by John Fowles
'Did we behave ourselves?'
'Absolutely. Very helpful.'
'Give him time.'
He grinned. Definitely, he began to take to her. She had fine features, very regular and well-proportioned; a good mouth; and the very clear eyes, blue-grey eyes set more intense by her tanned complexion, had lost their afternoon abstraction. They were made up a little now, a faintly Slavonic oblongness about them accentuated; and they had a directness he liked. One of his theories began to crumble. It was hard to believe they were exploiting the old man in any mercenary way.
'He showed me one of your drawings. The teasels? I was impressed.'
She looked down a moment at her glass; a very deliberate hesitation; then up into his eyes again.
'And I liked your exhibition at the Redfern last autumn.'
He gave a not entirely mock start of surprise; another smile. 'I didn't realize.'
'I even went twice.'
He said, 'Where were you?'
'Leeds. For my Dip AD. Then two terms at the RCA.'
He looked duly impressed. 'Well, good God, you mustn't 'I'm learning more here.'
He looked down, it wasn't his business, but he managed to suggest that even so, postgraduate acceptance by the fiercely selective Royal College of Art was not something one jacked in lightly.
'It's all right. Henry knows he's lucky to have me.'
She said it with another smile, but it was meant neither ironically nor vainly, and David revised his opinion of the girl a step further. She had given herself a reference; and she gained an immediate stature in his eyes, a seriousness. He had obviously got things badly wrong; been in some obscure way teased on his first arrival. He saw at once the very real studio help she must be giving the old man; and made a guess--the sexual services were provided by the other girl alone.
'The new painting's remarkable. I don't know how he keeps on pulling them out.'
'Never thinking of anyone but himself. Mainly.'
'And that's what you're learning?'
'Watching.'
'He said he was very grateful to you.'
'He's a child, really. He needs toys. Like affection. So he can try and smash it to bits.'
'But yours has remained whole?'
She shrugged. 'We have to play up to him a little. Pretend we're in awe of his wicked old reputation. The harem bit.'
He smiled and looked down.
'I confess I was wondering what the reality was there.'
'Our last visitor was told--within ten minutes of arrival that we'd both been ravished three times the previous night. You mustn't look as if you doubt his word. In that area.'
He laughed. 'Right.'
'He knows nobody believes him, but that's not the point.'
'Understood.'
She sipped her vermouth.
'And just to clear up any remaining illusions, Anne and I don't deny him the little bit of sex-life that he can still manage.'
Her eyes were on his. There was a defensiveness behind the frankness, some kind of warning. They both looked down; David momentarily at the line of the bare breasts beueath the blouse, then away. She seemed devoid of coquetry, of any trace of the flagrant sexiness of her friend. Her self-possession was so strong that it denied her good looks, that repeated undertone of nakedness, any significance; and yet it secretly drew attention to them.
She went on. 'He's not verbal at all. As you must have realized. It's partly having lived abroad so long. But something much deeper. He has to see and to feel. Quite literally. The shadow of young girls in flower isn't enough.'
'I begin to realize just how lucky he is.'
'I'm only giving you the debit side.'
'I realize that as well.'
She glanced secretively to where the old man sat, then back at David. 'If he turns nasty, you mustn't get rattled. It's no good backing down, he hates that. Just stick to your guns. Keep cool.' She smiled. 'Sorry. If I'm sounding allwise. But I do know him.'
He swirled the lemon in the bottom of his glass. 'I'm actually not quite sure why I'm allowed here. If he knows my work.'
'That's why I'm warning you. He asked me, I had to tell him. In case he found out anyway.'
'Oh Christ.'
'Don't worry. He'll probably be satisfied with one or two mean digs. Which you needn't rise to.'
He gave her a rueful look. 'I suspect I'm being a bloody nuisance. For you.'
'Because we looked bored this afternoon. Not very gracious?'
She was smiling, and he smiled back.
'Since you mention it.'
'We're delighted you've come. But it wouldn't do to show that too obviously in front of Henry.'
'As I now completely understand.'
There was suddenly a grain of mischief in her eyes.
'Now you have to learn Anne. She's more difficult than me.'
But they never got on to Anne. The door from the kitchen opened and the grey head of the French housekeeper looked into the room.
'Je peux servir, mademoiselle?'
'Oui, Mathilde. Je viens vous aider.'
She went into the kitchen. The other girl was on her feet, pulling Breasley to his. She was barebacked, the dress cut absurdly low. They came hand-in-hand down the room to where David waited. One had to grant her some kind of style. She had a little self-guying mince as she walked, something monkeyish, of repressed gaiety, provokingly artificial beside her white-haired companion's quiet walk. David doubted whether he would ever 'learn' her.
Only one end of the long table was laid. Breasley stood at the head, the girl took the seat to his right. The old man gestured.
'Williams, dear boy.'
He was to sit on the Freak's right. Mathilde and the Mouse appeared: a small soup-tureen, a platter of crudités, another of variously pink rings of sausage, a butter-dish. The soup was for Breasley. He remained standing, waiting with an old-fashioned courtesy to see the Mouse into her chair. When she sat, he bent over and lightly kissed the crown of her head. The two girls exchanged a neutral look. In spite of their seemingly disparate looks and intelligences there was evidently a closeness between them, a rapport that did not need words. The Mouse ladled soup into the dish before the old man. He tucked a large napkin between two buttons halfway down his shirt-front and spread it over his lap. The Freak silently insisted that David help himself first. The housekeeper went to a corner of the room and lit an oil-lamp, then brought it back and set it down in the empty space opposite David. On her way out to the kitchen she reached for a switch and the electric lights around them died. At the far end of the room a hidden lamp in the corridor upstairs remained on, silhouetting the handsome diagonal of the medieval staircase. A last pale phosphorescence in the evening light outside, over the trees; the faces bathed in the quiet lambency from the milky diffuser; the Mouse poured red wine from a bottle without a label for David, the old man and herself. The Freak, it seemed, did not drink; and hardly ate. She sat with the elbows of her bare brown arms on the table, picking up little bits of raw vegetable and nibbling at them, staring across at the Mouse with her dark eyes. She did not look at David. There was a little silence as they all set to; as if one waited for Breasley to declare conversation open. David was hungry, anyway, and feeling much more at home now that the girl opposite had cleared the air so completely. The lamplight made the scene like a Chardin, a Georges de la Tour; very peaceful. Then the Freak choked withOut warning. David flashed her a look--not food, it had been a stifled giggle.
The Mouse murmured, 'Idiot.'
'Sorry.'
She made an absurd attempt, mouth pressed tight and down, leaning back, to control her nervousness; then abruptly clutched her white napkin to her face and twisted up away from her chair. She stood five or six feet away, her back to them. Breasley went on calmly eating his soup. The Mouse smiled across at David.
'Not you.'
'Needs her bloody bum tanned,' murmured Breasley.
Still the girl stood, long bare spine to them, fuzz o
f dark red shadow perched over the scarecrow neck. Then she moved further away, towards the fireplace, into the darkness.
'Mouse is a fan of yours, Williams. She tell you that?'
'Yes, we've already established a mutual admiration society.'
'Very pernickety creature, our Mouse.'
David smiled.
'Footsteps of Pythagoras, that right?'
The old man stayed intent on his soup. David glanced for help at the girl opposite.
'Henry's asking if you paint abstracts.'
Eyes on his laden spoon, the old man muttered quickly, 'Obstructs.'
'Well yes. I'm... afraid I do.'
He knew it was a mistake even before the Mouse's quick glance. The old man smiled up.
'And why are we afraid, dear boy?'
David said lightly, 'Just a figure of speech.'
'Very brainy stuff, I hear. Much admired, Mouse says.'
David murmured, '"Als ich kann."'
Breasley looked up a second time. 'Come again?'
But suddenly the Freak was behind her chair. She held three pink chrysanthemum heads, removed from a pot David had seen in the fireplace. She put one by his hand; one by the old man's and the third by the Mouse's. Then she sat down with her hands on her lap, like a self-punished child. Breasley reached out and patted her arm in avuncular fashion.
'You were saying, Williams?'
'As sound as I can make them.' He went quickly on. 'I'd rather hoped humbly in the footsteps of...' but he saw too late he was heading for another mistake.
'Of whom, dear boy?'
'Braque?'
It was a mistake. David held his breath.
'Mean that synthetic cubist nonsense?'
'It makes sense to me, sir.'
The old man did not answer for a moment. He ate more soup. 'All spawn bastards when we're young.' David smiled, and stopped his tongue. 'Saw a lot of atrocities in Spain. Unspeakable things. Happens in war. Not just them. Our side as well.' He took another mouthful of soup, then lay the spoon down and leant back and surveyed David. 'Battle's over, dear man. Doing it in cold blood, you with me? Don't go for that.'
'As I've been warned, Mr Breasley.'
The old man suddenly relaxed a little; there was even a faint glint of amusement in his eyes.
'Long as you know, my boy.'
David opened his hands: he knew. The Mouse spoke.
'Henry, do you want more soup?'
'Too much garlic.'
'It's exactly the same as last night.'
The old man grunted, then reached for the wine-bottle. The Freak raised her hands and ran her splayed fingers through her hair, as if she were afraid it might be lying flat; then turned a little to David, her arms still high.
'You like my tattoo?'
In the hollow of the shaven armpit was a dark blue daisy.
Through the rest of the meal David managed, in tacit alliance with the Mouse, to keep the conversation off art. The food itself helped; the quenelles of pike in a beurre blanc sauce that was a new gastronomic experience to him, the pré sale lamb. They talked French cooking and love of food, then about Brittany, the Breton character. This was Haute Bretagne, David learnt, as opposed to the Basse, or Bretagne Bretonnante further west, where the language was still spoken. Cot- meant wood, or forest:--minais, of the monks. The surrounding forest had once been abbatial land. Among themselves they dropped that part, one spoke simply of Coët. Most of the talk was between the Mouse and David, though she turned to Breasley from time to time for confirmation or for further details. The Freak said next to nothing. David sensed a difference of licence accorded the two girls. The Mouse was allowed to be herself; the other was there slightly on tolerance. She too, it emerged at one point, had been an art student; but graphics, not fine arts. They had first met at Leeds. But she gave the impression that she did not take her qualifications very seriously, she was out of her class in present company.
The old man, having drawn his drop of blood, seemed satisfied, prepared to revert at least part of the way back to his predinner self. But if the Mouse was successful in maintaining an innocuous conversation, she was less so in keeping the wine from him. She drank very little herself, and David gave up trying to keep pace with his host. A second bottle had been produced from the armoire. By the time the meal was finished that was empty, too, and there was a glaze in Breasley's eyes. He did not seem drunk, there was no fumbling after his glass; just that ocular symptom of possession by an old demon. His answers became increasingly brief, he hardly seemed to be listening any more. The Mouse had complained that they never saw any films, and the talk had moved to that; what David had seen recently in London. Then the old man broke in abruptly.
'Another bottle, Mouse.'
She looked at him, but he avoided her eyes.
'In our guest's honour.'
Still she hesitated. The old man stared at his empty glass, then raised a hand and brought it down on the table. It was without force or anger, only a vague impatience. But she got up and went to the armoire. They were apparently at a point where giving way was better than remonstrating. Breasley leant back in his chair, staring at David under the white quiff, almost benevolent, a kind of fixed smile. The Freak spoke to the table in front of her.
'Henry, can I get down?'
He remained staring at David. 'Why?'
'I want to read my book.'
'You're a fucking little ninny.'
'Please.'
'Bugger off then.'
He had not looked at her. The Mouse came back with the third bottle, and the Freak looked nervously up at her, as if her permission was needed as well. There was a little nod, then David felt his thigh being briefly squeezed. The Freak's hand had reached along beneath the table, apparently to give him courage. She stood up and went down the room and up the stairs. Breasley pushed the bottle towards David. It was not a politeness, but a challenge.
'Not for me, thanks. I've had enough.'
'Cognac? Calvados?'
'No thanks.'
The old man poured himself another full glass of wine.
'This pot stuff?' He nodded sideways down the room. 'That's the book she wants to read.'
The Mouse said quietly, 'She's given it up. You know that perfectly well.'
He took a mouthful of the wine.
'Thought all you young whiz-kids indulged.'
David said lightly, 'Not personally.'
'Interferes with the slide-rule stuff, does it?'
'I imagine. But I'm not a mathematician.'
'What do you call it then?'
The Mouse waited, eyes down. Evidently she could not help him now, except as a silent witness. It was not worth pretending one did not know what that 'it' meant. David met the old man's stare.
'Mr Breasley, most of us feel abstraction has become a meaningless term. Since our conception of reality has changed so much this last fifty years.'
The old man seemed to have to turn it over in his mind; then dismiss it.
'I call it betrayal. Greatest betrayal in the history of art.'
The wine had gone to his cheeks and nose, and his eyes seemed almost opaque. He was less leant than forced back against his armed chair, which he had shifted a little to face David. It also brought him a little closer to the girl beside him. David had talked too much to her during dinner, shown too much interest... he saw that now, and that the old man must have watched them talking before the meal. In some way he had to repossess her.
'Triumph of the bloody eunuch.'
In that way.
'At least better than the triumph of the bloody dictator?'
'Balls. Spunk. Any spunk. Even Hitler's spunk. Or nothing.'
Without looking at David, the Mouse said, 'Henry feels that full abstraction represents a flight from human and social responsibility.' He thought for one moment she was taking Breasley's side; then realized she had now set up as interpreter.
'But if philosophy needs logic? If applied mathematics nee
ds the pure form? Surely there's a case for fundamentals in art, too?'
'Cock. Not fundamentals. Fundaments.' He nodded at the girl beside him. 'Pair of tits and a cunt. All that goes with them. That's reality. Not your piddling little theorems and pansy colours. I know what you people are after, Williams.'
Once again the Mouse interpreted, in an absolutely neutral voice. 'You're afraid of the human body.'
'Perhaps simply more interested in the mind than the genitals.'
'God help your bloody wife then.'
David said evenly, 'I thought we were talking about painting.'
'How many women you slept with, Williams?'
'That's not your business, Mr Breasley.'
It was disconcerting, the fixity of the stare in the pause before an answer could be framed; like fencing in slow motion.
'Castrate. That's your game. Destroy.'
'There are worse destroyers around than non-representational art.'
'Cock.'
'You'd better tell that to Hiroshima. Or to someone who's been napalmed.'
The old man snorted. There was another silence.
'Science hasn't got a soul. Can't help itself. Rat in a maze.'
He swallowed the last of his glass and gestured impatiently at the Mouse to refill it. David waited, though he was tempted to jump in and ask why he had been invited to Coëtminais in the first place. He felt rattled, in spite of being forewarned. It was the violently personal nature of the assault, the realization that any rational defence, or discussion, would simply add fuel to the flames.
'What you people... 'the old man stared at the filled glass, jumped words. 'Betrayed the fort. Sold out. Call yourself avant-garde. Experimental. My arse. High treason, that's all. Mess of scientific pottage. Sold the whole bloody shoot down the river.'
'Abstract painting is no longer avant-garde. And isn't the best propaganda for humanism based on the freedom to create as you like?'
Again the pause.
'Wishwash.'
David forced a smile. 'Then one's back with socialist realism? State control?'
'What controls you then, Wilson?'
'Williams,' said the Mouse.
'Don't give me that liberal cant. Had to live with the stench of it all my life. Le fairplay. Sheer yellowbelly.' Suddenly he pointed a finger at David. 'Too old for it, my lad. Seen too much. Too many people die for decency. Tolerance. Keeping their arses clean.'
