Quail didn’t manage any reply to this. It was a sort of talk that he had never got on easy terms with. And it would be depressing if simple snobbery turned out to be the mainspring of Arthur Fontaney’s elder daughter. Yet this was, he saw, a more substantial statistical probability than was that of her being slightly crazed. Often you had to give the English their head in snob-talk for a while; in some strange way it gave them confidence, and afterwards they might become quite interesting. About Miss Fontaney, however, he wasn’t sure; what buzzed in her bonnet was perhaps not quite the common bee. Meanwhile, something had to be said, and Quail thought he would press on to what, after all, they must eventually come to. “I hope,” he asked, “that the introduction the Joplings effected turned out to be satisfactory?”
“It was necessary that I should take a good look at somebody.” Miss Fontaney paused and then, rather unexpectedly, laughed. It was a faint high laughter that faded rapidly, so that one thought of a flock of screeching exotic birds, far away and vanishing into a jungle. “As it is necessary, of course, that I should take a good look at you.”
Quail was rather pleased with this, which promised at least discussion more direct than he had altogether dared to hope for. “Certainly,” he said, “you must do that. I realise that you have difficult decisions to make. I have suggestions, if you should happen to ask for them. But I don’t want to press any one solution upon you, believe me.”
“I ought to say, frankly, that there is a great deal of work which I had hoped to undertake myself. But I did not feel at liberty to begin even a private ordering of my father’s papers during the period in which it was his wish that they should be laid entirely aside. Now, when that period has elapsed, I know that my remaining strength will permit me to do very little.”
Quail made to this what reply he could. And he added a question. “Would Miss Marianne be interested in work of that sort?”
“Marianne is not capable of it. I have done my best with her. But her interests are not intellectual. Everything will, of course, go to her. But our major problem does not admit of solution that way.”
“That is a great pity.” Quail was silent for a moment. His instinct for negotiation was of necessity very highly developed, and he was aware that there was a sense in which he was getting along swimmingly. But it was a sense requiring definition. He knew that he was a long way from any point at which he could bring that cheque-book from his pocket. What had happened – it suddenly came to him – was that Miss Fontaney had at once admitted him to an altogether surprising degree of confidence. She hadn’t, it was true, said a great deal. But her inclination would overpoweringly be to say virtually nothing at all. Essentially, she didn’t go in for snobbery. She went in for pride. One facet of that – and a crucial one – might be family pride, which wasn’t the same thing as snobbery by a long way. For one thing, it conduces to reserve rather than to august communication. And Miss Fontaney was certainly still reserved. Nevertheless, she had accepted him as somebody with whom discussions must be held. “Do you feel,” he asked, “that some sort of major decision is urgent—I mean about your father’s journals, and so on? Ought the first step not to be a general survey of what there is, undertaken either entirely by yourself, or by yourself and somebody qualified to assist?”
At first Miss Fontaney’s only response to this was to hold out her hand for his cup. He was now convinced that she was an intelligent woman, who would take the technique of the conference table in her stride. And her next remark, indeed, made it clear that she knew when a major card must be exposed. “There is a financial aspect, Mr Quail. I wish to see it clarified before Marianne is left alone in the world.”
“I can understand that.” Quail’s respect for Miss Fontaney was growing. “So take those journals of your father’s. Would you be happy to see them published to-morrow?”
“That is impossible to say. They must be examined with great care.”
“I entirely agree. Of course you know that you can part with them – sell them – as physical objects, and still prohibit publication, if you want to, for the better part of another twenty years?”
“That has been explained to me. I had it in mind yesterday.”
Quail was puzzled. “When you were having a good look at somebody?”
“Precisely. Unfortunately, the result of the luncheon was most unsatisfactory.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” Quail said this sincerely enough. The idea of Tandon’s being put on show for Jopling’s amusement, and on a calculation that he would expose himself to Miss Fontaney in an unfavourable light, was now even more disagreeable to Quail than it had been before. “And, also, Miss Fontaney, I’m a little surprised. I’d have thought you were meeting a pretty good man. A little limited, perhaps, on some sides. But with the root of the matter in him.”
“Unfortunately I cannot agree.” Miss Fontaney’s voice soared even more than usual by way of giving emphasis to this. “And, by the way, Mr Quail, I am reminded of a slight slip, or at least an omission, in your book. I once had it in my mind to write to you about it. You neglect our connection with that family.”
Quail was now quite at sea. “I shall be most grateful for any correction,” he said. “But I guess I’m being a bit stupid. I just don’t know what family you mean.”
“My paternal great-grandmother, Mr Quail, was a Manningtree. It should certainly have been mentioned.”
“A Manningtree?” The odd truth burst on Quail. “It was Lord Michael Manningtree you went to the Joplings’ to have a look at?”
“But certainly. Can I have failed to make myself clear? It appeared to me that if the young man had the requisite talents and interests he would be a highly proper person to have charge of the journals – which are, after all, family papers, Mr Quail – and edit them suitably in the fullness of time. It occurred to me, too, that the proposal might interest the Marquis, who might be prepared to make a suitable monetary arrangement by way of putting such an opportunity in his younger brother’s possession.”
“I see.” Here was Miss Fontaney’s vein of craziness opening out with a vengeance. The Fontaneys’ connection with the Manningtrees, which Quail did now vaguely remember, was as tenuous as Mrs Jopling’s must be. And the young man whom Miss Fontaney had been considering adopting as a sort of family historian had gone away and, for the amusement of a number of young men in a common room, described her sister and herself in a grossly disrespectful image. Quail’s indignation was tempered by the perception that the situation had its comic side. “But Gavin Tandon?” he said. “I think you met Tandon too?”
“Tandon?” Miss Fontaney was blank.
“He also lunched with the Joplings.”
“Oh, yes – the other guest. I recall him. A well-informed person, but a little tedious. A fellow of the college, no doubt.”
“Tandon takes a keen and scholarly interest in your father’s work. That’s why he was there.”
“I had supposed there must be some reason.” Miss Fontaney spoke tartly, and Quail was forced to conclude that she had disliked the Senior Tutor. “I judged him to be of the aggressively celibate type – such as still exists, you know, in the colleges. A negative attitude to women in general, and a positive distaste for women of education. This Mr Tandon was awkward in our presence; and he attempted to make himself agreeable by conversation that was a little too sustained and a little too heavy. I lost several of the Warden’s stories – the Warden, as you know, tells a very good story – because Mr Tandon had thought of some fresh information that he thought I ought to possess. Mrs Jopling told me afterwards that it is a regular thing with him.”
“I am sure that he would have wished to show great respect.” Quail was determined to do his best for his rival. “I believe that it would give him great pleasure to be allowed to call.”
Miss Fontaney frowned. “If he has a serious interest in my father’s work he ought, living in Oxford, to have put himself into communication with me.”
“He would feel some delicacy about doing so during the period in which the journals were to be unexamined – just, my dear Miss Fontaney, as I have done myself.”
“In that case, he may certainly call.” Miss Fontaney announced this decision with some majesty. “But I wonder what has become of Marianne? I had her promise that she should have returned by five o’clock. Still, another five minutes to ourselves will be convenient, since I have something particular to say.”
Quail put down his cup. “You can’t believe I’m not eager to hear you,” he said.
“I ought to mention that one or two casual remarks of the Warden’s yesterday made me a little uneasy. He was inclined to dwell on a possible aspect of my father’s unpublished work that I had not myself given much thought to. It may be called the anecdotal aspect.”
Quail nodded. “It’s been in my own mind,” he said, “during the last few days, as it happens. I’m not sure that Jopling mightn’t give it more importance than it deserves.”
“I am inclined to agree with you. But I should not wish the journals to pass in any degree out of my control and then to be made injudicious use of, whether in that or any other regard. In short, Mr Quail, I consider that the time has come to act. You have perhaps a few weeks to spare?”
“I have, indeed.”
“Then you would greatly oblige me by examining the journals and other papers. If, indeed, it is not asking too much of you.”
“My dear Miss Fontaney, I regard it as the greatest honour that could be accorded me.” Quail found that he didn’t at all mind thus coming in as a sort of second string to the disappointing Lord Michael Manningtree. The plain fact was that things were going swimmingly with him still. And he had the satisfaction of knowing that he had been absolutely fair to Tandon as well.
“Then that is very satisfactory. I need say nothing, Mr Quail, about the entire confidence in which I know that you will proceed in the matter. Let us aim first at gaining fuller information on what we have to deal with. My decision on how eventually to dispose of the journals may wait on that.” Miss Fontaney extinguished the little blue flame beneath her kettle, as if in symbolical assurance that some significant stage in the negotiation was over. “And now, I think we had better go into the library.”
But it was at this moment that the door opened and Marianne Fontaney entered the room.
“I am so sorry, Eleanor, to be late.” Although she must have expected Quail’s presence, Marianne had hesitated on seeing him, and for a moment hung back like a doubting child. Now she advanced and shook hands. He thought that her complexion had improved, and remembered that she had presumably just returned from the open air.
“It is much beyond your time, certainly,” Miss Fontaney said, and poured her sister a cup of tea. “But Mr Quail and I have had a very useful talk. Mr Quail, who has so much expert knowledge, will examine the journals.”
“The journals?” Marianne, perhaps because she was candidly occupied in discovering whether there was anything left to eat, seemed for a second to be quite vague about this. “Oh—I am so glad. Do you know, Eleanor, we saw both the Nicolsons’ little girls?”
“Did you, Marianne?” Miss Fontaney, although looking at her younger sister with what Quail supposed to be affection, had insinuated into her high-pitched voice an irony not pleasant to hear. “That must have been delightful. But Mr Quail, who doesn’t know the Nicolsons, can hardly make a great deal of it.”
“Of course not.” He could see that Marianne had flushed, and that she was searching confusedly for some intellectually more distinguished topic. “Are you interested in folk-dancing, Mr Quail?” she presently tried.
“I’m afraid I haven’t had much opportunity of seeing it. But a couple of years ago, in the Tyrol . . .” Quail was determined to do his best. But as his recollection of what he proposed to describe was tenuous, he felt relieved, if also a little surprised, when Miss Fontaney rather brusquely interrupted him.
“Did you say we, Marianne? You have been walking with a friend?”
“Yes, Eleanor. I was joined by a gentleman. Or rather, I joined him. But I don’t know that Mr Quail will make a great deal of that either.” Marianne’s low voice was entirely grave. Nevertheless, Quail remembered his former suspicion that in this dim and desiccated lady a disturbing ghost of humour lurked. “It was quite a new acquaintance.” She turned to Quail. “A guest we met at Mrs Jopling’s yesterday.”
“My dear Marianne – how very odd!” Miss Fontaney, who had been consulting the inside of her teapot, looked sharply at her sister. “You mean to say that Lord Michael—’
“Of course not, Eleanor.” Marianne was so amused by this that she laughed aloud. “It wasn’t that horrible boy. It was the elderly man.” She paused. “Don’t you remember? The nice one. Mr Tandon.”
It didn’t seem an exciting announcement, but the little silence that followed lent it almost an air of drama. Quail certainly saw that it held one mildly disconcerting possibility. “Did you meet Tandon,” he asked, “just over the way?”
“Yes—how did you know? When I went out, I had a letter to post. So I crossed straight over. And there he was. He was standing quite still, so I suppose he had lost his way. We recognised each other simultaneously. It was slightly embarrassing.” Marianne Fontaney nervously took up her teacup. “One never knows—does one?—about somebody one has simply met in the house of an acquaintance. I don’t even know if there’s a rule about it. Eleanor, is there a rule?”
Miss Fontaney appeared to consider this judicially. “It would be proper,” she said, “to acknowledge a bow. But I should hardly suppose, Marianne, that there was any need to approach the gentleman and suggest a walk.”
“Of course it wasn’t like that at all.” Marianne glanced swiftly at Quail, but he couldn’t tell whether it was in mischief or apology. “We spoke – and Mr Tandon was very awkward. I’m sure he just wanted to get away. But you know how that feeling makes it positively more difficult to break off? He asked me – I’m sure because it was all that came into his head – whether I was setting out on a walk. And when I said yes, he seemed to feel he must offer to come along – I suppose the right term would be to escort me. We went right round the Parks. Of course it was most absurd. I think Mr Tandon must be very shy. He kept on glaring into the far distance. I thought of those paintings of besieged soldiers, staring out over the desert in the hope that they may be relieved. How terrible it would have been if I’d laughed. And I did want to laugh – just once or twice.”
Miss Fontaney frowned. “I hope, Marianne, that between these impulses of hilarity, you contrived to make rational conversation.”
“Well, Mr Tandon did. He explained mathematics.”
“You astonish us.” Miss Fontaney’s patience with the simple mind of her sister could be felt as limited.
“I had said how difficult it was to keep accounts. And he said that mathematics was intensely interesting. He said it wasn’t his subject, but that he sometimes looked into it. Some of the facts he mentioned were so curious that I think I can remember them – although I didn’t of course really follow him. There are things called unprovable theorems, and if you can prove the unprovability of one of these then you are involved in considerations of logic. Did you know that, Eleanor?” As Marianne asked this question she glanced once more at Quail; and he was once more disturbed by the sense that one couldn’t quite know where one was with her. “And then there is something about maps.” Marianne hadn’t waited for a reply.
“It seems that however many countries there were in the world, and however complicated their frontiers were, you would never need more than four paints in your paint-box in order to give each country a colour without the same colours ever meeting along a frontier. It was just something that the people who make maps discovered. They found they never needed to use a fifth colour. And it seems that nobody knows why. There are mathematicians who spend their lives trying to work out why the map people just require four. And they haven’
t succeeded yet. Isn’t that extremely interesting?”
Miss Fontaney was looking less interested than puzzled. Quail guessed that it was quite a long time since Marianne had had anything like so much to say. And now something prompted him to ask a question himself. “Did Mr Tandon get on to the subject of your father and his writings?”
Marianne was surprised. “Oh, no! He showed no inclination to talk about anything like that. Do you know what I think? That he had quite forgotten who I was—or even that I was a woman.”
Quail smiled. “I hardly think he could do that.”
She flushed faintly, and he realised with satisfaction that he had given her a tiny start of pleasure. “But yes! I think he sometimes walks about with pupils – clever young men, who will understand about the considerations of logic . . . but I did understand about the maps.” Marianne put down her cup and looked at it in a puzzled way, as if aware that she had been inconsequent. “But what I was saying was this: that he just forgot I wasn’t one of those suitable young men, whom he could help to prepare for an examination. And so he went on talking. Wasn’t it rather absurd? Or do you think, Eleanor, that I did wrong?”
“I don’t think that you would be likely to do wrong.” Miss Fontaney produced this with what, to Quail, was a rather moving mingling of warmth and exasperation. “And now I am going to take Mr Quail into the library. Mr Quail will be coming to work here regularly during the next few weeks.”
“Then we must try to make him comfortable.”
The Guardians Page 12
