My Brother Michael

by Mary Stewart

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You say a gimmick would be “part of the fight”, because, in the first place, it would make people stop and look? If my stuff’s not really good, no gimmick will get it anywhere beyond the first hurdle. You know that. But if it is good, then once people have stopped and paid attention, the work itself is what’ll count? That’s true, isn’t it?’

  ‘It could be. In your case I imagine a lot might depend on the gimmick.’ Simon smiled. ‘I have a feeling that quite a few good artists have been driven along a path they never intended in the first place as anything but an odd deviation – a wallop in the public’s eye. Naming no names, but you know who.’

  Nigel didn’t smile. He seemed still hardly to be listening, but very busy following his own thoughts. He hesitated, then said suddenly: ‘Well, and that’s being true to oneself, isn’t it? And don’t you think that means, come what may, one should take what one wants and needs? Go straight ahead the way you know you have to go, and the devil take the hindmost? Artists – great artists – work that way, don’t they? And doesn’t the end justify them?’ As Simon seemed to hesitate, he whipped round on me. ‘What do you think?’

  I said: ‘I don’t know specially about great artists, but I’ve always imagined that the secret of personality (I won’t say “success”) was one-track-mindedness. Great men do know where they’re going, and they never turn aside. Socrates and the “beautiful and good”. Alexander and the Hellenising of the world. On a different level – if I may – Christ.’

  Nigel looked at Simon. ‘Well?’ His voice was sharp, like a challenge. ‘Well?’

  I thought: there is something going on here that I don’t understand. And I don’t think Simon understands it either, and it worries him.

  Simon said slowly, those cool eyes vividly alive now, watching the younger man: ‘You’re partly right. The great men know where they’re going; yes, and they get there, but surely it’s a case of driving themselves without pause, rather than juggernauting over all the opposition? And I thought Polonius was a prosy old bore? You brought him in, not me. I don’t agree with him, but do him the justice of looking at the end of the quotation. “To thine own self be true … thou canst not then be false to any man.” If being true to oneself means ignoring the claims of other people then it simply doesn’t work, does it? No, your really great man – your Socrates – doesn’t drive along a straight path of his own cutting. He knows what the end is, yes, and he doesn’t turn aside from it, but all the way there he’s reckoning with whatever – and whoever – else is in his way. He sees the whole thing as a pattern, and his own place in it.’

  I quoted, thinking back: ‘“I am involved in mankind”?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Nigel.

  ‘A quotation from John Donne, a poet who became Dean of St Paul’s. This comes in one of his Devotions … “No man is an island, entire of itself.” He’s right. In the end it’s our place in the pattern that matters.’

  ‘Yes, but the artist?’ said Nigel almost fiercely. ‘He’s different, you know he is. He’s driven by some compulsion; if he can’t do what he knows he has to do with his life he might as well be dead. He’s got to break through the world’s indifference, or else break himself against it. He can’t help it. Wouldn’t he be justified in doing almost anything to fulfil himself, if his art were worth it in the end?’

  ‘The end justifying the means? As a working principle, never,’ said Simon. ‘Never, never, never.’

  Nigel sat forward in his chair, his voice rising again with excitement: ‘Look, I don’t mean anything dreadful like – like murder or crime or something! But if there was no other way—’

  I said: ‘What are you planning to do, for goodness’ sake! Steal the donkey?’

  He swung round on me so sharply that I thought he was going to fall off his chair. Then he gave a sudden laugh that sounded very much to me like the edge of hysteria. ‘Me? Walk to Jannina and write a book about it? Me? Never! I’d be scared of the wolves!’

  ‘There aren’t any wolves,’ Simon’s voice was light, but he was watching Nigel rather closely, and I saw the shadow of trouble in his face.

  ‘The tortoises then!’ He grabbed the bottle again and turned back to me. ‘Have some more ouzo? No? Simon? Here, hold your glass. Did you know, Miss Camilla I’ve-forgotten-your-other-name, but there were tortoises running about on the hills here? Wild ones? Imagine meeting one of those when you were all alone and miles from anywhere.’

  ‘I’d run a mile,’ I said.

  ‘What is it, Nigel?’ asked Simon from the window-sill.

  For a moment I wondered just what was going to happen. Nigel stopped in mid-movement, with the bottle in one hand. He was rigid. His face went redder, then white under the peeling sunburn. His ugly spatulate fingers clenched round the bottle as if he were going to throw it. His eyes looked suffused. Then they fell away from Simon’s, and he turned to set the bottle down. He said in a curiously muffled voice: ‘I’m sorry. I’m behaving badly. I was a bit high before you came in, that’s all.’

  Then he turned back to me with one of his quick angular movements that were like those of an awkward small boy. ‘I don’t know what you must think of me. You must think I’m a pretty good heel, but things were getting me down a bit. I – I’m temperamental, that’s what it is. Great artists are.’ He grinned shamefacedly at me, and I smiled back.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘And all great artists have had a horrid struggle for recognition. As long as it doesn’t come after you’re dead, it’s all the sweeter when you get it, and I’m sure you will.’

  He was down on his knees, lugging a battered portfolio from under the bed. I noticed still that febrile air about him, and his hands were unsteady. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘I’ll show you my drawings. You can tell me if you think they’re worth anything. You can tell me.’ He was dragging a sheaf of papers out of the portfolio.

  I said feebly: ‘But my opinion’s no use. I really don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘Here.’ He thrust a drawing into my hand. ‘That’s one of the ones Simon talks about. And this.’ He sat back on his heels on the floor, and sent Simon a look that might almost have been hatred. ‘I’ll be true to myself, Polonius. You can be bloody sure I will. Even if it means being true to nobody else. I’m not involved with mankind, as your old parson friend puts it. I’m myself. Nigel Barlow. And some day you’ll know it, you and all the rest. Do you hear?’

  ‘I hear,’ said Simon peaceably. ‘Let’s see what you’ve done, shall we?’

  Nigel pushed a drawing towards him, and then a handful at me. ‘This. And this. And this and this and this. They may never set the Thames on fire, but given a push and a bit of luck they’re good enough to make me … Aren’t they?’

  As I looked down at the drawings on my knee I was conscious of Nigel’s fixed stare. For all the wild and whirling words the vulnerable look was there again, and on that final question the over-emphatic voice had broken into naïve and anxious query. I found myself hoping with ridiculous fervour that the drawings might be good.

  They were. His touch was sure and strong, yet delicate. Each line was clean and definite and almost frighteningly effective; he had managed to suggest not only shape, but bulk and texture, by pure drawing with the minimum of fuss. Somehow the technique suggested the faded elegance of a French flower-print combined with the sharp, delicate, and yet virile impact of a Dürer drawing. Some were mere sketches, but over others he had taken greater pains. There were rapid studies of the ruined buildings – part of a broken arch with the sharp exclamatory cypresses behind it; Apollo’s columns standing very clear and clean; a delightful drawing of three pomegranates on a twig with shiny drooping leaves. There were several of olive trees, lovely twisted shapes with heads of blown silver cloud. In the plant- and flower-studies he used colour, in faint washes of an almost Chinese subtlety.

  I looked up to see him watching me with that anxious-puppy
stare from which all trace of belligerence had gone. ‘But, Nigel, they’re wonderful! I told you I didn’t know much about it, but I haven’t seen anything I liked as much in years!’

  I got up from my chair and sat down on the bed, spreading the drawings round me, studying them. I picked one of them up; it was the drawing of a clump of cyclamen springing from a small cleft in a bare rock. The textural difference of petal, leaf and stone were beautifully indicated. Below the flowers, in the same cleft, grew the remains of some rock-plant that I remembered to have seen everywhere in Greece; it was dead and dry-dusty, crumbling away against the rock. Above it the cyclamen’s winged flowers looked pure and delicate and strong.

  Over my shoulder Simon said: ‘Nigel, that’s terrific. I haven’t seen it before.’

  ‘Of course you haven’t. I only did it today,’ said Nigel rudely, making a quick movement as if to snatch it back. Then he appeared to remember, as I had, that he’d told Simon he had done no work that day, for he flushed that raw red again, and sat back on his heels looking uncomfortable.

  As usual, Simon took no notice. He lifted the drawing and studied it. ‘Did you mean to use colour in it? What made you change your mind?’

  ‘Simply that there wasn’t any water handy.’ And Nigel took the paper from him and put it back in the portfolio on the floor.

  I said, rather quickly: ‘May I see the portraits?’

  ‘Of course. Here they are – my bread and butter drawings.’ There was a curious note in his voice, and I saw Simon glance at him sharply.

  There was a whole sheaf of portraits, done in an entirely different style. This was effective in its way, the beautiful economy of his drawing telling even in the thick, dramatic, and overemphatic line. His brilliance of execution had here become a slickness, the clever blending of a few stock statements into a formula. In a way, too, the originals of the portraits might have come from stock. What Nigel had been doing was, of course, to find ‘types’ and to set these down, but, while some of these were discernibly living people, others could have been abstractions of well-known ‘Hellenic types’ taken from statues or vase-paintings or even from the imagination. There was one fine-looking head that might have been Stephanos, but it had a formal and over-type air like an illustration to a set of Greek myths. A girl’s face, all eyes, and deep shadows thrown by a veil, could have been captioned: Greece: the Gate to the East. Another portrait – more familiar in type to me and so possibly more alive – was that of a young woman with the Juliette Gréco face, large lost eyes and a sulky mouth. Beneath it was the drawing of a man’s head that, again, seemed purely formal, but was oddly arresting. The head was round, set on a powerful neck, and covered with close curls that grew low on the brow, like a bull’s. The hair grew down thickly past the ears, almost to the jawline, as one sees it in the heroic vase-paintings, and these sidepieces were drawn in formally, like the hard curls on a sculptured cheek. The upper lip was short, the lips thick, and drawn tightly up at the corners in the fixed half-moon smile that shows always on the statues of the archaic gods of Greece.

  I said: ‘Simon, look at that. That’s the real “archaic smile”. When you see it on crumbly old statues of Hermes and Apollo you think it’s unreal and crude. But I’ve actually seen it on men’s faces here and there in Greece.’

  ‘Is that new too?’ asked Simon.

  ‘Which? Oh, that. Yes.’ Nigel gave him a quick upward glance, hesitated, then appeared to abandon his pretences, whatever they were. ‘I did it today.’ He took the drawing from me and studied it for a moment. ‘Perhaps you’re right; it’s too formal. I did it half from memory, and it’s gone a bit too much like a vase-painting. However.’

  ‘It’s the Phormis head to the life,’ said Simon.

  Nigel looked up quickly. ‘Yes, so it is! That’s it. I wondered what he reminded me of. I suppose I drew it in. Still, it makes a “type” for the collection, and as Camilla says, it does exist. She’s seen that queer fixed grin here and there, and so’ve I. Interesting, I thought.’

  ‘What’s the Phormis head?’ I asked.

  Simon said: ‘It’s a head found, as far as I remember, at Olympia, and is supposed to be that of Phormis, who was a playwright. That head is bearded, and this isn’t, but it’s got the same heavy wide cheeks and tight curls, and that typical smile.’

  I laughed. ‘Oh dear, and it’s still walking these mountains. It makes me feel raw and new and very, very Western. That face, now—’

  My hand was hovering over the Juliette Gréco girl.

  Simon laughed. ‘That’s real enough, and very Western indeed,’ he said. ‘That’s our one and only Danielle, isn’t it, Nigel? You’re surely not going to put her in among the “Hellenic types”?’

  ‘Danielle?’ I said. ‘Oh, she is French, then? Somehow I thought she looked it.’

  Nigel had taken the drawing from Simon, and was stuffing that, too, away. He said in a muffled voice: ‘She was here as secretary to a chap attached to the French School.’

  ‘French School?’

  ‘Of Archaeology,’ said Simon. ‘It’s the French School which has the “right” or whatever they call it to excavate here at Delphi. They’ve been working here again recently on the site – there was some talk of a hunt for a lost treasury fairly high up the hill. You’ll see a lot of exploratory pits dug on both sides of the road, too, but all they found there was Roman.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Modern stuff.’

  He grinned. ‘That’s it. Well, they’ve had to pack up, because I believe funds gave out. Some of their workmen are still here tidying up – there are trucks and tools and what-have-you to be removed. But the archaeologists have gone, more’s the pity.’

  I saw Nigel throw him a sidelong glance, and remembered suddenly something that Simon had said to me earlier. ‘He’s been here in Delphi too long, and got tied up with a girl who wasn’t very good for him.’

  I said: ‘Yes. I’d rather have liked to watch them at it. And think of the excitement if anything did turn up!’

  He laughed. ‘That sort of excitement, I believe, is the rarest kind! Most of the long years are spent shifting tons of earth a couple of yards, and then putting them back again. But I agree. It would be terrific. And what a country! Did you see that glorious thing of the negro and the horse that the workmen dug up when they were mending the drains in Omonia Square a few years ago? Imagine wondering what you might find every time you set out to dig your garden or put a plough to the hillside. After all, even the Charioteer—’ He stopped, and turned his cigarette over in his fingers as if he was admiring the twist of blue smoke that curled and frothed from it.

  Nigel looked up. ‘The Charioteer?’ His voice still sounded cagey and queer. He was still kneeling on the floor, shuffling the drawings in the folder into some sort of order. ‘The Charioteer?’ he repeated mechanically, as if his mind was on something else.

  Simon drew on the cigarette. ‘Uh-huh. He wasn’t dug up till 1896, long after the main shrines and treasuries had been excavated. Not long ago I read Murray’s History of Greek Sculpture, and wondered why the author was so sketchy about Delphi, till I realised that, when he wrote his book in 1890, the half was not told him. Who knows what else is still up there in the odd corners under the trees?’

  Nigel had sat back on his heels, his hands moving vaguely and clumsily among the drawings. If they were indeed his bread and butter he was, it occurred to me, remarkably careless of them.

  He looked up now, the drawings spilling again from his hands.

  ‘Simon.’ It was that strung-up voice again.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I think I—’ Then he stopped abruptly and turned his head. The studio’s outer door had opened and shut with a bang. Rapid footsteps approached along the corridor.

  To my surprise Nigel went as white as a sheet. He swung round towards me, swept the rest of the drawings off the bed into an unceremonious heap, then hastily gathered them all together to shove back into the folder on the floor.
/>   As unceremoniously, the door burst open.

  A girl stood there, surveying the untidy and crowded little room with an expression of weary distaste. It was the girl of the portrait, Gréco-look and all. She drawled, without removing the cigarette from the corner of her mouth: ‘Hullo, Simon, my love. Hullo Nigel. On your knees praying over my picture? Well, the prayer’s answered. I’ve come back.’

  9

  A girl—

  No virgin either, I should guess – a baggage

  Thrust on me like a cargo on a ship

  To wreck my peace of mind!

  SOPHOCLES: Women of Trachis.

  (tr. E. F. Watling.)

  DANIELLE was slightly built, of medium height, and had made the most (or the worst, according to the point of view) of her figure by encasing it in drainpipe jeans and a very tight sweater of thin wool, which left nothing to wonder at except how in the world did she get her breasts that shape and into that position. They were very high and very pointed and the first thing that one noticed about her. The second was her expression, which was very much the weary waif-look of Nigel’s picture. Her face was oval, and palely sallow. Her eyes were very big and very black, carefully shadowed with a blend of brown and green that made them look huge and tired. She had long curling lashes that caught the smoke wisping up blue from the cigarette that appeared fixed to her lower lip. She wore pale lipstick, which looked odd and striking with the sallow face and huge dark eyes. Her hair was black and straight and deliberately untidy, cut in that madly smart way that looks as if it had been hacked off in the dark with a pair of curved nail-scissors. Her expression was one of world-weary disdain. Her age might have been anything from seventeen to twenty-five. She looked as if she hoped you would put it at something over thirty.