The Reconciliation

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
The Reconciliation by H. G. Wells. This is a LibriVox recording.
All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more
information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. Read
by CHRISTA Zeleski The Reconciliation. Temple had scarcely been with
Findlay five minutes before he felt his old resentments and

(00:23):
the memory of that unforgettable wrong growing vivid again. But
with the infatuation of his good resolution still upon him,
he maintained the air of sham reconciliation that Findley had
welcomed so eagerly. They talked of this and that, carefully
avoiding the matter of the separation. Temple at first spoke
chiefly of his travels. He stood between the cabinet of

(00:44):
minerals and the fireplace, his whisky on the mantelboard, while
Findlay sat with his chair pushed back from his writing desk,
on which were scattered the dozen little skulls of hedgehogs
and shrew mice upon which he had been working. Temple's
eye fell upon them, and abruptly brought his mind round
from the top topic of West Africa. And you, said, Temple, well,
I have been wandering. I suppose you have been going

(01:05):
on steadily drumming along, said Findley, to the royal society
and fame and all the things we used to dream about.
How long is it five years since our student days?
Temple glanced round the room, and as I rested for
a moment on a round, grayish drab object that lay
in the corner near the door. The same old fat
books and folios, only more of them, the same smell

(01:28):
of old bones and a dissection. Is it the same
one in the window? Fame is your mistress, Fame, said Findley,
But it's hardly fame. The herd outside say, eminence in
comparative anatomy, evidence in comparative anatomy, No marrying, no avarice, none,
said Findley, glancing askance at him. I suppose it's the

(01:51):
happiest way of living, but it wouldn't be the thing
for me. Excitement But I say, his eye had fallen
again on that fungoid shape of dravish gray. There's a
limit to scientific in humanity. You really mustn't keep your
door open with a human brain pan. He went across
the room as he spoke, and picked the thing up.
Brain Pan said Findley, Oh that man alive. That's not

(02:13):
a brain pan, where's your science? No, I see it's not,
said Temple, carrying the object in his hand as he
came back to his former position and scrutinizing it curiously.
But what the devil is it, don't you know? Said Findley.
The thing was about thrice the size of a man's hand,
like a rough watch pocket of thick bone. Findley laughed,

(02:35):
Almost naturally, you have a bad memory. It's a whale's earbone,
of course, said Temple, his appearance of interest vanishing the
bullet of a whale. I've forgotten a lot of these things.
He half turned and put the thing on the top
of the cabinet beside Findley's dumbbells. If you are serious
in your music hall proposal, he said, reverting to a

(02:57):
jovial suggestion of Findley's, I am at your service. I
am afraid I may find myself a little old for
that sort of thing. I haven't tried one for ages.
But we are meeting to commemorate youth, said Findley, and Bury,
our early manhood, said Temple. Well, well, yes, let's go
to the music hall. By all means. If you desire it.

(03:17):
It is trivial and appropriate. We want no tragic issues.
When the men returned to Findley's study, the little clock
in the dimness on the mantel shelf was pointing to
half past one. After the departure, the little brown room,
with its books and bones, was undisturbed save for the
two visits Findley's attentive servant paid to see to the
fire and to pull down the blinds and draw the curtains.

(03:39):
The ticking of the clock was the only sound in
the quiet now and then the fire flickered and stirred,
sending blood red reflections, chasing the shadows across the ceiling,
and bringing into ghostly transitory prominence some grotesque grouping of animals,
bones or skulls upon the shelves. At last, the stillness
was broken by the unlatching and slamming of the heavy
s street door, and the sound of unsteady footsteps approaching

(04:03):
along the passage. Then the door opened and the two
men came into the warm firelight. Temple came in first,
his brown face flushed with drink, his coat unbuttoned, his
hands deep in his trousers pockets. His Christmas resolution had
long since dissolved in alcohol. He was a little puzzled
to find himself in Findley's company, and his fuddled brain

(04:24):
insisted upon inopportune reminiscence. He walked straight to the fire
and stood before it, an exaggerated black figure, staring down
into the red glow. After all, he said, we are
fools to quarrel, fools to quarrel about the little thing
like that. Damned fools. Findley went to the writing table
and felt about for the matches with quivering hands. It

(04:46):
wasn't my doing, he said. It wasn't your doing, said Temple,
nothing ever was your doing. You are always in the right, Findley,
the all right. Findley's attention was concentrated upon the lamp.
His hand was unsteady, and he had difficulty turning up
the wicks. One got jammed down and the other flared furiously.
When at last it was lit and turned up, he

(05:07):
came up to Temple, take your coat off, old man,
and have some more whiskey. He said, that was a
ripping little girl in skirt dance. Fools to quarrel, Trumple said, slowly,
and then woke up to Findley's words, Hey, take off
your coat and sit down. Said Findley, moving up the
little metal table and producing cigars and a siphon and whiskey.
The lamp gives infernally bad light, but it is all

(05:29):
I have something wrong with the oil. Did you notice
the drudge of that stone smashing trick? Temple remained erect
and gloomy, staring into the fire. Fools to quarrel, he said.
Findley was now half drunk, and his finesse began to
leave him. Temple had been drinking heavily and was now
in a curious rambling stage. And Findley's one idea now

(05:50):
was to close this curious reunion. There's no woman worth
a man's friendship, said Temple. Abruptly. He sat down in
an easy chair, poured out, and drank an disk of
whiskey and lithia. The idea of friendship took possession of him,
and he became reminiscent of student days and student adventures.
For some time it was do you remember this? And
do you remember that? And Findley grew cheerful again. They

(06:14):
were glorious times, said Findley, pouring whiskey into Temple's glass.
Then Temple started him by abruptly reverting to that bitter quarrel.
No woman in the world, he said, curse them. He
began to laugh stupidly. After all, he said. In the end,
oh damn, said Findley. All very well for you to swear,
said Temple, but you forget about me. Tain't your place

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to swear? If only you'd left things alone? I thought
the password was forget, said Findley. Temple stared into the
fire for a space. Forget he said. Then, with a
curious return to a clarity of speech, Findley, I'm getting drunk,
nonsense man, take some more. Temple rose out of his
chair with the look of one awakening. There's no reason

(06:59):
why I should go get drunk because drink, said Findley.
And forget it, fah, I want to stick my head
in water. I want to think what the deuce am
I doing here with you, of all people? Nonsense talk
and forget it if you won't drink, Do you remember
old Jason and the boxing gloves? I wonder whether you
could put up your fives now. Temple stood with his

(07:20):
back to the fire, his brains spinning with drink, and
the old hatred of Findley came back in a flood.
He sought in his mind for some offensive thing to say,
and his face grew dark. Findley saw that a crisis
was upon him, and he cursed under his breath. His
air of conviviality, his pose of hardy comforter grew more
and more difficult. But what else was there to do?

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Old Jason, full of science and as slow as an elephant,
But he made boxers of us. Do you remember our
little set to at that place in Gower Street? To
show his innocent liveliness, his freedom from preoccupation, Findley pushed
his chair aside and stepped out into the middle of
the room. There he began to pose in imitation of Jason,
and to give a colorable travesty of the old prize

(08:05):
fighter's instructions. I picked up his boxing gloves from the
shelf in the recess and slipped them on temple. Lowering
there on the brink of an explosion was almost too
much for his nerves. He felt his display of high
spirits was a mistake, but he must go through with it. Now.
Don't stand glooming there, man, you're in just that state
when the world looks black as ink. Drink yourself merry again.

(08:27):
There's no woman in the world worth a man's friendship.
That's agreed upon. Come and have about with these gloves
of mine, four ounce gloves. There's nothing sets to blood
and spirits stirring like that, all right, said Temple, quaint mechanically,
and then waking up to what he was doing. Where
are the other gloves over there in the corner, on
top of the mineral cabinet? By jove, Temple, this is

(08:49):
like old times, Temple, quivering strangely, went to the corner.
He meant to thrash Findly, and knew that, in spite
of his lighter weight, he would do it. Yet it
seemed puerile and inadequate to the pitch of absurdity. For
the wrong Findley had done him was great, and putting
his hand on something pale in the shadow, he touched
the bullah of the whale. The temptation was like a

(09:09):
lightning flash. He slipped one glove on his left hand
and thrust the fingers of his ride into the cavity
of the bullah. It took all his fingers and covered
his knuckles and all the back of his hand, and
it was so oddly like a thumbless boxing glove, just
the very shape of the padded part his spirits rose
abruptly at the sudden prospect of a savage joke. How

(09:30):
savage it could be, he did not know. Meanwhile, Findley,
with un nervous alacrity, moved the lamp into the corner
behind the arm chair and thrust his writing desk into
the window bay. Come on, said Findley behind him, and
abruptly he turned. Findley looked straight into his eyes on guard,
his hands half opened. He did not see the strange
substitute for a glove that covered Temple's right hand. Both

(09:53):
men were gone so far towards drunkenness that their power
of observation was obscured. For a moment, they stood squaring
at each other, the host smiling and his guests smiling also,
but with his teeth set two dark figures swaying in
the firelight and the dim lamplight. Then Findley struck at
his opponent's face with his left hand. As he did so,
Temple ducked slightly to the left and struck savagely over

(10:15):
Findley's shoulder, at his temple with the bone covered fist.
The blow was given with such tremendous force that it
sent Findley reeling sideways half stunned and overcome with astonishment.
The thing struck his ear and the side of his
face went white at the blow. He struggled to keep
his footing, and as he did so, Temple's gloved right
hand took him in the chest and sent him spinning

(10:35):
to the foot of the cigar cabinet. Findley's eyes were
wide open with astonishment. Temple was a lighter man by
a stone or more than himself, and he did not
understand how he had been felled. He was not stunned,
although he was dulled by the blow, as not to
notice the blood running down his cheek from his ear.
He laughed insincerely, and almost pulling the cigar cabinet over,

(10:57):
scrambled to his feet, made as if he would speak,
and put up his hand instinctively as Temple struck out
at him again, a faint with the left hand. Findley
was an expert boxer, and anticipating another right hand blow
over the ear, struck sharply at once with his own
left hand in Temple's face, throwing his full weight into
the blow and dodging Temple's reply. Temple's upper lip was

(11:20):
cut against his teeth. The taste of blood and the
sight of it trickling down Findley's cheek destroyed the last
vestiges of restraint that drink had left him, stripped off
all that education had ever done for him. There remained
now only the savage man, animal, the creature that thirsts
for blood. With a half beastial cry, he flung himself
upon Findley as he jumped back, and with a sudden

(11:41):
sweep of his right arm, cut down the defense, breaking
Findley's arm just above the wrist, and following with three
rapid blows of the bullah upon the face. Findley gave
an inarticulate cry of astonishment, countered weakly once, and then
went down like a felled ox. As he fell fell
kneeling on top of him, there was a smash as

(12:03):
the lamp went reeling. The lamp was extinguished as it
fell and left the room red and black. Findley struck
heavily at Temple's ribs, and Temple, with his left elbow
at Findley's neck, swung up his right arm and struck
down a sledge hammer blow upon the face, and again
and yet again, until the body beneath his knees had
ceased to Writhe then suddenly his frenzy left him at

(12:24):
the voice of a woman's shrieking, so that it filled
the room. He looked up and crouched motionless as he
heard and saw the study door closing, and heard the
patter of feet retreating in panic. Then he looked down
and saw the thing that had once been the face
of Findley. For an awful minute, he remained kneeling agape.
Then he staggered to his feet and stood over Findley's
body in the glow of the dying fire, like a

(12:47):
man awakening from a nightmare. Suddenly he perceived the boule
on his hand, covered with blood and hair, and began
to understand what had happened. In a sudden horror, he
flung the diabolical thing from him. It struck the floor
near the cigar cabinet, rolled for a yard or so
on its edge, and came to rest in almost the
position it had occupied when he had first set eyes

(13:08):
on it. To Temple's excited imagination, it seemed to be
lying at exactly the same spot, the sole and sufficient
cause of Findlay's death and his own, and of the
reconciliation