The Oracles

by Margaret Kennedy

  ‘They’ll say he was mad when he wrote that letter.’

  ‘They’ll say that, anyway, when they see his Apollo. It’s got me seriously rattled about his state of mind. It’s … it’s … imbecile. That’s all you can say about it. I very nearly took it off and dropped it into the sea.’

  ‘If you’d done that you could have been prosecuted.’

  ‘It’s what he’ll do himself when he comes to his senses. It will embarrass them very much at Gressington. They’ll jump at the chance to write it off. I’m sure they’ll have headaches enough, with some of the entries they’ll get.’

  ‘Mr. Archer! I don’t like to have to say this … but you must realise that you are the very last person in the world who ought to interfere in Conrad’s affairs.’

  ‘Why? Because he pinched my wife, you mean? You think that impairs my judgment of his work?’

  ‘I think it invalidates your judgment. If you really mean to fulfil these threats, I shall write to Gressington myself and tell them all the facts.’

  ‘What? About Conrad and Elizabeth? Oh Lord, they know all about that. Everybody knows.’

  ‘I never could spell yacht myself,’ said Don, handing back the letter.

  ‘I shall make a public scandal of it,’ declared Martha. ‘I don’t doubt that you are in with these people and can pull strings. But I shall see to it that the facts are widely known. A great work of art shall not be suppressed in this manner.’

  ‘Work of art my arse!’ exploded Archer, losing his temper. ‘My dear madam, go and look at it! Go and look at it!’

  ‘I shall form my own opinion. It’s Conrad’s work, and nothing that Conrad does ought to be treated like this.’

  Don, who was more shocked at Archer’s language than she was, began to get to his feet.

  ‘Do you want to be thrown out of here?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t,’ said Archer. ‘I’ve got a train to catch.’

  His hasty departure was watched with interest throughout the hall.

  ‘And he didn’t even pay for his coffee!’ cried Don.

  ‘Winston,’ said Martha. ‘I shall write to Winston Churchill.’

  She frequently wrote to people whom she did not know, and commanded their support in her campaigns. Sometimes she actually got it, and the civil refusals which she extracted from the Great were not without their uses, for she could talk about them in an impressive way. Boundless impudence can travel far.

  ‘Bichette,’ said Don, ‘we’d better face it. He’s too much for us. He’s in with all those people. They’re more likely to listen to him than to us.’

  ‘And what is he but a dealer! A complete barbarian who ought to be selling … selling television sets.’

  ‘It’s Conrad’s own fault,’ said Don, a little testily. ‘He ought to have sent that thing off. He shouldn’t have gone away. You worry too much about him.’

  ‘I’m perfectly certain, now, that he went because he knew that wretch was coming. He must have regretted that letter as soon as he’d posted it, and simply fled.’

  ‘Maybe. But I don’t think there’s anything we can do.’

  ‘Posterity,’ said Martha, ‘will think that we ought to have done something. Someday it will be asked why Gressington failed to acquire the Apollo. Why didn’t Conrad’s friends, who were on the spot, do something?’

  ‘Can’t you get somebody else to buy it?’

  She shook her head despondently. All possible purchasers of Swanns, among her acquaintance, had already been victimised. East Head was hopelessly philistine. She had been obliged to fight, tooth and nail, to prevent it from commissioning a portrait of the Mayor, to be paid for out of the War Memorial Surplus Fund. On that committee, as she often told Don, she felt herself to be a voice in the wilderness. A portrait of Sam Dale, to hang in the Town Hall, had been the only proposal so far discussed. Her protests had been overridden and the inquity would have been perpetrated had it not been for Dickie Pattison. He, as legal adviser, had quashed the whole project, upon the grounds that a portrait of Sam Dale would not beautify the town within the meaning of the resolution, passed at a general meeting, which had earmarked the money for that purpose.

  Legal advice! she thought, with smouldering indignation. That they would take. They would listen to a country bumpkin of a solicitor, while her own eloquence went unheeded. They thought themselves quite capable of beautifying their own town, these butchers and bakers and candlestick-makers. That they should be left to their own devices was outrageous. In a saner world it would not be permitted; they would not be allowed to spend their money without taking the advice of people who knew!

  Suddenly her eyes brightened. An idea had occurred to her. It was a most daring idea, a more difficult campaign than any upon which she had, as yet, embarked. The obstacles were most inspiring. She loved to triumph in the face of opposition, and it was not an impossible idea.

  ‘I don’t see why not!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘You’ve thought of somebody?’

  ‘The War Memorial Committee. And I know where it ought to go too! In the vestibule here. At the top of the stairs.’

  ‘My dear Martha! Not this committee.’

  ‘I could try. I’ve got my way before on committees. I know what I want and they don’t. That’s everything.’

  ‘The town would never accept it. There’d be an uproar.’

  ‘In my experience there never is much uproar after a purchase has been made,’ she said. ‘It’s discussion before that you want to avoid. Every Tom, Dick and Harry then thinks he has the right to an opinion. The whole thing must be very carefully handled. I must sow a lot of good seed, and get to work on as many members of the committee separately as I can, before I actually bring up the proposal. And then … bounce them!’

  She could do that, he remembered. She had done it in the case of the Pavilion.

  ‘The most important person is young Pattison,’ she continued. ‘They all listen to him. I wish he hadn’t been at that wretched party. And I never feel that his little wife is very … if I could get a chance to … is she here, I wonder? She generally is, about now. Oh yes, I see her. With Mrs. Hughes. Mrs. Hughes! She’s on the committee. Why, I cannot think. I’ll just stop on my way out and say a civil word or two, for there really is no time to be lost.’

  She got up and handed him her parcels.

  ‘But, Martha …’

  ‘Carry this one carefully. It’s got bottles in it.’

  ‘Er … we haven’t seen the Apollo yet, have we?’

  This took her by surprise. The omission had slipped from her memory. She hesitated and then said quickly:

  ‘It’s Conrad’s work. Possibly not his best work. But anything by Conrad will be more than these people deserve.’

  Don was inclined to agree with her. He loathed East Head.

  Had Christina, Allie, and Mrs. Hughes perceived their danger, they would have got away before Martha reached their table. But she was an expert in getting quite close to people before they were aware of it, for she had been practising this art ever since she could crawl. She sailed down the room, chattering to Don, and was nearly past their table before appearing to recognise them. Then, with a start, she whisked round, flashed her teeth, and popped into the fourth chair, with a laughing apology. She wanted to tell Mrs. Hughes how much she had enjoyed the Congregational Sacred Concert. After which there was no escape from the hosepipe of her affability.

  Don, who stood patiently behind her and held her parcels, could not but admire her skill. Babies were enquired after, and she managed to get from Bobbins to the Apollo without any apparent change of subject. The modulations included a reference to Christina’s absence on Sunday night, a deprecating allusion to the party, Conrad’s absence, apologies for having involved poor Mr. Pattison in so rowdy a fiasco, thanks for his kindness, hope of his forgiveness, and a promise of the Apollo upon some other occasion.

  ‘For it was that he came for,’ she concluded regretfully. ‘That he w
anted to see. He’s such a busy man, and he gave up his time … he must have been so disappointed. It distresses me very much. But I give my word that he shall see it as soon as I can arrange it. Will you tell him?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Christina. ‘I’ll tell him.’

  ‘Is it very beautiful?’ asked the innocent Mrs. Hughes.

  That, suggested Martha with a smile, depended upon what one meant by beauty.

  ‘In the eye of the beholder, so they say,’ put in Allie.

  She meant to be sarcastic, but was assured that she had uttered a profound truth. We cannot recognise beauty, said Martha, until we have learnt how to look for it.

  Christina sat with her elbows on the table, her chin cupped in her hands, and wondered what was behind all this. Martha was up to her tricks. Christina had suspected as much when the invitation to the party was given. Now she was sure of it. Dickie was to be drawn into something. She knew Martha, if he did not. Some advantage was going to be taken of his affection for Swann. His anxiety to know more about art and culture was, in some fashion, to be exploited.

  She had, in the past, despised and derided Martha. Now she was growing actively hostile. She would not have it. Nobody was going to bully Dickie except herself. She began to follow the conversation more attentively than she would otherwise have done. She wanted to contradict this woman, to catch her out in some untenable statement. Nobody ever contradicted Martha. That was the trouble. They might laugh at her behind her back, but nobody knew enough to prove her wrong.

  An experimental handfull of good seed was being sown. Martha thought the opportunity favourable, since Mrs. Hughes was also on the Selection Committee. The first step must be to break down an inevitable resistance to the unfamiliar. These destined purchasers would certainly dislike the Apollo; of that much she was sure, although she had not seen it herself. Very simply, in terms which the meanest intellect could grasp, she explained to them that many acknowledged masterpieces have been, in their day, derided as ridiculous and ugly. Only the elect can appreciate original and progressive art. By the masses it has always been greeted with shouts of protest.

  ‘Oh no!’ exclaimed Christina suddenly.

  Martha pulled up and gaped at her. Mrs. Hughes and Allie, emerging from a lethargy of inattention, gaped too.

  The word shout had suddenly reminded Christina of Dickie in the British Museum. Somewhere behind him towered vast knees and flowing draperies. Dickie’s face, and Dickie’s voice, came back very clearly. He was telling her something. They shouted, he said.

  ‘I mean,’ she explained, flushing a little, ‘they don’t always shout against, do they? Sometimes they shout for. I mean … I heard … somebody told me … when they finished that great temple they have in Athens … the … the …’

  The wretched name eluded her. Not the Pantheon. What was it? She began to repent of her boldness.

  ‘The Parthenon?’ suggested Martha kindly.

  ‘That’s it. The Parthenon. Well, when it was finished, last of all they put up those statues, the ones they have in the British Museum now. They’re all broken, but you can see they were wonderful. And they were quite a new kind of statue at that time. Nobody in Athens had ever seen anything like it before. But when the people saw them they all started shouting and cheering, even the slaves who had built the temple. Even the slaves saw at once that they were marvellous. I mean, it may be difficult for ordinary people now to admire new art. But it hasn’t always been like that, has it?’

  For a moment or two Martha had nothing to say. To be pulled up by anybody on such a point was an unusual experience for her; to be pulled up by little Mrs. Pattison was outrageous.

  ‘Oh well … the Greeks‚’ she said at last—‘they were different, weren’t they?’

  There was a murmur of assent from the other two. The Greeks could have nothing to do with it. They wore no trousers, spoke a foreign language, and had been dead a long time. It was strange of Christina to bring them up.

  Christina, beaten in the first round, found herself wishing, almost for the first time in her life, that she knew more. Generally speaking, she believed that she knew all that was necessary to get along very well in the world. From the ante-natal attitude to the Incarnation, she had all the facts and ideas essential to her credit and comfort neatly filed in their respective pigeon-holes. Some compartments were almost empty, no doubt; there were a great many subjects about which she did not need to know. But now, disconcertingly, she felt that she was ill-equipped. Martha must surely be talking nonsense, but there was no stopping her, unless she could be met and challenged upon her own ground.

  I don’t believe the Greeks were so very different from us, mused Christina. They were people. I don’t believe people alter so much. Only they had better artists, so it was nicer for them. If I knew more, I’m sure I could think of some people later than the Greeks, just ordinary people, who didn’t need to be lectured by Martha before they could see that a statue was beautiful. And now she’s telling us that we’re so awful, we want art to be just like a photograph, and show us exactly what we see; it’s only people like her who can appreciate being shown what they don’t see. So what about that picture? That picture we saw once that I loved so much, Dickie tried to get a copy for me? The Virgin Mary and the Baby in front, and, behind, that darling little tiny town, and the river, and all the ships, and the little people, so clear! It’s like a fairy tale, I said. And Dickie said that was the exact truth about it, because it was a magic picture, it gave us a magic long sight, which we haven’t really got, because our real eyes wouldn’t see all that, so far away, it would just be blobs. He’d painted them as clear as if they were near, only tiny. Which made it like a fairy story. Well, he was painting something we don’t see, and we liked it. And it wasn’t new or modern. It was a famous Old Master. If only I could remember his name I’d … Van … Van … was it Van Dyck? I don’t think so. He painted nothing but Charles the First. If I get it wrong she’ll score off me again, as she did over the Parthenon. Van … Van … I must ask Dickie. I will ask Dickie when we’ve made it up. Provincial! And he hasn’t apologised.

  Mrs. Hughes and Allie were not listening at all. They had no particular reason for wishing to contradict Martha. Mrs. Hughes thought what a pity it was that Martha’s mother had not put braces on her teeth. It was just like the Skippertons to have neglected such a detail. They idolised their child and allowed her to grow up looking like a ferret. Allie was thinking that she must get some wire for mending fuses. Something that Martha had said about the technique of Reg Butler reminded her of it. She would get it on her way home.

  Nobody had anything to say when the little lecture came to an end. Martha rose, declaring that she was talking too much. They must forgive her. After all, it was such a privilege to have Conrad Swann living in their town.

  ‘What rot she talks!’ exclaimed Allie, as soon as the Rawsons were out of earshot.

  ‘Why didn’t you say so?’ snapped Christina.

  ‘That would have been rude.’

  ‘I think somebody ought to stand up to her sometimes.’

  ‘Oh, you were marvellous. All about the Parthenon! She looked as if she’d sat on a pin.’

  ‘Why didn’t you back me up?’

  ‘My dear! I couldn’t know less about the Parthenon.’

  ‘I don’t believe Martha knows much,’ said Christina. ‘I believe some really educated person could sew her up in no time. We just let her walk over us. Oh … Van Eyck!’

  ‘Van how much?’

  ‘Just a name I was trying to remember. I’d have argued with her if only I’d remembered it in time.’

  ‘What’s the point of arguing with her? I didn’t bother to listen. Just a lot of blather.’

  Mrs. Hughes had been pursuing her own train of thought. Some part of Martha’s homily had made an impression upon her.

  ‘It’s true,’ she said suddenly.

  ‘What’s true?’ asked Allie.

  ‘Some of what she sa
id is true. Look how great artists have always starved. Well … often have. Just because they weren’t appreciated till too late. I always remember that picture, that famous picture, of the poor young artist starved to death. Stretched on the couch, with his white face, only a boy really, and the candle flickering out, and the day breaking through the window. Death of … death of … and all his poems torn up, poor fellow. Yes, he was a poet really, not an artist. But it’s the same thing. Starving! Just for want of a little encouragement. It made a great impression on me. Because he was a real man. I’d remember who he was if I could remember his name. And he did turn out to be a great poet, I believe. I don’t know if I’ve read any of his, because I can’t remember his name. Death of … death of … I can only think of Chatterly and I’m sure that’s not it.’

  ‘Oh, Mummie,’ said Allie, ‘that man died of consumption, not starvation. You’re thinking of that book Daddy wouldn’t have in the house. He wrote poetry too, I think.’

  ‘No. He was quite modern. This poor young fellow lived a long time ago. In the picture he had knee breeches.’

  ‘Well, I don’t see what all this is in aid of, anyway,’ said Allie. ‘Who is starving now?’

  ‘Conrad Swann,’ said Christina. ‘At least, he’s dog poor. If you ask me, Martha wants to raise money for him. Have an exhibition, perhaps, and make us all go.’

  ‘Well, I’ll go,’ said Mrs. Hughes. ‘And if I can manage to appreciate it I will. It’s a shame if an artist never gets appreciated till he’s dead.’

  Some of the good seed was already germinating.

  4

  EARLY on Tuesday morning a man came to turn off the water at Conrad Swann’s house because the water rate had not been paid, and the final notice had been ignored. He gave Dinah a paper which she could not read; she put it with a heap of unopened bills on the hall table. After that no water came out of the taps. The children accepted this as they accepted other deprivations. They had, luckily, a pump outside the kitchen door which still worked.