Ruins by Brian Aldiss (romantic novels to read .txt) 📗

The engraving showed a grand ruin. Ferns and small trees were growing over it, so that it resembled a man-made cliff. The original structure, long in disrepair, had patently been intended for reverential purposes: its proportions, its grand arched windows, indicated as much. Centuries and wars had caused its original function to be lost, and its fabric to be largely destroyed. From the fallen masonry, a modest house had been constructed. It stood within the embrace of the old building. From its windows washing hung and people in the costume of the period stood outside it, idly enjoying the sunshine.

It was a perfect realisation of his dream. He stood transfixed by it, by its grandeur, which he contrasted with his own crude sketches. With a flash of perception – what was it but a flash that visited him, like lightning in a summer night? – he saw that neither building held much interest alone, the ruin or the house. Only in their juxtaposition was there piquancy, a cause for speculation.

As he stood in front of the engraving, he had a godlike view of himself from above, standing before the spectacle of the world. His pains, his losses, were encompassed within the greater panorama of his existence. Even the memories of his parents, his dear lost wife, were less than the love they had shared.

‘It’s one of Piranesi’s Views of Rome,’ Gladys said, bent double in the doorway. ‘Perhaps you can read the inscription underneath. I was never good at languages. The grand old building was the mausoleum of Helen, mother of Constantine.’

The names meant nothing to him. He said – without turning round, without removing his eyes from the picture – ‘Death – a mausoleum. Yes. So with me, a walking bit of antiquity. My makeshift life built within that larger shadow. My flimsy walls the debris of past generations.’

He was aware of the effort she made to speak.

‘That applies to biology in general. Not just to you, or to architecture … Our general inheritance …’

Not seeing exactly what Gladys meant, he said bitterly, ‘Every day of my life would have been different, better, more productive, if my father had lived.’

Yet while the words were leaving his lips, he perceived that, as he interpreted the engraving, so must he interpret his life. If his interpretation of the engraving was not forged by all he had lived through it would be nothing more than a meaningless pattern. His existence had design, meaning, piquancy, even to himself, because of the relationship between the sorrows which overshadowed the past and the understanding granted in living moments. The glimpse of unity made him whole. He clung to it as he clung to the crutch.

‘Hugh.’ She drew near and rested her yellowed paper hand on his sleeve, either for need of balance or affection. ‘I have always valued that print. It was my husband’s. I’ve never been to Rome … No, not Rome. Someone said something. I liked Stockholm … To me it represents the processes of the mind, the inheritance the new draws from the old, through many generations. Imagine how astonished I was when your sketches recreated virtually the same picture …’

She gasped with pain and turned slowly back to the door while still speaking. Her frame shook. She rattled the doorknob furiously when she held it for support.

‘When you wept, I wept too. Something communicated with us … Many people regard this engraving as a gloomy thing. Not I. Far from it. Well, it has shown us its vitality. Through it something communicated with us.’

For him, the transitory trumpets were playing.

When he did not respond, the old woman paused on the landing. ‘This is the occasion for a very early application of vodka, my dear. We can celebrate – nurse, nurse! Where is that bloody old woman?’

Later, when they were in the living room, Billing in the cane-backed chair with his crutch on the floor beside him, Gladys seated on the chaise-longue and the bottle and ice and glasses between them, he stared at the pattern on the carpet and said, ‘Pictures and dreams – how can they make any difference to the facts of life?’

‘Facts are open to interpretation, just as the picture is. It’s not the picture that’s important but its interpretation … Pictures and dreams. No, you removed the chest when we went to live in Malmö. My silk stockings were in that chest. It’s pure carelessness … What was that? No. What was I saying?’

He sighed. ‘I don’t know. About interpretation. I’m out of a job, I know that. Nowhere to go, life in ruins.’

‘Yes, of course. Everything with any meaning has many meanings. The picture preserves a meaning for us jointly. You see, I am the old ruin, Hugh, and you are the new building. You must come and live … within my walls. Before I fade out … There are two rooms upstairs never used. You can throw out a lot of the rubbish. All rubbish. You can be at home here. I shall try not to be a burden to you. I know I’m a burden. You need not see me every day, even. We could make it a rule of the house. Only every other day and then only for so long. An hour, two …’

He regarded her old and lined face, her trembling white hair, the hands that rested, one in her lap, one on the curved back of the chaise-longue.

‘I’d have to be free to come and go, Gladys.’

She sighed deeply and coughed. Pursing her mouth until the lower part of her face was a maze of wrinkles, she asked, ‘Is that your only response, to evade responsibility?’

‘I don’t want mothering.’

She gave a dry laugh. ‘That kind of untruth is another evasion, dear. What’s certain is that in my last years I do not require a baby son to look after. Perhaps my offer was a mistake, too generous. I’m weak in the head, that I know, I’m afraid.’

Billing went down