The Merry Muse

by Eric Linklater

  They had not far to drive, for Paula was living at an hotel in Great King Street. — Jane, when looking for her, had been eager in search, but haphazard. — She woke as the taxi stopped and said, ‘I’m afraid you can’t come in. We must be careful not to give rise to gossip. But oh, darling, we haven’t long to wait, have we?’

  ‘Look here,’ said Max, as they stood together on the pavement, ‘are you awake, or still dreaming?’

  ‘Both,’ she said. ‘Wide awake, but dreaming of blue seas. The blue seas and the white beaches that are waiting for us…’

  ‘I’m waiting for one thing, and one thing only,’ said Max, ‘and that’s to hear what you know about the book.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, that!’

  She shivered slightly, and with a note of petulance in her voice said, ‘If only you could come in, I might give it to you.’

  ‘Give it me? You mean you have it here? Then certainly I’m coming in … ’

  ‘Don’t talk to me like that! I’m not your bloody chattel, and though I love you — God, how I love you! — I won’t answer you, and I won’t listen to you, when you talk to me in that tone of voice.’

  ‘Tell me where the book is!’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because it’s mine.’

  ‘Then you ought to have looked after it better. Especially if it’s worth ten thousand pounds. Is it really worth as much as that?’

  ‘It may be. I don’t know.’

  ‘Then what are you worrying about?’

  ‘I’ve been told, on good authority, that possibly it’s worth a great deal. Perhaps as much as ten thousand pounds. And if you know anything about it, it’s your duty to tell me where it is.’

  Paula moved slightly away from him, hesitated, and then went quickly up four steps to the hotel. She turned and said, ‘Darling, you gave me too much to drink. I’m not quite myself. I can’t remember things. Not clearly. But I’ll be all right in the morning, and I’ll telephone.’

  She came skipping down again, embraced and kissed him full on the lips — ‘Bless you, darling,’ she exclaimed — and now, taking the steps two at a time, ran into the hotel and disappeared.

  ‘Come back!’ cried Max. ‘Oh, damnation, what can you do with a woman like that?’

  The taxi-driver, whom he now addressed, was a solidly built man of benevolent appearance. He had listened to the dialogue with interest, and he conveyed his sympathy with a pious acknowledgment of defeat. ‘God knows,’ he said sadly.

  ‘I’m going in to have it out with her!’

  ‘No, no,’ said the driver. ‘Don’t do that, it might create an unfortunate impression.’

  ‘Well, what can I do?’

  ‘I’d go home, if I were you. I never expect to hear a woman talk sense after tea, which we take at six o’clock in my house, and even before that you’re lucky if you can pin them down to a bare fact.’

  ‘You may be right,’ said Max. ‘You may well be right. So take me home. I live … ’

  ‘I know fine where you live, Mr Arbuthnot. I’ve driven you there before now, when you weren’t in a state to know if I was taking you to Saughton Gaol or Holyroodhouse.’

  A little surprised, but in no degree disconcerted, Max got into the cab, and its lurching movement, as it turned a corner, sent his memory back to the sad rites at sea. Softly he repeated that most melancholy admission: ‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live’ — then quickly grew more cheerful, and thought: But when I die, and God knows death may come at any minute, this driver will remember me! He’ll talk about me, for a year or two at any rate, and give me a sort of immortality, and all because, because — well now, because of what? Because I got drunk, and paid him well. Put that on my tombstone! I paid him well. I’ve paid for all my pleasures, and that’s the mark of an honest man. Honesty’s a fine policy, and the next time I see Paula I’ll tell her to remember that. For I’m not going to be swindled and diddled by her. No, be damned if I will! But what the devil does she know about that book?

  He leaned forward and pushed open the sliding glass panel that separated him from the driver. ‘Are you a married man?’ he asked.

  ‘Twenty-three years of it,’ said the driver.

  ‘What do you think of it?’

  ‘Martyrdom,’ said the driver. ‘We’re just martyrs. Christian martyrs, Mr Arbuthnot.’

  ‘Christian martyrs!’ exclaimed Max, and sitting back began to sing:

  ‘Hark! the sound of holy voices,

  Chanting at the crystal sea.

  Alleluia, Alleluia,

  Alleluia, Lord, to Thee:

  Multitude, which none can number,

  Like the stars in glory stands,

  Clothed in white apparel, holding

  Palms of victory in their hands.’

  At the door of his house he took out his pocketbook and gave the driver a pound. ‘Your fare,’ he said, and gave him another pound. ‘And that’s for the pleasure of your company.’

  ‘It’s too much, Mr Arbuthnot.’

  ‘You think so, do you? All right, then. If you think one thing and I think another, we’ll put it to the arbitrament of chance. I’ll toss you for it, double or quits.’

  ‘I don’t know about that … ’

  ‘You’re not afraid of losing, are you? What’s your name?’

  ‘Macdonald, Mr Arbuthnot.’

  ‘Clan Donald, and afraid? Never let me hear Clan Donald say that. Stand back, and give me a penny. — Come on, now. What is it? Heads or tails?’

  ‘Ah, well,’ said the driver, ‘I’ll say it’s a head.’

  Max bent to look at the coin on the gravel, and solemnly declaring, ‘It is a head,’ gave the driver four pounds.

  ‘You’re a great man, Mr Arbuthnot,’ said Macdonald, ‘and I wish there were more like you, drunk or sober.’

  Max found his keys, and let himself in. ‘A great man,’ he told himself as he climbed the stair. ‘A great man, says a taxi-driver. And who in our great democracy is a better judge? I accept the award!’

  In his dressing-room, as he was taking off his shoes, he fell heavily, and through the other door came his wife’s far-reaching voice: ‘Is that you, Max?’

  ‘Who else would you expect to be here?’

  ‘I just wanted to be sure you’d come home. Good-night, Max.’

  ‘Good-night!’ he shouted, and presently went to bed in his own room. There, after an hour or two, he woke in the throes of a bad dream. He was at sea again, or so he thought, and in danger of shipwreck on the Bass Rock. Naked as a mermaid, Paula lay on the beach and beckoned. But that danger was avoided, and a moment later they had run ashore on the Isle of May, where his sister Jessie waited for him, primly and grimly knitting something that he thought might be a shroud. He was sweating when he woke, but he drank a glass of water and went to sleep again. He was wakened at eight o’clock, and in the discipline of habit he went down to breakfast at a quarter to nine.

  He found Jessie already seated at the table, upright, and eating with brittle neatness thin toast that she had buttered with transparent economy, and occasionally, after carefully wiping her thin lips, sipping like a bird at a cup of very weak tea. He helped himself lavishly to bacon and eggs, and sat down with the Scotsman before him.

  So fragile a screen could not protect him from Jessie, and almost immediately she declared, ‘Well, this is another day, Max, and you told me that another day was all you needed to establish the value of that book which poor Charlie acquired. Out of charity: that was his impulse to buy it. To help a poor soul who had fallen on evil days. And now, as it’s worth a lot of money, according to you, I want to know, and I must know, just what you’ve been doing about it.’

  ‘I’ve told you, more than once,’ said Max, ‘that its value depends entirely on satisfactory proof of its authenticity. And what I’ve been doing, or trying to do, is to establish its authenticity.’

  ‘I’m not quite a fool,’
said Jessie, ‘though you, no doubt, think I am, and I have a very good memory. Of course you have told me about the need to prove its authenticity. You have told me at least five times, and without any need to, for I could have told you as much myself. But I want to know where the book is … ’

  ‘It’s in good hands.’

  ‘I am not fully persuaded of that.’

  ‘I consulted a very gifted young man, whom I know well, and who is, in fact, very widely known. He’s a poet himself — a poet and a scholar — and, as such, he’s in contact with other scholars, whose advice he is taking.’

  ‘Yes, Max, I know. You have told me all this before. The young man is called Hector Macrae, and I don’t need you to tell me that he’s widely known. But who are the other scholars that he has shown the book to, and what are they doing about it? Are they trustworthy?’

  ‘Hector would make sure of that. You can rely on him.’

  ‘In personal matters I like to use my own judgment. You tell me that Mr Macrae is reliable, but all I have to go on is your word, and though I don’t want to revive old, unpleasant memories, I must remind you that on at least one occasion, when another valuable property was in dispute, your behaviour was by no means all that could be desired.’

  ‘Now, Jessie, what’s the use of digging up an old quarrel, that was absurd to begin with … ’

  ‘It may help us to avoid another quarrel.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By teaching you how not to do things. You’ve been keeping me in the dark, and I’ve had quite enough of it. I want to see Mr Macrae for myself, and put certain questions to him.’

  ‘Do you realize what the consequences would be? To begin with, you were all for discretion. No one, you said, must ever know that this book belonged to Charlie. It wouldn’t do his reputation any good — would it? But now the book’s yours, and if you go and see Hector Macrae, and ask him all sorts of questions, you’ll have to admit it’s because you’re the owner of the property — and that won’t do your reputation any good.’

  ‘Lately,’ said Jessie, ‘I have had more time to think about things, and I have decided that when a large sum of money is at stake — a very large sum — it would be the merest vanity to consider my own feelings. There may be some unpleasant gossip, but that can’t hurt me at my age, and even if it did I would be prepared to put up with it — for a matter of principle! So I want you to arrange, as soon as possible, a meeting between me and Mr Macrae.’

  Max, from his end of the table, glared at Jessie with the look, and with something of the carriage, of a tormented bull. His shoulders were hunched forward over his plate and his head was lowered as though he smarted from well-placed banderillas and the lancing of the picador. He looked as if he were about to push the table from him, and charge — but Jessie faced him, undaunted and straight of back, and under their red-veined lids her weak eyes were as pugnacious as his.

  For a moment or two neither spoke — and then a maid came in to say a lady wanted to speak to Mr Arbuthnot on the telephone.

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘I asked her, but she wouldn’t say.’

  ‘Then go and ask her again. — No, wait a minute. — All right, I‘ll come and deal with her.’

  ‘And don’t forget that we haven’t finished our conversation,’ said Jessie.

  Max picked the receiver off its table, hesitated, and put it down again. It was Paula, of course, and what was he going to say to her? He didn’t, in fact, want to say anything. Not at that hour of the day. But he had to find out, if he could, what she knew about the book. She had said she could give it to him, and that he didn’t believe. That seemed impossible. But he couldn’t neglect a chance, however small. Not with Jessie waiting for him: waiting like an ill-natured terrier for the postman, to snap at his heels. He braced himself for conversation.

  ‘Well,’ he demanded, ‘what do you want?’

  ‘Max, darling, what a rough way to speak!’ said Paula’s voice. ‘I hope you’re not angry with me about anything, because I’m full of love for you. I only woke three minutes ago, I’m still in bed, but I felt I had to speak to you at once. I just couldn’t wait. When are you coming to see me?’

  ‘I’ve got a very busy day.’

  ‘But not so busy that we can’t meet some time or other. We’ve got so much to talk about, haven’t we? Would you like to give me lunch?’

  ‘No, that’s quite impossible.’

  ‘You do sound forbidding! Didn’t you sleep well?’

  ‘I slept very well indeed. I always do.’

  ‘Then you ought to be in a better mood. I think I’ll just drop in and see you at your office this morning.’

  ‘No, no, you mustn’t come there! Not in the morning. But wait — wait till I think of something.’

  A different approach, he thought: that’s what I need. Conciliation, damn it. They all have to be conciliated if you want to get anything out of them.

  Noisily he cleared his throat, and then, speaking in a gentler voice — in what he hoped was a propitiating voice — he asked, ‘Did I sound a little brusque just now? Well, the fact is I was rather annoyed. — No, not with you. I’m never annoyed with you. With one of my own damned tiresome relations. A woman who talks too much. But that’s all over now — and I think you should come to the office. But not in the morning. Would four o’clock suit you?’

  ‘Not till then?’

  ‘I’ve a full day, I’m afraid. But I’ll be delighted to see you at four o’clock.’

  ‘It’s better than nothing.’

  He cleared his throat again, and said, ‘Don’t forget to bring the book.’

  He waited anxiously for her reply to that; and her reply was slow in coming.

  ‘Hullo!’ he said. ‘Have you fallen asleep again?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she answered. ‘I’m wide awake now.’

  ‘Well, last night you were speaking about a certain book — a book that you had found — and because I had been looking after it, before it was lost, you were anxious to give it back to me.’

  ‘Did I tell you that? You must have given me far too much to drink.’

  ‘You haven’t got it?’

  ‘I know something about it, but if it’s valuable … ’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘As valuable as you told me?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Then I deserve a reward. How much will you give me for it?’

  ‘Oh, come now, you can’t talk like that to a lawyer.’

  ‘You may not be a lawyer much longer.’

  ‘I’m not retiring yet! I haven’t begun to think of retiring … ’

  ‘Oh, yes, you have! You were thinking of it only yesterday. We both were. Of retiring to Jamaica. And if I come to see you, and bring the book, I hope you’ll tell me when we’re going.’

  He took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. It was a little damp. He felt, in his cheeks, a curious sensation as if, like an outgoing tide, the blood in them had begun to ebb away. His hand on the receiver was faintly tremulous. But then, with surprise at first, and gradual relief, he heard her laughing. She seldom laughed, but when she did her voice was loud and melodious. It was heart-warming, and sounded like the expression of a natural kindliness that, for private reasons, she usually repressed.

  ‘Darling!’ she exclaimed, ‘how distrustful you are! You didn’t really think I was as base as that, did you? That I would try to bargain with you? I love you far too much to make conditions, and everything I have is yours whenever you want it. The book is here beside me, and I’ll bring it this afternoon. It’s a horrid little book, and I really can’t believe it’s worth very much. But if you want it, you shall have it.’

  ‘My dear,’ said Max — and even in his own ears his voice sounded hoarse and emotional, as if he were tearing a handkerchief to bandage a cut finger — ‘my dear, you’re being very kind. Very kind indeed. You’ve no idea how relieved I am. It was a great worry, losing that book. And you can rely on my g
ratitude.’

  ‘I do,’ she said. ‘Completely! I’m going to show that I trust you — with no bargaining and no conditions — because I love you, and love doesn’t put a price on what it gives. I know I can rely on your promise, and oh, I’m so happy! — But I mustn’t keep you any longer. You’re an important man, and very busy — and you deserve a wonderful holiday. I’ll see you at four o’clock. Good-bye till then, darling.’

  He put back the receiver, and again felt the sweat breaking coldly on his forehead. A fear akin to panic came creeping in, as if his finger-tips had felt the surface of something so cold that its chilling essence invaded every thread of his veins and through them touched his heart with ice. — He could not go back to the breakfast-table. Not yet.

  He went, instead, into the garden, and sought comfort in his fine view of Edinburgh. But now Edinburgh seemed far away, and he, on a height above it, was alone. For a moment he felt the particular and fearful loneliness of a fugitive — of a man hunted by other men — though his pursuer was only a girl. ‘Only a girl,’ he said aloud, and shivered as he saw her girlhood like a lithe, enticing, and determined trap.

  He could not recall everything he had said to her. Hoarse of voice and momentarily insane, he had muttered his suggestion to ‘cut and run’ — that was a memory clothed in shame and stiff with remorse — but what promise had he made? A proposal to ‘cut and run’ might be called an invitation, but certainly not a promise. He had spoken clearly of the difference between a phrase used to express gallantry, and words that embodied a serious purpose; but either she had forgotten that skilful explanation or was deliberately ignoring it. ‘I know I can rely on your promise:’ that was her phrase, and now, questing like a beagle, his mind went tortuously hunting for the scent of lost words until, far back in time, he remembered the promises he had made, and broken, to the girl he had loved so fondly in the broom cupboard. Must that be repeated, now, when he was sixty?