the tiniest plash in the silence, like a
vivid little float upon the surface of a shadowy pool.
The old face flushed. What conceivable bearing, I say, has
this dead and gone old rue on us? Now? You
don't think then you see any resemblance, any resemblance at all, resemblance,

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repeated mister Bethany, in a flat voice, and without raising
his face again, to meet Lawford's direct scrutiny. Resemblance to whom,
to me, to me as I am. But even my
dear fellow, forgive my dull old brains, even if there
was just the faintest superficial suggestion of of that. What then, why,

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said Lawford. He's buried in Whitterstone, Buried in Whitterstone. The king,
childlike blue eyes looked almost stealthily up across the book.
The old man sat, without speaking, so still that it
might even be supposed he himself was listening for a quiet,
distant footfall. He is buried in the grave beside which

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I fell asleep, said Lawford. All green and still and broken,
he added faintly. You remember, he went on, in a
repressed voice. You remember you asked me if there was
anybody else in sight, any eavesdropper. You don't think him,
mister Bethany, pushed the book a few inches away from him.

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Who did you say, Who was it? You said? Put
the thing into your head? A queer friend, surely, he paused, helplessly.
And how pray do you know? He began again, more firmly.
Even if there is a Sabathier buried at Whiterstone, how
do you know it is this Sabathier? It's not, I think,

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he added, boldly, a very uncommon name with two bees.
At any rate? Whereabouts is the grave quite down at
the bottom under the trees? And the little seat I
told you of is there too where I fell asleep?
You see, he explained, The graves almost isolate, I suppose
because he killed himself. Mister Bethany clasped his knuckled fingers

(22:05):
on the tablecloth. It's no good, he concluded, after a
long pause. The fellows got up into my head. I
can't think him out. We must thrash it out quietly
in the morning, with the blessed sun at the window.
Not this farthing dip to me. The whole idea is
as revolting as it is incredible. Why above a century? No? No?

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And on the other hand, how easily one's fancy builds
a few straws, and there's a nest and squawking fledglings.
All complete? Is that? Why is that? Why that good
practical wife of yours and all your faithful household have absconded?
Does it? He threw up his head as if towards
the house above them. Does it reek with him? Lawford

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shook his head. She hasn't seen him, not not a
part I haven't told. Mister Bethany tossed the hugger mugger
of pamphlets across the table. Then, for simple sanity's sake,
don't hide it, burn it. Put the thing completely out
of your mind. A friend? Who where is this wonderful friend?

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And not very far from Whitterstone? He lives practically alone?
And awe that stumbling and muttering on the stairs. He
leaned forward, almost threateningly. There isn't anybody here, Lawford. Oh no,
said Lawford. We are practically alone with this, you know.
He pointed to the book and smiled frankly. However, faintly

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again mister Bethany sank into a fixed, yet uneasy reverie,
and again shook himself and raised his eyes. Well, then,
he said, in a voice, all but morose in its fretfulness.
What I suggest is that first you keep quiet here,
and next that you write and get your wife back.
You say you are better. I think you said, she

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herself noticed a slight improvement. Isn't it just exactly as
I foresaw? And yet she's gone? But that's not our business.
Get her back, and don't, for a single instant waste
a thought on the other. Not for a single instant,
I implore you, Lawford. And in a week the whole
thing will be no more than a dreary, preposterous dream.

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You don't answer me, he cried impulsively. But can one
so easily forget a dream like this? You don't speak out, Lawford?
You mean she won't. It must at least seem to
have been in part of my own seeking or contriving,
or at any rate, she said, it of my own

(24:54):
hereditary or unconscious deserving. She said that. Mister Bethany sat back.
I see, I see, he said, I'm nothing but a
fumbling old meddler. And there was I, not ten minutes ago,
preaching for all I was worth on a text. I

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knew nothing about God. Bless me, Lawford. How long we
take a learning I'll say no more. But what an
illusion to think this this? He laid a long, lean
hand at arm's length, flat upon the table towards his friend,
to think this is our old jog trot, Arthur Lawford,

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from henceforth. I throw you over, you, old wolf in
sheep's wool. I wash my hands of you. And now
where am I going to sleep? He covered up his
age and weariness for an instant with a small crooked hand.
Lawford took a deep breath. You're going, old friend, to

(26:00):
at home, and I I'm going to give you my
arm to the vicarage gate here. I am immeasurably relieved,
fitter than I've been since I was a dolt of
a schoolboy on my word of honor. I can't say why,
but I am. I don't care. That vicar honestly puffed
up with spiritual pride. If a man can't sleep with

(26:23):
pride for a bedfellow, well he'd better try elsewhere. It's
no good. I'm as stubborn as a mule. That's at
least a relic of the old atom. I care no more.
He raised his voice firmly and gravely. I don't care
a jot for solitude. Not a jot for all the
ghosts of all the catacombs. Mister Bethany listened, grimly, pursed

(26:47):
up his lips. Not a jot for all the ghosts
of all the catechisms, he muttered, nor the devil himself,
I suppose. He turned once more to glance sharply in
the direction of the face he could so dimly and
of set purpose discern, and without a word, trotted off
into the hall. Lawford followed with the candle. Pon my word,

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you haven't had a mouthful of supper. Let me forage
just a quarter of an hour, eh, not me, said
mister Bethany. If you won't have me home, I go.
I refuse to encourage this miserable grass widowering. What would
they say? What would the busy bodies say? Ghouls and

(27:32):
graves and shocking mysteries? Selina, sister Anne, Come on? He
shuffled on his hat and caught firm hold of his
knobbed umbrella. Better not leave a candle, he said. Lawford
blew out the candle. What what called the old man? Suddenly,

(27:52):
but no voice had spoken. A thin trickle of light
from the lamp in the street stuck up through the fanlight,
as with a smile that could be described neither as mischievous, saturninge,
nor vindictive, and was yet faintly suggestive of all three.
Lawford quietly opened the drawing room door and put down

(28:13):
the candlestick on the floor within What on earth, my
good man, are you fumbling? After? Now came the almost
fretful question from under the echoing porch, coming coming, said Lawford,
and slammed the door behind them. End of Chapter fifteen.