The Merry Muse

by Eric Linklater

  The cloud that Leo was painting was uncompromisingly outlined against the farther sky. It was a cloud formalized beyond the wont of nature; as, indeed, was the young piper. He had become a stiff and shallow piper, as though made of plywood.

  Again moving unobtrusively, Max went to look at the other pictures in the long, high room. There were half a dozen of them, all large, all in heavy gilt frames, and all painted in the same style, though all, in composition and colour, were oddly reminiscent of other styles. There was an archer in a green doublet who looked as if he had been painted by the douanier Rousseau in imitation of an earlier painting by Raeburn; and over the great stone fireplace was a battle-piece — by Lady Butler? — with which Rousseau again had interfered. That statuesque and splendid woman in oyster-coloured satin, a pale blue sash beneath her breasts, was surely a David in origin, but re-created by the energetic douanier? And the landscape — he could not identify its first progenitor: it might be a Corot — had been transmogrified by the same hand.

  He went back to look again at the canvas which Leo Masham was now finishing; and saw the hand at work. The Highland piper by Landseer had become a piper by Rousseau — or was that too extravagant a judgment? It was not quite so naively done, nor was the detail painted in an innocence so pure as Rousseau’s, or with so passionate an exactitude. But the picture, though it kept the original colours and composition, was more like a Rousseau than a Landseer.

  Returning to his chair, Max stared fixedly at the original Highlander and thought: That will be mine, and as for the others — well, I’ve seen stranger things, and worse pictures, in all the London galleries. Far stranger and infinitely worse. But I wonder if they’re strictly compos mentis, these little men with the bald heads?

  He looked, with some anxiety, at Guy Masham, who again, with cupped hands like field-glasses at his eyes, was staring now at the older canvas, now at the new one — and suddenly Guy shouted, ‘That’ll do, Leo! Not another stroke. That’s perfect. Oh, well done. Well done indeed! Now come down and put the ladder away and go and wash, and then we’ll have a crust of bread and a sup of wine. Hurry up now, we’ve got a visitor here, and we mustn’t neglect him.’

  Leo came down the ladder, laughing happily, and Guy shook Max warmly by the hand. ‘Delighted to see you, sir. Do tell me who you are.’

  For a moment, recognition of the name evaded him; but then, with a broad smile, he exclaimed, ‘Of course! Our distinguished cousin by marriage the Lord Ochiltree told us of you, and warned us that you might come to look at our pretty Landseer there. Isn’t he a beauty? You can’t resist him, can you?’

  ‘I’d very much like to have it,’ said Max, ‘if the price is reasonable.’

  ‘We never quarrel about prices. Never! We live by selling pictures — all the pictures we inherited, one by one or two by two, according to our needs — and we’ve never had a serious dispute about the price, or bewailed the loss of old, familiar friends, because we always take a copy of everything we sell, and often, I think, our copies are more interesting than the original. But we’ll talk about that later, after we’ve had something to eat — though I must warn you that we eat practically nothing in the middle of the day. A moderate breakfast and a hearty dinner — that’s our habit — but in the middle of the day only a crust of bread and a sup of wine.’

  At that moment the door opened and the plump housekeeper came in panting under the weight of an enormous wooden platter on which were loaves of bread, a mound of butter, and innumerable plates, jars, pots and dishes. Behind her came Leo carrying a tray on which stood half a dozen bottles of varied sort, with some small crystal glasses and other tall glasses glinting faintly green. The platter and the tray were set on a long dark table, and the housekeeper, after looking carefully at everything she and Leo had brought, said, ‘I think you’ll find all you need,’ and left them.

  Max examined the table with respectful interest, and to his gratification saw that, as well as bread-and-butter, there was caviare, smoked salmon, smoked eel, several varieties of smoked herring, radishes, Gorgonzola cheese, and a small Double Gloucester. There was a Danish schnapps and a Swedish schnapps, and three bottles of Vouvray. ‘I agree with you,’ he said. ‘A crust and a sup of wine: it’s all you want between meals.’

  ‘How kind of you to approve our simple table!’ said Guy. ‘But now, first of all, let me introduce my clever, my very clever young step-brother Leo, who does all the work — I just sit and tell him what to do, and, as you see, he does it to perfection. — And now, for a start, I suggest a glass of schnapps. Swedish or Danish?’

  ‘Danish,’ said Max.

  ‘I myself prefer Swedish, it’s less highly flavoured, but everyone to his taste. And now, sir, will you help yourself?’

  That morning, over the telephone, Lord Ochiltree had said to him, ‘They’ll take two hundred and fifty for it, and I wouldn’t give them a penny more.’ But when, after a delectable meal — ‘No, no!’ said Guy. ‘A snack, you can’t pretend it was anything else’ — the matter of a fair price had been raised, the brothers both assured him that the figure they had named was £350; and Max, with a bottle of Vouvray inside him, thought it fair enough.

  He had had, indeed, some very interesting conversation that added its value to the picture. The close physical resemblance of the brothers was due, he had learnt, to the fact that their mothers were twin-sisters; neither of whom had long survived her marriage to their father. They had both studied art, for many years, and failed to win approval either from the critics or the public. But when they fell joint heirs to the great, gaunt house near Longformacus — and to nothing else — they had decided to live by selling, gradually and cleverly, the many pictures, of all sorts and ages, with which it was hung; and to prevent the humiliation of empty walls they painted copies, in the peculiar style they had evolved, of all they sold.

  ‘We discovered,’ said Guy, ‘that Leo was the better practitioner, but I had the faculty of direction. So I tell him what to do, and how — and he sits up on a ladder and does it! What could be more convenient?’

  Leo laughed appreciatively, and Guy said that they owed their consistently good health to the bread which their housekeeper baked. ‘No chalk or bone-meal in our bread!’ he declared. ‘Nothing but stone-ground wheat, and wheat that’s grown on naturally manured soil. No artificial manures for us! No fear. And that’s why we’ve got all our teeth, perfect eyesight, and unfailing digestion.’

  After a last glass of Vouvray Max wrote his cheque with the assurance of having bought, at bargain price, one of the great pictures of the world, and said, ‘I want to take it with me. How can I manage that?’

  ‘But that’s all arranged,’ said Guy. ‘Do give us credit for knowing our business! Come out, and we’ll show you.’

  The canvas had been put into a skeleton packing-case — ‘We never sell frames,’ said Guy. ‘We need the frames for our own pictures’ — and the packing-case had been tied securely into the boot of Max’s Daimler. It projected a couple of feet over the stern of the car — ‘But that doesn’t matter, does it?’ said Guy — and two sandbags had been interposed between the lower lip of the boot and the lid. ‘We always have plenty of sandbags,’ said Guy, ‘to keep out draughts in winter. Not that we stay here all through the winter: we often go to Torquay or Malaga for a month or two. But sandbags, at any time of year, are invaluable for packing pictures.’

  They said good-bye with mutual respect and, on Max’s part, with some display of emotion. Thomson drove slowly off — the plump housekeeper had given him a meal at least as substantial as that which Max had eaten — and presently Max said to him, ‘I want to go to Hill Street. This picture that I’ve bought — it’s a very fine picture, Thomson — is just what I need for my office. It will suit my office much better than my house. But don’t drive fast, because I don’t want to get to Hill Street before half-past four, or a quarter to five.’

  ‘You needn’t worry about that,’ said Thomson. ‘You can’t make
much speed on a road like this, and we’ll do well if we’re back by then.’

  I’m safe enough, thought Max. Perfectly safe! Even if Hoyle doesn’t manage to turn her out at once, she won’t sit there for three quarters of an hour. She’ll have gone long before we get back, thank God. ‘Ah, poor bitch,’ he said, ‘what fools they are.’

  He looked out at the rolling contours of the hills, that were beginning to throw long shadows under the afternoon sun, and, leaning back, unbuttoned his waistcoat to sing more comfortably:

  ‘Now the day is over,

  Night is drawing nigh,

  Shadows of the evening

  Steal across the sky … ’

  Jane had decided to confess. To tell Max of her theft and loss of the book — and of Paula’s subsequent theft.

  There were three strands in her motive. She was an honest girl, frank in nature, and the keeping of a guilty secret had fretted her temper. That was the first strand. The second was her fear, roused that morning at the breakfast-table, that she might have been found out: for her father had said he was going to give the book back to Aunt Jessie at five o’clock this afternoon, and if he had recovered it, it was possible that he had learnt who lost it. And the third strand was her determination to expose Paula. If Max had the book, it was Paula who had given it to him. But had Paula told him of the trick she played on Fred the barman at the Gargoyle Restaurant? There was not much likelihood of that, and Jane had made up her mind, with bitter conclusion, that if she had to suffer, Paula would suffer too. There would be no bouquets for Paula.

  It was about twenty minutes past four when she reached Hill Street, and Hoyle received her with some embarrassment. Mr Arbuthnot was not in, he told her, and would not be returning to the office before to-morrow morning.

  ‘He has an appointment here at five o’clock,’ said Jane, ‘for I heard him make it.’

  ‘Well, well,’ said Hoyle, ‘that’s quite contrary to my instructions. He told me to inform a certain client, whom he expected to call, that he had been summoned elsewhere on urgent business, and couldn’t see her. Not to-day.’

  ‘That’s odd,’ said Jane.

  Hoyle agreed with her. ‘Very odd,’ he replied, and opening the door waited hopefully for her to go.

  He had had an unpleasant afternoon. He had looked forward with admitted dread to his interview with Mrs Moberley, and then, from four o’clock till a quarter-past, a false hope had pestered him. Mrs Moberley was late, and as the long thin hand of the clock on the wall slowly pursued the sluggish minutes round the circumference of its large plain face, he had prayed with increasing urgency that she would not come. But she arrived precisely at 4.15, and Atkinson the young accountant had taken her upstairs to Mr Arbuthnot’s room.

  Hoyle had told him to keep her in conversation for five minutes, and Atkinson had found his task unexpectedly easy. He was a tall, burly, good-looking young man, who played Rugby football for the Edinburgh Academicals, and Paula had shown such a gratifying interest in him — in his hobbies and ambitions — that, on the upper floor, the next five minutes had gone gaily by. But in the room below they had trodden their little span on iron, remorseless feet — and when the reluctant Hoyle was about to go up to do his duty, Jane came in.

  It never occurred to Hoyle that Mrs Moberley might find entertainment in the company of young Atkinson. He was afraid she would grow impatient — it was twenty minutes past the time of her appointment with Mr Arbuthnot — and at any moment he might hear her coming downstairs again, indignant and voicing her indignation at having spent her time to no purpose; and then she would go, with a haughty lift of her shoulders, and take with her the book he had been commanded to get and hold.

  He rattled the door-handle, and politely smiled good-bye to Jane. But Jane ignored the invitation to leave.

  ‘Do you know who it was that father expected to see?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, naturally,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think Mr Arbuthnot would like me to discuss his affairs even with you, Mrs Telfer.’

  ‘I wasn’t asking you to discuss them,’ she said, ‘and you needn’t tell me anything at all if you don’t want to. But father’s coming here at five o’clock to meet my Aunt Jessie, so I’ll go up and wait for him.’

  She turned abruptly, and before Hoyle could gather his wits and say anything to prevent her, she was half-way up the stairs. He called feebly, ‘Oh, please, Mrs Telfer!’ — but she ignored him, and opening the door of her father’s room saw Paula sitting easily on her father’s table and listening, with a kind encouraging smile, to the animated chatter of young Atkinson.

  ‘What a pleasant surprise!’ said Paula.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Jane.

  ‘You don’t really expect me to tell you that?’

  ‘I think I can make you tell me.’

  ‘Darling!’ said Paula. ‘How dramatic you sound.’

  She took a cigarette from a small gold case, and said to young Atkinson, ‘A light, please.’

  He was embarrassed, and his lighter would not work.

  ‘I want to talk to Mrs Moberley,’ said Jane. ‘Do you mind leaving us for a little while?’

  Atkinson went hurriedly to the door, but stopped uncertainly when Paula loudly exclaimed, ‘No, don’t go! We haven’t finished our talk.’

  Following the example of Hoyle on the floor below, Jane went to the door, and invitingly held it open. Atkinson recognized the superior authority of Mr Arbuthnot’s daughter, and with a small, clumsy, but civil bow to Paula, went out; and Jane loudly closed the door behind him.

  ‘Now,’ she said …

  ‘You bloody, impertinent little jackanapes!’ said Paula, and throwing her unlighted cigarette into the fireplace, stood up and took a threatening step forward from the table on which she had been sitting.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you since Tuesday morning,’ said Jane, ‘and you know why.’

  ‘As a bloodhound you haven’t been very clever, have you?’

  ‘I’ve found you now, and I’ve found what you stole from me.’

  The manila envelope that enclosed the elusive book lay on Max’s table, and Paula moved a little to the right to stand in front of it.

  ‘What I’d like to know,’ she said, ‘is how you got hold of it. Your father was so very kind as to tell me something about it … ’

  ‘How did you persuade him to do that?’

  ‘How did you persuade Hector Macrae to give it to you? But perhaps he didn’t give it you. Perhaps you stole it from him?’

  ‘I didn’t come here to talk about Hector Macrae … ’

  ‘Would that be indiscreet? Even to an old friend like me?’

  ‘You’ve come here to ingratiate yourself with my father…’

  ‘I’ve no intention of talking about your father. Certainly not to you.’

  ‘Wait till he comes,’ said Jane, ‘and I’ll have something to tell him that won’t do you any good.’

  ‘Have you ever heard the phrase “leading with your chin”?’ asked Paula. ‘Well, that’s what you’re doing now. Your father doesn’t know what happened to the book after he gave it to Macrae. I know that you brought it to the Gargoyle, last Monday, and that means one of two things. Either you stole it, for a reason of your own, or Macrae lent it or gave it to you. And if he did that, it won’t take your father long to guess why.’

  ‘I think,’ said Jane, ‘you had better give me the book and get out of here as quickly as you can.’

  ‘Indeed I shan’t!’

  ‘Give me that book!’

  ‘No!’

  They faced each other, in front of Max’s table — adorned with its ponderous silver inkstand — and Jane, with a darting but tentative movement, threw out her left hand to strike Paula on the cheek. She missed, but her nails left three light scratches.

  ‘Oh, oh!’ cried Paula, and leaping forward flung her right hand round, as though to chase off a wasp at a picnic, though her intention was to clout Jane on the head.


  Jane, nimble in movement, retreated, and avoided the blow. Paula followed her, and for a moment — eyes flashing and breathing hard — they stood opposed in attitudes that quaintly and clumsily reproduced the action of an old sporting print that hung by the fireplace. It was an eighteenth-century print that showed the pugilist Broughton in the ring with Jack Slack. Broughton moved first — Jane, that is — and swinging a low, left-handed punch, struck Slack in the belly. Justifiably indignant, Jack Slack replied with a loud, open-handed smack on the cheek.

  They drew back and stared at each other: surprised and angry, hurt and frightened. Neither of them, since leaving school, had suffered physical hurt of any sort, and at school the occasional blows they received, from hockey-stick and lacrosse-net, had had no more significance than the conventions of the bridge-table. But now they were hitting each other deliberately, with intent to hurt, and their blows did hurt.

  ‘You beast!’ said Jane.

  ‘You bitch!’ said Paula, and rushing at her opponent beat her with both fists — striking with a downward movement, as if they were hammers — until Jane, who at first had retreated, counter-attacked like a windmill, and then from the heart of the windmill shot out a straight left that hit Paula full on the nose.

  Both retreated, and looked at each other in a tearful bewilderment. Paula’s nose was bleeding, and so was Jane’s lower lip.

  ‘Oh!’ said Paula. ‘Oh!’

  ‘Oh, oh!’ said Jane — and both stood where they were, sobbing deeply.

  On the floor below, Hoyle and young Atkinson had, for several minutes, been looking with some anxiety at the ceiling. It was bouncing and yielding, and a few flakes of plaster had fallen.

  ‘Now what can they be at?’ said Hoyle.

  ‘I like Mrs Moberley,’ said Atkinson. ‘She’s a smasher!’

  ‘She has no right to smash up the office.’

  ‘And when Mrs Telfer told me to get out, she looked beautiful, but a real warrior! I think they’re fighting.’

  ‘What nonsense you talk! They are ladies, Atkinson. Ladies! Try to realize that… ‘