Point Counter Point - Aldous Huxley [104]
‘I see,’ said Miss Fulkes.
‘And look how hard Albert is pulling!’ It was true; Albert was pulling like mad. And old Mr. Stokes, recognizable by the four parallel pencil strokes issuing from his chin, pushed as energetically at the other end of the machine.
For a child of his age, little Phil had an observant eye, and a strange talent for rendering on paper what he had seen—not realistically, of course, but in terms of expressive symbols. Albert and Mr. Stokes were, for all their scratchy uncertainty of outline, violently alive.
‘Albert’s left leg is rather funny, isn’t it?’ said Miss Fulkes. ‘Rather long and thin and…’ She checked herself, remembering what old Mr. Bidlake had said. ‘On no account is the child to be taught how to draw, in the art-school sense of the word. On no account. I don’t want him to be ruined.’
Phil snatched the paper from her. ‘No, it isn’t,’ he said angrily. His pride was hurt, he hated criticism, refused ever to be in the wrong.
‘Perhaps it isn’t really,’ Miss Fulkes made haste to be soothing. ‘Perhaps I made a mistake.’ Phil smiled again. ‘Though why a child,’ Miss Fulkes was thinking,’shouldn’t be told when he’s drawn a leg that’s impossibly long and thin and waggly, I really don’t understand.’ Still, old Mr. Bidlake ought to know. A man in his position, with his reputation, a great painter—she had often heard him called a great painter, read it in newspaper articles, even in books. Miss Fulkes had a profound respect for the Great. Shakespeare, Milton, Michelangelo…Yes, Mr. Bidlake, the Great John Bidlake, ought to know best. She had been wrong in mentioning that left leg.
‘It’s after halfpast twelve,’ she went on in a brisk efficient voice. ‘Time for you to lie down.’ Little Phil always lay down for half an hour before lunch.
‘No!’ Phil tossed his head, scowled ferociously and made a furious gesture with his clenched fists.
‘Yes,’ said Miss Fulkes calmly. ‘And don’t make those silly faces.’ She knew, by experience, that the child was not really angry; he was just making a demonstration, in order to assert himself and in the vague hope, perhaps, that he might frighten his adversary into yielding—as Chinese soldiers are said to put on devils’ masks and to utter fearful yells when they approach the enemy, in the hope of inspiring terror.
‘Why should I?’ Phil’s tone was already much calmer.
‘Because you must.’
The child got up obediently. When the mask and the yelling fail to take effect, the Chinese soldier, being a man of sense and not at all anxious to get hurt, surrenders.
‘I’ll come and draw the curtains for you,’ said Miss Fulkes.
Together, they walked down the passage to Phil’s bedroom. The child took off his shoes and lay down. Miss Fulkes drew the folds of orange cretonne across the windows.
‘Not too dark,’ said Phil, watching her movements through the richly coloured twilight.
‘You rest better when it’s dark.’
‘But I’m frightened,’ protested Phil.
‘You’re not frightened in the least. Besides, it isn’t really dark at all.’ Miss Fulkes moved towards the door.
‘Miss Fulkes!’ She paid no attention. ‘Miss Fulkes!’
On the threshold Miss Fulkes turned round. ‘If you go on shouting,’ she said severely, ‘I shall be very angry. Do you understand?’ She turned and went out, shutting the door behind her.
‘Miss Fulkes!’ he continued to call, but in a whisper, under his breath. ‘Miss Fulkes! Miss Fulkes!’ She mustn’t hear him, of course; for then she would really be cross. At the same time he wasn’t going to obey tamely and without a protest. Whispering her name he rebelled, he asserted his personality, but in complete safety.
Sitting in her own room, Miss Fulkes was reading—to improve her mind. The book was The Wealth of Nations. Adam Smith, she knew, was Great. His book was one of those that one ought to have read. The best that has been thought or said. Her family was poor, but cultured. We needs must love the highest when we see it. But when the highest takes the form of a chapter beginning, ‘As it is the power of exchanging