“I don’t suppose you’ve got any old books,” said the lady.
So they were on the prowl for edge-paintings, were they? Mr Collins had no patience with this craze for edge-paintings. He liked a handsome binding as well as any man; but with the spine of a book, and its sides, not to mention its interior, to be decorative on, tricking out its fore-edge – where at most a decent gilding should prevail – with esoteric views of St Paul’s or what not, was going too far.
He indicated a row of Surtees, a broken set of Migne’s Patrologiae, Hakluyt’s Navigations, and Bewick’s Birds. They took up each volume in turn, held it slantingly frontwise to the light, and spun the pages. “I’m afraid none of these are quite what we want,” said the man. “Do you go in for Art Nouveau?” And the woman said, “Have you any old Victorian jewellery?”
They were not nice people, but they were providential. Relieved of the necessity of throwing sticks for Mr Edom’s Ponto, Miss Mainwaring went on interrogating the woman at the window. Here she was – but how had she got here? Through what dusty auction rooms, unsurmisable ownerships, perils? Lalage had died in 1942, with a small obituary in the Times. Her don survived her by six years, so earning a rather larger obituary, as by then there was more room for civilian demises. Nineteen years, then, had been spent by the candlelit lady in travelling from Merionethshire to Oxfordshire. But she might well have been blown out of her course. One of the unsurmisable owners, a bank manager, say, or a clergyman, powerless as a Jesuit under authority, could have been directed to a wider usefulness at Wolverhampton, from Wolverhampton to Brighton. Considered in that light, she had been expeditious; though she looked composed as ever, she might even be rather out of breath, having got to the Abbey Antique Galleries only just in time.
“Well, what about pictures? What’s that old picture over there, for instance?”
They stood on her heels and, being polite, she moved aside. Trusty Ponto followed them, looking as if he might snap at any moment.
“It’s quite interesting,” said the man. “What you can see of it. What’s it supposed to be?”
“Dutch School,” said Mr Collins, his eye resting on Miss Mainwaring.
“Ah! One sees a lot of that. What do you think of it, Freda?”
“I’m not all that set on pictures, as you know. They take up such a lot of wall space.”
“This one wouldn’t. It’s a kit-cat. I must admit, I don’t mind it. I believe I rather like it. It would come up a lot with cleaning.”
“I quite like the frame,” said the lady.
“Yes, you’re right. It’s a very handsome frame – or would be, with a re-gilding.”
“But I can’t say I’m drawn to the picture – what you can see of it. It strikes me as monotonous. And it would cost the earth to clean.”
“We could have a bash at the cleaning ourselves,” said the man. “Enough to get some idea what it’s like. And then, if we didn’t care for it, we could always take it out and use the frame for something else. Why not?”
“Have it your own way,” said the lady.
The man pulled out a notecase. “How much?” he said.
“One thousand five hundred guineas,” said Mr Collins.
“No, thank you!” exclaimed the lady.
The man, assuming dignity, said he would think it over, and added, “Come on, Freda. There’s nothing here.”
Blithely preceding them to the door, Mr Collins saw that Mr Edom was standing just inside it. How much he had heard and what he thought of it could not be deduced. But Mr Collins did not feel the relief he had anticipated. He hoped to feel it later on – which is a different sensation. “Miss Mainwaring is here, Mr Edom.”
Mr Edom had already recognised the small figure at the end of the room. It struck him that Miss Mainwaring had aged since her previous visit – had aged quite surprisingly. If this was to be her last visit to the Galleries it was distressing that it should have exposed her to customers like those who had just gone out. She turned as he approached. Her face was deathly white. Her lips twitched. She should not have been left standing about while those barbarians were ravaging the shop. He handed her a chair, and she sat down like one utterly exhausted.
“I always think these unexpected returns of summer so late in the autumn are very trying,” Mr Edom said. “One isn’t prepared for them.”
There was something else Mr Edom wasn’t prepared for, thought Mr Collins. She was quiet enough now – for which he took some credit to himself, since you would need to be uncommonly far out of your wits for the sum of one thousand five hundred guineas not to come as a quietener; it got rid of that clever couple fast enough. But though she was quiet, she was working herself up. He could feel it in the air. In another minute Mr Edom would be blown out of his Indian summers by the knowledgeable Miss Mainwaring claiming the Schalcken as her own property and demanding to know how he came by it. If only he’d been able to slip in a word of warning!
Sure enough, she was beginning again. “Mr Edom, I want the Schalcken.”
Mr Edom said there was no-one he would rather see it go to. It was a very nice little bit of genre. He’d taken a fancy to it the moment he set eyes on it.
“I saw it before you did, though. It belonged to my grandfather. I haven’t seen it for fifty years or so, but I recognised it.”
“That doesn’t surprise me, Miss Mainwaring. If I may say so, you’ve got an eye.”
“I’ve left it a little late. But I must have it. I loved it very much. It was always spoken of as Lucy’s picture. I even thought it was really mine. And now, after all these years . . .”
Years of forgetfulness, faithlessness, contempt, she thought; and years of faithful abidingness. Meanwhile Mr Edom, his heart unbuttoning to romance, was saying that journeys end in lovers’ meeting.
Mr Collins felt an oncome of second thoughts. Nothing could be less like madness than Miss Mainwaring’s request for a book to write on, to save getting up. She laid the book on her knee, spread open the cheque book, and began to write, frowning a little when it came to reducing the guineas to pounds, shillings, and pence.
“There!”
Some dealers in their arrogance affect not to look at cheques. Mr Edom always looked carefully at his. He did so now, and looked yet again. He coughed. “Miss Mainwaring. I’m sorry, but you haven’t made this out right.”
“Oh! Haven’t I? How stupid of me. Well, tell me the amount, and I’ll alter it.”
“I paid eighty-five pounds for that picture,” said Mr Edom. Mr Collins, wrenched from his second thoughts by total amazement, could hardly believe his ears. No reputable dealer discloses what he paid for a thing. To do so is unethical, strikes at the root of society, and lowers the tone of the trade. Yet here was Mr Edom, that model of decorum, blurting out his eighty-five pounds without a decency-bit of “in the region of”, and continuing, “If you will pay me a hundred guineas, I shall have made my profit. And we will both be pleased, I hope.”
Such is human vanity that for a moment Lucy Mainwaring was extremely angry that her grandfather’s Schalcken should have been bought for eighty-five pounds. She made out another cheque, and Mr Edom receipted it. “But what I cannot understand,” he exclaimed, “is how you got that other figure.”
She saw Mr Collins wishing the earth would swallow him up. “That man who left just as you came in was asking about it. I expect I misheard. I could easily have misheard. You see, I was so afraid he might get it.” And seeing that Mr Edom was not perfectly convinced, she added, “Now that she is mine, do tell me where you found her.”
“I bought it from a publican in a village near Swindon. It was hanging in the snug.”
She had an extraordinarily pretty laugh – a thing you don’t often hear nowadays. But she was still looking white as a sheet, and her pretty laugh was like blossom on a winter bough. Having taken down the picture and set it on a level with Miss Mainwaring’s view, Mr Edom remarked, “As this is quite an occasion, I feel we should celebrate it
.” And going into his private room he returned with a bottle of hock and three glasses. “You too, Collins,” he said, filling him the third glass. “And I suggest as a toast: All’s well that ends well.” His eye rested on Mr Collins as he spoke, but blandly, and like an act of oblivion.
By the time Mr Edom refilled her glass, Miss Mainwaring had begun to look more like herself. Still staring at the picture, she murmured, “I’ve made a discovery. I thought I knew everything about her, but I’ve made a discovery. She’s not watching. She’s listening.” Mr Edom took a careful scrutiny of the oval face. “Quite true. You’re right, Miss Mainwaring. She’s listening. Listening for a step she’s waiting for, I should say.”
“Come to that,” added Mr Collins, “you wouldn’t see much on a dark night, holding a candle in front of your eyes like that. Schalcken liked his candlelight effects. But she’s listening.” For Mr Collins felt he could rejoin society. It was true that he had misstated the price, but he was not the only person who had been unprofessional about his figures that afternoon.
Yes, she was listening. She was listening for a step in the darkness, the step of someone nearing the end of a journey, or the step of an approaching expected stranger; or for a last heartbeat.
Item, One Empty House
EVEN WHEN AFTERNOON tea is unlikely – and, though I had only met my hostess twice or thrice before, I felt pretty sure I should not find her among cups and saucers – it is almost impossible for an English visitor not to arrive about teatime. I was about to do so. It was a foggy January afternoon, and though I kept on rubbing peepholes in the Pullman window and peering out for my first impressions of Connecticut, these did not get beyond the admission that a coating of weathered snow seen in a disadvantageous light looks like a coating of mutton fat and that the contours under the mutton fat were not so rugged as I expected. But no doubt they would soon begin to be rugged. A few nights earlier I had sat next to a man of letters at a dinner party – a dinner party of such magnificence that we drank claret (for all this was taking place in the era of prohibition) – and, learning that he was a Bostonian, had said to him, “Tell me about New England. I am going to spend a night there.” Sparing to be particular, since my outlook was so patently general, he told me that New England was reverting to the wild; that the farming population had moved westwards and snakes were beginning to come down from the mountains. “Rattlesnakes,” said I, knowingly. Looking kindly at me through his pince-nez, the cleanest I have ever seen astride a mortal nose, he said that rattlesnakes were among them, though I should not meet any at this time of year since rattlesnakes hate getting cold; and that he was glad I had read Elsie Venner. I told him I had also read about New England in the stories of Mary Wilkins. He replied with an Indeed; and reinforced the effect of withdrawal by adding that she wasn’t thought much of now.
Dusk fell on the mutton fat. The contours continued to be calm. Still, here I was in my English tweed suit, getting out at a station in unknown Connecticut as isolated as any pioneer and instantly and astonishingly being recognised by a perfect stranger and driven off in a car along roads where a sledge would have seemed more natural. At this point my memory wavers. But what came next was a large room, full of people, none of whom was wearing a tweed suit and all of whom were talking, and where several kind persons noticed I wasn’t drinking and offered me whisky.
Before I left London I promised various loving friends that during my trip I would on no account drink spirits and go blind (the sequel was considered inevitably part of the deed); and for a couple of days in New York City I was faithful to my vow. Then a loving American friend explained that I mustn’t go on like this, since to refuse spirits was tantamount to casting aspersions on one’s host’s bootlegger – a most uncivil thing to do. As I always listen to the friend that’s nearest, I took the plunge and drank whatever was offered me: spirits in ordinary homes, wine in grand ones, and once – so overwhelmingly grand was the home, and able to employ fleets of bootleggers – beer. My eyesight was none the worse for it, and my moral fibre must have been enormously strengthened because of drinking so much whisky. I loathe whisky; the only way I could deal with it was to toss it down neat and think of the poor large men in temperance hostels who hadn’t got any.
The party in Connecticut was one of those artistic parties drawn from some international Land of Cockayne. I began to slink into corners, to examine the pictures (views of Cockayne), even to wish I could find some reposeful bore. There was nothing to remind me I was exploring Connecticut. I might as well have been in California with those rowdy forty-niners. Finally the outside guests drove away, and the house party began to go to bed. My spirits rose: I had been looking forward to my bedroom. It was in the L of the house, with five tall windows distributed among its outer walls. My hostess came in to ask if I needed anything and to read me one or two of her poems. When she had gone I waited a little longer in case someone else should come in with a few woodcuts or a trilogy. But no-one else wanted my opinion; I was left in possession of my handsome bedroom, and went from one window to the next, drawing back the curtains. Outside there were trees. When I switched off the light, the room was flooded with the piercing moonlight of snow and the pattern of branches lay on the floor, so that I seemed to be stepping through a net. Till then I had not rightly felt I was in Connecticut. Now, because of the austerity of the moonlight and the pattern of elm branches on the wooden floor, I did. And I began to think about Mary Wilkins and to reflect that perhaps at that moment I was the only person in New England to be doing so.
I had known her for some time.
After I had been taught to read I was left to read on unassisted. If a title looked promising I tried the book (and thus for years and years never opened Gogol’s Dead Souls, being convinced it was a work of piety). One day I pulled out a volume called A New England Nun. There were two convents in our town, and a nun was a regular feature at the fishmonger’s – but nuns in fiction led more animated lives; though my notions about New England were of the vaguest kind and Mary E. Wilkins not a compelling name, the title, I thought, warranted a try. There was no word of a nun; but from the moment when Louisa Ellis tied on a green apron and went out with a little blue crockery bowl to pick some currants for her tea I lost all wish for nuns and animated lives. I had found something nearer the bone. Though I could not have defined what I had found, I knew it was what I wanted. It was something I had already found in nature and in certain teapots – something akin to the precision with which the green ruff fits the white strawberry blossom, or to the airy spacing of a Worcester sprig. But, scampering between balderdash and masterpiece, I had not so far noticed it could happen in writing too.
Having found it, this mysterious charm, I read on how Louisa, after she had finished her tea and washed up the tea things, took off her green apron, disclosing a pink-and-white apron beneath it, which was her sewing apron. This in turn she took off when she heard a man’s steps coming up the walk. Beneath the pink-and-white apron was her company apron, of white linen. The man came into the room; he was her suitor, and his entrance, as usual, frightened the canary. He was honest and good and had wooed her faithfully, but in the upshot she dismissed him and remained alone among the currant bushes; and that was the end of the story.
She must have been about contemporary with Maupassant, I thought: the Maupassant of New England, telling her spinster stories as he told his bachelor ones . . . But one cannot ramble about in a strange house at three in the morning, not even in a bohemian house – indeed, particularly not in a bohemian house – looking for a Dictionary of American Biography and saying through bedroom doors to persons rousing within, “It’s all right, it’s only me. I don’t suppose you happen to remember what year Mary Wilkins was born?”
Besides, it would be a waste of breath. She wasn’t thought much of now.
The spinster and the bachelor . . . He would have thought her a quaint character and put her into one of his stories. She would have surmised him to be a bad
character and kept him out of any story of hers. For she had the defect of her thrifty virtues: She wrote within her means, which is why one feels a sameness in her stories – a sameness of effort. Keeping within her means, she chose characters who would not lead her into extravagance, situations that remain within the limits of the foreseeable, never essaying the grandeur of the inevitable. But her control of detail gives these stay-at-home stories a riveting authenticity. The details have the flatness of items in an inventory. Item, one green-handled knife. Item, one strip of matting, worn. They don’t express, or symbolise; they exist by being there; they have position, not magnitude. And their infallible, irrefutable placing had fastened so many north-facing rooms, hemlocks, oil lamps, meeting houses, pork barrels, burial grounds, new tin pails, icicles, and dusty roads into my mind that if I had had the courage of my convictions downstairs, when everyone was talking about Joyce and Pound and melting pots, I would have said, “Why don’t you think more of Mary Wilkins?”
I didn’t. Perhaps this was as well. For one thing, one should not draw attention to oneself. For another, there might have been someone present who had thought enough about Mary Wilkins to cross-examine my admiration. And then I should have been forced to admit that she couldn’t get to grips with a man unless he was old, eccentric, a solitary, henpecked, psychologically aproned in some way or other; that she never hazarded herself; that she was a poor love hand; that lettuce juice too often flowed through the veins of her characters instead of blood. Though in one respect I would have fought hard for her carnality: she wrote admirably about food, about hunger, privation, starvation even. There was that story – which, alas, I did not completely remember because I had read it in a spare room and not had the presence of mind to steal the book – about starving on a wintry mountainside . . .
Music at Long Verney Page 14
