The Magus - John Fowles [263]
She began to swing on the seat. "Do you know, it's frightful, but I can't remember. I mean, yes, we teased him, I'm jolly sure we were perfect little pests. But then the war started and he disappeared." "Where?" "Oh. I couldn't tell you. No idea. But I remember we had a dreadful old hattie-axe in his place. And we _hated_ her. I'm sure we missed him. I suppose we were frightful little snobs. One was in those days." "How long did he teach you?" "Two years?" She was almost asking me. "Can you remember any sign at all of strong personal liking--for you--on his side?" She thought for a long moment, then shook her head. "You don't mean... something nasty?" "No, no. But were you, say, ever alone with him?" She put on an expression of mock shock. "_Never_. There was always our governess, or my sister. My mother." "You couldn't describe his character at all?" "I'm sure if I could meet him now I'd think, a sweet little man. You know." "You or your sister never played the flute or the recorder?" "Goodness no." She grinned at the absurdity. "A very personal question. Would you say you were a strikingly pretty little girl... I'm sure you were--but were you conscious that there was something rather special about you?" She looked down at her cigarette. "In the interests, oh dear, how shall I say it, in the interests of your research, and speaking as a poor old raddled mother, the answer is... yes, I believe there was. Actually, I was painted. It became quite famous. All the rage of the 1913 Academy. It's in the house--I'll show you in a minute." I consulted my notebook. "And you just can't remember what happened to him when the war came?" She pressed her fine hands against her eyes. "Heavens, doesn't this make you realise--I think he was interned... but honestly for the life of me I..." "Would your sister in Chile remember better? Might I write to her?" "Of course. Would you like her address?" She gave it to me and I wrote it down. Benjie came and stood about twenty yards away, by an astrolabe on a stone column, looking plainer than words that his patience was exhausted. She beckoned to him; caressed back his forelock. "Your poor old mum's just had a shock, darling. She's discovered she's a muse." She turned to me. "Is that the word?" "What's a muse?" "A lady who makes a gentleman write poems." "Does _he_ write poems?" She laughed and turned back to me. "And he's really quite famous?" "I think he will be one day." "Can I read him?" "He's not been translated. But he will be." "By you?" "Well..." I let her think I had hopes. She said, "I honestly don't think I can tell you any more." Benjie whispered something. She laughed and stood up in the sunlight and took his hand. "We're just going to show Mr. Orfe a picture, then it's back to work." "It's Urfe, actually." She put her hand to her face, in shame. "Oh dear. There I go again." The boy jerked her other hand; he too was ashamed of her silliness. We all walked up to the house, through a drawing room into a wide hall and then into a room at the side. I saw a long dining table, silver candlesticks. On the panelling between two windows was a painting. Benjie ran and switched on a picture light above it. It showed a little Alice-like girl with long hair, in a sailor dress, looking round a door, as if she was hiding and could see whoever was looking for her searching in vain. Her face was very alive, tense, excited, yet still innocent. In gilt on a small black plaque beneath I read: _Mischief, by Sir William Blunt, R. A._ "Charming." Benjie made his mother bend down and whispered something. "He wants to tell you what the family calls it." She nodded at him and he shouted, "How Soppy Can You Get." She pulled his hair as he grinned. Another charming picture. She apologised for not being able to invite me to lunch, but she had a "Women's Institute do" in Hertford; and I promised that as soon as a translation of the Conchis poems was ready I would send her a copy. Driving back down the lane to Much Hadham, I laughed. I might have guessed that Conchis was compensating for some deep feeling of inferiority