The Glory and the Dream

By Gordon Tate

when harold andrus was given a box of chalks on the occasion of his fourth birthday it soon became apparent what his life would be about. as he spread images of trees and flowers across his bedroom walls as naturally as breathing his mother became convinced that she had given birth to not only an artist but perhaps a great one. all he wqould have to do is wait and it would all come about. unfortunately it didn't and as the accidents of life carried him further and further away from his goal soon he could scarcely remember what that was. anne porter was one of those accidents a talented young artist in her own right and on the cusp of launching her own career there was something in her words he knew he was not going to be able to ignore and that cost him what it might his life would never be the same again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gordon Tate
• Release date: Jan 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301617883

Book preview

THE GLORY AND THE DREAM

A Novel

By

Gordon Tate

Copyright © 2012 Gordon Tate

Smashwords Edition

"Whither is fled the visionary gleam?

Where is it now, the glory and the dream?"

William Wordsworth:

Ode: Intimations of Immortality

From Recollections of Early Childhood

Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

Synopsis

About the Author

ONE

It is a commonplace that the events which shape our lives arrive unheralded and pass unnoticed. No final cataclysm or razing of cities, just a chance meeting or a missed train and our paths are imperceptibly but forever altered and it is only much later, when already it is too late to go back, that we are able to see how different has become the landscape of our lives.

For Harold Andrus such a moment occurred late one Friday afternoon in early spring. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say there were two moments, for had he not met Anne so soon after talking with Greg Hammond the results could have been different. One without the other might have caused a pang, a brief searching of the soul before falling back into the same unconscious pattern of existence, but coming together as they did made that impossible.

Yet truth to tell it had been a Friday afternoon like any other. The same children, the same hubbub of subdued sound, raised hands and spilled paint, and finally, at the bell, the same scraping of chairs and desks as everyone strained towards release and he glad to see them go.

Only two remained, girls who stood shoulder to shoulder at the sink and splashed water into the tinfoil trays the class had used as palettes, their heads nodding and bending like cornstalks as they whispered together, the aluminum bowl streaking with blue, red and green water colours. Once one of them glanced back before murmuring something and their heads bent lower in muted laughter, but although he was aware that they were probably laughing at him the thought did not touch him. Instead he was conscious only of a great fatigue, an ennui which so possessed him that his actions had become automatic, disembodied, like rituals the meaning of which has long since been forgotten.

By the side of his desk the waste basket grew fuller as gradually he cleared away the debris of his day. Timetable requirements, notices outlining supply ordering procedures, duplicated memoranda regarding in-service meetings, each followed the other into the basket. Or rather towards it, for he did not bother to crumple each sheet but instead simply dropped it over the edge of his desk and allowed it to float down so that most often it would take an eccentric path and miss the basket altogether. Nor did he bother to retrieve them, but went methodically on, only stopping when at last he became aware that someone was watching from the doorway, turning towards him, his brow already drawn together into a small frown.

How’s it going, Harry? Still hanging in?

Greg Hammond’s manner was so cheerful, so openly genuine, that Harold could not help but respond. At once his face cleared and he grinned ruefully. Do I have a choice? he asked.

Greg shrugged good-naturedly, as he did so glancing with genuine interest at the paintings mounted around the walls, and Harold found himself waiting expectantly for his observations. For of everyone on staff, Greg’s was the only opinion he had ever given weight to, whether because, like everyone else, he was won over by the English teacher’s good nature, or whether for some other reason he had never stopped to analyze.

You know, one or two of these pieces aren’t half bad, he said after a moment. Any real talent around?

Talent? Harold made a sound with his lips. Shit, no!

He had spoken too loudly so that there came a suppressed giggle from the back of the classroom and raising his head he said sharply, You can leave the rest of it now, girls.

They straightened immediately, one of them closing the cupboard door beneath the sink. Just finished, Mr. Andrus, and as she spoke she shot a sidelong glance in Greg’s direction. She had a heart-shaped face with dark, lively eyes and a full mouth. Beside her, her companion, a stringy girl with a flat chest and wearing glasses covered her mouth with one hand.

All right, Gloria, you can go now and close the door.

Thank you, Mr. Andrus. She stepped across the classroom, but at the last moment turned back and sang out, Good night, Mr. Hammond.

Good night, Gloria. The door closed and Greg laughed. You know something? Give that one another couple of years and she’ll be a real little cock-teaser, if she isn’t already!

Oh? Harold shrugged disinterestedly. I hadn’t noticed.

Greg chuckled. No, I don’t suppose you had, but all the same if ever she’s in here alone with you make sure to keep the door open!

Harold made no response and Greg perched one cheek on the corner of a desk, his face suddenly serious, and for the first time Harold wondered what it was had brought him there. That it was not just a casual visit was now apparent, but he appeared to be having difficulty in approaching whatever it was he wanted to say, for his face had taken on an uncharacteristic expression of uncertainty.

After a few moments of silence he said abruptly, You ever think of packing this job in, Harry?

The art teacher gave a small laugh. Not more than twice a day, he said drily, but still he felt a pang. For if Greg were to leave who would there be left to talk to? Sage? God forbid he should ever sink to that level! Why, what makes you ask?

Greg shrugged abstractedly. Hell, I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me, but sometimes I wonder what I’m achieving, that’s all. Like you said a couple of minutes ago, if there’s no real talent then what’s the point? You know what I mean?

Harold felt a constriction in his throat and leaned forward, elbows upon the desk and face hidden. Did he know what that meant! God, if only he could put it into words!

He coughed uneasily and said, Yes, but if you did quit what would you do?

Greg fell silent again and Harold knew that now he was coming to it, the thing he had wanted to talk about all along.

You remember a while ago, he said at last, I told you I was writing a novel?

Harold raised his head in surprise. Greg had told him, but that must have been almost a year ago and he hadn’t thought of it since.

What about it?

Well, fact is I’ve been thinking of taking a leave of absence to finish it.

At once Harold found himself in the midst of conflicting emotions. He had not taken Greg seriously, of course, for what English teacher did not think he could write a novel, yet here he was with it almost finished and having worked on it through all those months. He knew what that meant, had gone through the same thing himself, working on his canvases into the small hours while Patty and Charlotte slept upstairs, but with this difference: Greg was seeing it through to the end. Why hadn’t he? What had stopped him? The instinctive admiration he felt for Greg’s achievement was just as suddenly tempered by another emotion he had no wish to admit to.

So what do you think? Greg obviously found his silence to be a burden, for his face reflected an anxiety that was unusual in him.

Harold cleared his throat in an effort to bring his voice under control, but still something of his true feelings must have shown through.

Well, it’s hard to say, Greg, he said slowly. I mean, writing is a pretty insecure way of making a living, isn’t it? But then of course I haven’t read your novel either so I don’t know how good it is.

Greg laughed nervously. That’s all right, neither do I, although I think it’s the best one so far.

You’ve written others? Harold could not hide his surprise.

Oh, sure! This is my fourth. Not that the others were any hell, mind you, but at least I think they’re improving. That’s why I think maybe this one has a chance.

Harold smiled with stiff lips. So why not give it a shot? You’ll never know until you try, will you?

That’s the way I feel, too, Greg said self-consciously, although chances are it won’t work out and I’ll be back here next year anyway.

He rose to his feet, ready to go, and all at once Harold realised that the only reason he had come in the first place was to use him as a sounding board and perhaps obtain some measure of reassurance. Having got that, all he needed now was an excuse to leave and the knowledge of it made Harold feel suddenly extraneous.

By the way, Greg was saying, what about you? I remember you once telling me you had a couple of landscapes you were working on. How are they coming?

Oh, fine, but you know how it is. Always the problem of finding enough time, especially once you have a family. You’re lucky in that respect.

Harold spoke with a voice that strained in his throat and he found himself hating Greg and wishing he would leave.

Greg sensed it too and although he could not understand the reason for it, began to edge his way back towards the door.

I know what you mean, he said with an effort at a sympathy he could not feel, but you have to keep trying, don’t you? At least that way you know you’re still alive.

Harold let him go then, listening to the echo of his footsteps along the corridor and slumping back into his chair when they were gone. He had been pleased to see Greg at first, but what he had said had sapped him of all energy, left him drained of strength. For listening to the young teacher had been like listening to himself, but how long ago? Eons. Light years! Before the flood, when he had still been capable of dreaming. What had happened to all that, to all the things he had meant to do? Nothing, when he thought about it. No cataclysm had occurred to prevent its fulfillment. Just day piled upon imperceptible day and the gradual slowing of the blood in his veins until now it was not even remembered except when someone like Greg Hammond by chance reminded him of it. Perhaps that was why he had felt the sudden uprush of hatred for the young teacher, because he had forced upon him something he would rather not have thought about.

With an effort he pushed it from his mind and brought his attention back to the desk in front of him, only now the papers left upon it appeared even more futile than they had before and he no longer had the will to deal with them.

In fact the entire room had become so oppressive that he knew he had to get out of there before something in him snapped altogether and abruptly sweeping everything into his briefcase he rose to his feet and hurried out towards the parking lot.

There, a group of kids, grades seven and eight, still hung around, the boys laughing loudly and pushing one another for the benefit of a few girls loitering nearby, and they paused as he went by, their eyes following him with a barely concealed mockery and after he was passed, a burst of laughter. Briefly he wondered if it was meant for him, but did not look back. It wasn’t important. Nothing they said or did mattered to him anyway. He could think only of Greg Hammond, of what he had said and the implications it had for himself. Nearer the end than the beginning and nothing accomplished. And no prospect of anything changing, either. That was the truly depressing part. What had happened to all of the ambition, the determination to carve out for himself a name in the world of art? It came with a shock to realise that he had not even thought of it for……how long?

He had entered the drug store by now, standing in line at the counter, and it was as he turned away that he bumped into her. Starting to apologize, when she used his name he stopped and looked into her face, her eyes, at once shy and serious, striking a chord to which he immediately responded.

It’s Anne, isn’t it? he said. Anne Porter?

You remember. At once her face was animated by a smile and with it he knew her again as completely as when she had sat in his class in eighth grade.

Of course I do. Why shouldn’t I?

She shrugged, a slight, self-deprecating movement of her shoulders.

It’s been such a long time. I didn’t think you would.

He warmed, feeling himself drawn to her now as much as he had then, a thin and serious child whose eyes had followed his every movement about the room, drinking in his words as greedily as a sponge. But it had been more than that had moved him and recalling it he said, Why shouldn’t I remember? It’s not every day a teacher finds an ability like yours and when he does he’s not likely to forget it.

Spoken like that, it did not sound much, but he felt it as keenly now as he had then. At first the surprise at what he had discovered in such an unlikely-looking child, and then the fear that what he had taken for talent might prove to be nothing more than a native facility incapable of improvement or learning, and then, finally, the joy, no, the indescribable elation, of realising that, undeveloped though it was, it was real!

From that moment on he had spent the entire year teaching to her alone, the other pupils in the class no more than encumbrances they both must tolerate. And though it was never spoken, in some way she had known it too, the knowledge flashing between them in a momentary meeting of eyes across the classroom. That year, for the one and only time in his career, his job had taken on purpose, meaning, as he had watched, even felt, her talent develop and grow within his hands. Eagerly he had sought new ways to instruct her, other and more difficult tasks with which to test her limits, and always came the immeasurable joy of seeing her, after a momentary knitting of the brow, rise and overcome the challenge he had given.

Once another pupil, a pompous boy with an inflated opinion of his own ability, had complained of never getting any help and the principal had come into the classroom to talk to him about it, forcing him for a while to give attention to others in the class. He had resented that, chafed at being made to keep pace with their forced and laboured efforts, but it hadn’t lasted and soon he was back with her, the others accepting the situation with resignation and in most cases even relief, since in meant far fewer demands being made of them.

And all of that was being relived in him now, as keenly and as freshly as ever, and so intensely that she must have felt it too, for she dropped her eyes from his face and a slight darkening of colour came to her already dark skin.

He recalled her modesty then, the tendency to belittle her own efforts, and sensing he must have embarrassed her, he said, Anyway, tell me what you’re doing now. You must be almost through, are you?

She nodded. As a matter of fact I already graduated last January.

Good for you, he said. And now what?

She shrugged again, a slight gesture he remembered so well. I don’t know. Fine Arts, I hope, but I’m not sure I’ll get to go.

He smiled. So you haven’t given up on it, then.

Given up? Her expression flared suddenly to life and her eyes flashed fiercely. You never give up on it! You were the first one to tell me that! Don’t you remember?

Harold was stung by her unexpected passion and by the simultaneous awareness of how completely he had forgotten his own lesson.

Yes, of course I remember. He tried to escape the demands her eyes were making of him. But most people do, you know. Give up, I mean. It isn’t easy. The world isn’t kind to artists.

He spoke hesitantly, awkwardly, as though he were expressing ideas he was no longer familiar with, but she didn’t appear to notice, instead looked directly at him and said, I know that, too. That’s something else you taught me. Then she relented a little and smiled slightly. You see how much I have to thank you for?

Me? He was genuinely surprised by both the compliment and the openness with which she expressed it.

Of course. It was you showed me what being a real artist means. I remember thinking that if ever I could be just half as good as you I’d be happy.

As she spoke she was looking at him so openly that he was suddenly confused.

Yes, well of course there’s always the problem of making a living, too, he said unevenly. I still have to teach, but painting, that’s my real work.

She smiled triumphantly. You see what I mean?

Her face was alive with an excitement the intensity of which discomforted him. It was too naked, too oblivious to all the obstacles which must inevitably stand in its way and, just as inevitably, crush it, but more than that, it reminded him with an immediacy beyond bearing of something he had once felt himself and perhaps was no longer capable of feeling. He wanted to be away from her then. Her presence was too painfully demanding to be borne for long and glancing at his watch he said, Well, I should be going. It was nice to see you again, though.

Yes.

For a moment there was a flicker of what he thought was disappointment on her face. Had she expected more of him? He hesitated in the face of the rebuke, then added, But sometime I’d like to see what you’ve been doing. That is if you wouldn’t mind your old teachers criticism.

At once she was smiling again. I’d love that! Really I would. And I’d be so grateful!

He watched her leave then, arms swinging in that still almost child-like fashion, and suddenly his years descended upon him. Yet only momentarily as something else began to emerge. At first he did not recognize it, did not dare to recognize it, but it persisted, growing stronger with each passing moment. For she had not thought him too old nor considered it ludicrous that he could still harbour within himself the desire, even the need, to create. It had been a long time since he had felt it so intensely, but still it was there, as dormant as a tree in winter. Yet the question was whether he still had it in him to give it life. After so long a time perhaps the springs would have dried up and even if they hadn’t, it must be a slow and painful process.

But all of that was academic. For the fact was that Anne Porter had somehow touched a forgotten part of him so that he no longer had any choice. Cost him what it would, he was going to work again and even the thought of it filled him with a great sense of exhilaration.

TWO

On Saturday nights they played bridge with Jerry and Louise Burton, the game alternating week by week between their homes. It was a custom that Harold tolerated more for Patty’s sake than anything else, for it was she and Louise who were close friends while he and Jerry, even after all these years, merely groped for some kind of common ground which neither of them ever expected to find.

Still, it was a pastime which on the whole he enjoyed except on those occasions when one of his blacknesses arose. Then he would be plunged into a depression so deep that nothing could reach through to him and even to try was to risk an attack of the most savage kind.

In their twenty years of marriage Patty had learned if not to understand these moods, at least to recognize