The Magus, A Revised Version

by John Fowles

  ‘That was kind of you.’

  She took my hand and led me to the foot of the hummock.

  ‘Here’s your knight in shining armour.’

  Julie looked coolly down at me. ‘Hallo.’

  Her sister said, ‘She knows all.’

  Julie slid a look at her. ‘I also know whose fault it was.’

  But then she stood and came down beside us. The reproof in her eyes gave way to concern.

  ‘Did you get back all right?’

  I told them what had happened, the spitting. The first moments of sisterly banter rapidly disappeared. I had the benefit of two pairs of disturbed blue-grey eyes. Then they looked at each other, as if this confirmed something they had been discussing. Julie spoke first.

  ‘Have you seen Maurice this morning?’

  ‘Not a sign.’

  There was another exchanged glance.

  June said, ‘Nor have we.’

  ‘The whole place seems deserted. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’

  June glanced behind me, into the trees. ‘It may seem. But I bet it isn t.

  ‘Who is that damned black man?’

  ‘Maurice calls him his valet. When you’re not here he even serves at table. He’s supposed to look after us when we’re in hiding. Actually he gives us both the creeps.’

  ‘Is he really a mute?’

  ‘You may well ask. We suspect not. He just sits and stares. As if he could say worlds.’

  ‘He’snever … ?’

  Julie shook her head. ‘He hardly even seems aware we’re female.’

  ‘He must be blind as well.’

  June made a little grimace. ‘It would be insulting if it wasn’t such a relief.’

  ‘The old man must know what happened last night.’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to work out.’

  June added, ‘The mystery of the dog that didn’t bark in the night.’

  I looked at her. ‘I thought you and I weren’t supposed to meet officially.’

  ‘We were always going to, today. I was supposed to back Maurice’s story.’

  Julie added, After I’d put on another of my celebrated madwoman acts.’

  ‘But he must … ‘

  ‘That’s what puzzles us. The trouble is he hasn’t told us the next chapter. What we’re supposed to be when you’ve seen through the schizophrenia.’

  June said, ‘So we’ve decided to be ourselves. And see what happens.’

  ‘You must tell me all you know now.’

  Julie gave her sister a dry look. June gave a little start of mock surprise.

  Tm not de trop by any chance?’

  ‘You can go and improve your nauseating tan. We’ll perhaps tolerate you at lunch.’

  June made a little curtsey, then went and picked up the basket; but as she came back, she raised a warning finger. ‘I shall want to hear all that concerns me.’

  I smiled, then belatedly realized, as June walked away, that I was getting a cool and wide-eyed look from Julie.

  ‘It was so dark. The same clothes, I … ‘

  Tm very angry with her. Things are quite complicated enough without that.’

  ‘She’s very different from you.’

  ‘We’ve rather cultivated that.’ But then her voice was gentler, more honest. ‘We’re very close, really.’

  I took her hand. ‘I prefer you.’

  But she wouldn’t let me pull her close, though the hand was not withdrawn. ‘I’ve found a place along the cliff. Where at least we can talk without being seen.’

  We went through the trees to the east.

  ‘You’re not seriously angry?’

  ‘Did you enjoy kissing her?’

  ‘Only because I thought it was you.’

  ‘How long did it last?’

  ‘A few seconds.’

  She jerked on my hand. ‘Liar.’

  But there was a hidden smile on her face. She led the way round an outcrop of rock; a solitary pine, then the steep slope down to the cliff-edge. The outcrop formed a natural wall shielding us from eyes inland, behind us. Another basket stood on a dark green rug spread in the thin shade of the wind-bent tree. I glanced round, then took Julie in my arms. This time she let me kiss her, but only briefly before she turned her head away.

  ‘I so wanted to come last night.’

  ‘It was awful.’

  ‘I had to let her meet you.’ There was a little outbreath. ‘She complains I have all the excitement, apart from anything else.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Now we’ve got all day.’

  She kissed my shoulder through my damp shirt. ‘We must talk.’

  She slipped out of her flat-heeled shoes, then sat down on the rug with her legs curled beside her. The pale-blue stockings ended just below her bare knees. The dress was really white, but thick-sewn with a close pattern of tiny roses. It was cut deep round the neck, to where the breasts began to swell apart. The clothes gave her a kind of sensual innocence, a schoolgirlishness. The sun-wind teased the ends of her hair against her back, as when she had been ‘Lily’ on the beach – but all that side of her had drained away, like water between stones. I sat beside her, and she turned away and reached for the basket. The fabric tightened over the breasts, the small waist. She faced back and our eyes met; those fine grey-hyacinth eyes, tilted corners, lingering a little in mine.

  ‘Go on. Ask me anything.’

  ‘What did you read at Cambridge?’

  ‘Classics.’ She saw my surprise. ‘My father’s subject. He was like you. A schoolmaster.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘He died in the war. In India.’

  ‘And June as well?’

  She smiled. ‘I was the sacrificial lamb. She was allowed to do what she liked. Modern languages.’

  ‘When did you come down?’

  ‘Last year.’ She opened her mouth, then changed her mind, and set the basket between us. ‘I’ve brought all I could. I’m so scared they’ll see what I’m doing.’ I looked round, but the natural wall protected us completely. Only someone on top of it could have observed us. She produced a book. It was small, half bound in black leather, with green marbled-paper sides; rubbed and worn. I looked at the title-page: Quintus Horatius Flaccus, Parisiis.

  ‘It’s a Didot Aîné.’

  ‘Who’s he?’ I saw the date 1800.

  ‘A famous French printer.’

  She turned me back to the flyleaf. On it, in very neat writing, was an inscription: From the ‘idiots’ of IVB to their lovely teacher, Miss Julia Holmes. Underneath were fifteen or so signatures: Penny O’Brien, Susan Smith, Susan Mowbray, Jane Willings, Lea Gluckstein, Jean Ann Moffat…

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘Please look at these first.’

  Six or seven envelopes. Three were addressed to ‘Miss Julia and Miss June Holmes, c/o Maurice Conchis, Esquire, Bourani, Phraxos, Greece’. They had English stamps and recent postmarks, all from Dorset.

  ‘Read one.’

  I took out a letter from the top envelope. It was on headed paper, Ansty Cottage, Cerne Abbas, Dorset. It began in a rapid scrawl:

  Darlings, I’ve been frantically busy with all the doodah for the Show, on top of that Mr Arnold’s been in and he wants to do the painting as soon as possible. Also guess who – Roger rang up, he’s at Bovington now, and asked himself over for the weekend. He was so disappointed you were both abroad -hadn’t heard. I think he’s much nicer – not nearly so pompous. And a captain!! I didn’t know what on earth to do with him so I asked the Drayton girl and her brother round for supper and I think it went off rather well. Billy is getting so fat, old Tom says it’s all the grass, so I asked the D. girl if she’d like to give him a ride or two, I knew you wouldn’t mind …

  I turned to the end. The letter was signed Mummy. I looked up and she pulled a face. ‘Sorry.’

  She handed me three other letters. One was evidently from a former fellow-teacher – news about people, school activities. Another
from a friend who signed herself Claire. One from a bank in London, to June, advising her that ‘a remittance of £100’ had been received on May 31st. I memorized the address: Barclay’s Bank, EnglandsLane, London NW3. The manager’s name was P.J. Fearn.

  ‘And this.’

  It was her passport. Miss J. N. Holmes.

  ‘N?’

  ‘Neilson. My mother’s family name.’

  I read the signalement opposite her photograph. Profession: teacher. Date of birth: 16.1.1929. Place of birth: Winchester.

  ‘Is Winchester where your father taught?’

  ‘He was the senior classics master there.’

  Country of residence: England. Height: 5 ft. 8 in. Colour of eyes: grey. Hair: fair. Special peculiarities: scar on left wrist (twin sister). At the bottom she had signed her name, a neat italic hand. I flicked through the visa pages. Two journeys to France, one to Italy the summer before. An entry visa to Greece made out in April; an entry stamp, May 2nd, Athens. There was none for the year before. I thought back to May 2nd – that all this had been preparing, even then.

  ‘Which college were you at?’

  ‘Girton.’

  ‘You must know old Miss Wainwright. Doctor Wainwright.’

  ‘At Girton?’

  ‘Chaucer expert. Langland.’ She stared at me, then looked down, then up again with a little smile: she wasn’t falling for that. ‘Sorry. Okay. You were at Girton. Then a teacher?’

  She mentioned the name of a famous girls’ grammar school in North London.

  ‘That’s not very plausible.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Not enough cachet.’

  ‘I didn’t want cachet. I wanted to be in London.’ She picked at her skirt. ‘You mustn’t think I was born to this sort of life.’

  ‘Why did you want to be in London?’

  ‘June and I did act quite a lot at Cambridge. We both had careers, but –’

  ‘What was hers?’

  ‘She was in advertising. Copy-writing. Not a world I liked very much. Or its men, anyway.’

  ‘I interrupted.’

  ‘I’m just saying that neither of us was mad about what we were doing. We got involved with a London amateur company called the Tavistock Rep. They have a little theatre in Canonbury?’

  ‘I’ve heard of it.’

  I leant back on an elbow, she sat propped on an arm. Beyond her the deep blue sea merged into the sky’s azure. A breeze blew through the pine-branches above us, caressed the skin like a current of warm water. I found her new, her real self, a simplicity and seriousness in her expression, even more delectable than the previous ones. I realized that it was what had been lacking: a sense of her ordinariness, that she was attainable.

  ‘Well, last November they put on Lysistrata.’

  ‘Tell me first why you weren’t happy teaching.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘No. Or not until I met you.’

  ‘Just… not feeling my heart was in it. The rather prim facade one has to wear?’

  I smiled, and nodded. ‘Lysistrata.’

  ‘I thought you might have read about it. No? Anyway, a rather clever producer there called Tony Hill put us both, June and I, in the main part. I stood in front of the stage and spoke the lines, some in Greek, and June did all the acting in mime. It was … in some of the papers, quite a lot of real theatre people came to see it. The production. Not us.’

  She reached in her basket and found a packet of cigarettes. I lit them both and she went straight on.

  ‘One day near the end of the run a man came backstage and told us he was a theatrical agent and he had someone who wanted to meet us. A film producer.’ She smiled at my raised eyebrows. ‘Of course. And he was so secretive about who it was that it seemed too clumsy and obvious for words. But then two days later we both got enormous bouquets and an invitation to have lunch at Claridge’s from someone who signed himself- ‘

  ‘Don’t bother. I can guess.’

  She bowed her head drily. ‘We talked it over, then – really just for fun-went along.’ She paused. ‘I suppose he dazzled us. We were so sure it was going to be some dreadful pseudo-Hollywood type. Instead there was this… he seemed perfectly open. Obviously very rich, he told us he had business interests all over Europe. He gave us a card, some Swiss address, but he said he lived mainly in France and Greece. He even described Bourani and the island. Everything here. Exactly as it is … as a place.’

  ‘Nothing about his past?’

  ‘We did ask about his English. He said he’d wanted to be a doctor as a young man and had studied medicine in London.’ She shrugged. ‘I know countless things he told us then were so much eyewash, but putting together all the bits of jigsaw we’ve been handed since – I think he must have spent a lot of his youth in England. Perhaps he even went to boarding-school at home – he was very sarcastic about the English public-school system the other day. It did rather sound from the heart.’ She put out her cigarette. ‘I’m sure that at some time in his life he rebelled against money. And his father.’

  ‘You’ve not discovered … ?’

  ‘That very first time. We did politely ask. I remember exactly what he said. “My father was the dullest of human beings. A millionaire with the mind of a shopkeeper.” End of subject. We’ve never really got any closer than that. Except that he did once say he was born in Alexandria – Maurice himself. There is a rich Greek colony there.’

  ‘So something really the opposite of the de Deukans story?’

  ‘I suspect that may have been a temptation Maurice himself underwent at some point. A way he might have used the fortune he inherited.’

  ‘That’s how I read it. But you didn’t finish at Claridge’s.’

  ‘It did all rather bear this out. He was so anxious to put himself across as a cosmopolitan man of culture. Not a mere millionaire. He asked us what we’d read at Cambridge – which of course allowed him to demonstrate his own reading. Then the contemporary theatre, he obviously knows that very well. What’s going on in the rest of Europe. He said he was backing a small experimental theatre in Paris.’ She took a breath. ‘Anyway. Cultural credentials thoroughly established. More than thoroughly, we were beginning to wonder why we were there. In the end June, in her usual way, asked point-blank. Whereupon he announced that he was the major shareholder in a film company in the Lebanon.’ Her grey eyes opened wide at me. ‘Then. In the next breath. Absolutely out of the blue.’ She paused. ‘He wanted us to star in a film this summer.’

  ‘But you must have…’

  ‘Actually we nearly had the giggles. We knew he must really be suggesting something else – what we’d suspected in the first place.

  But then he said the terms.’ She showed me a still amazed face. ‘A thousand pounds each when we signed a contract. A thousand more when we finished the making. Plus a hundred pounds a month each for expenses. Of which, it’s turned out, we have virtually none.’

  ‘Christ. Have you seen any of it?’

  ‘The contract money. And the expenses… that letter.’ She looked down, as if I must think her mercenary, and smoothed the nap of the rug. ‘It’s one major reason we’ve stuck it here, Nicholas. It’s so absurd. We’ve done so little to earn it.’

  ‘What was the film supposed to be about?’

  ‘It was to be shot here in Greece. I’ll explain in a minute.’ She gave me an uncertain look. ‘You mustn’t think we were totally innocent. We didn’t at all say yes at once. Rather the opposite. And he played his cards so well. He was almost paternal. Of course we couldn’t decide at once, we’d want to make enquiries, consult our agent – not that we actually even had one at that point.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We were driven home – in a hired Rolls – to think it over. You know, to a pokey top-floor flat in Belsize Park. Like two Cinderellas. He was so clever, he never put any suspicious kind of pressure on us. We saw him, oh – twice, three times more. He took us out. Theatre. Opera. Never any attempt to
get either of us on our own. I’m missing out so many things. But you know what he can be like when he wants to charm you. That feeling he can give of knowing what life’s about.’

  ‘What did everyone else think? Your friends – this producer man?’

  ‘They thought we ought to be very careful. We found ourselves an agent. He hadn’t heard of Maurice or the film company in Beirut. But he soon tracked it down. It makes bread-and-butter pictures for the Arab market. Iraq and Egypt. As Maurice had already told us. He’d explained that they wanted to get into the European market. Our film was only to be financed by the Lebanese company for some tax reason.’

  ‘What was it called?’

  ‘Polymus Films.’ She spelt it. ‘It’s in whatever they list film companies in. The trade directory. Perfectly respectable and rather successful, so far as our agent could tell. Like the contract, when we got to that – also absolutely normal.’

  ‘Could he have fixed the agent?’

  She let out a breath. ‘We’ve wondered. But I don’t think he had to. I suppose it was the money. There it was, in the bank. Money must be true. I mean, we realized it was a kind of risk. Perhaps if it had just been the one of us. But being two.’ She gave me a wry little interrogative glance under her eyebrows. ‘Are you believing any of this?’

  ‘Shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘I feel I’m not explaining it very well.’

  ‘You’re doing fine.’

  But she gave me another look, still doubtful about how I was reacting to such apparent gullibility; then lowered her eyes.

  ‘There’s something else. Greece. Having done classics. I’ve always had this longing to come here. That was part of the inducement. Maurice kept promising we’d have time to see everything. Which he hasn’t welshed on. I mean there’s this, but the rest of it has been like one long holiday.’ Again she seemed almost embarrassed at the knowledge that their rewards had been much greater than mine. ‘He’s got a fabulous yacht. We live like princesses on it.’

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘Oh Maurice saw to that. He insisted on meeting her one day when she’d come up to see us in London. Bowled her over with his gentle-manliness.’ She grinned ruefully. ‘And his money.’

  ‘She knows what’s happened?’