After Many a Summer Dies the Swan (21 page)

The practical conclusion was obvious. But Pete refused to draw it. Those eyes were blue and limpid, that mouth, adorable in its innocence. And, then, how sweet she was, how beautifully thoughtful! He remembered the conversation they had had on the way into dinner. He had asked her how her headache was. “Don't talk about it,” she had whispered; “it might upset Uncle Jo. Doc's been going over him with his stethoscope; doesn't think he's so good this evening. I don't want to have him worrying about
me.
And anyhow, what is a headache?” Not only beautiful, not only innocent and sweet, but brave, too, and unselfish. And how adorable she had been to him all the evening, asking him about his work, telling him about her home in Oregon, making him talk about his home down in El Paso. In the end Mr. Stoyte had come and sat down beside them—in silence, and his face black as thunder. Pete had glanced inquiringly at Virginia, and she had given him a look that said, “Please, go,” and another when he rose to say good-night, so pleadingly apologetic, so full of gratitude, so understanding, so sweet and affectionate, that the recollection of it was enough to bring the tears into his eyes. Lying there in the darkness, he cried with happiness.

That niche in the wall between the windows in Virginia's bedroom had been intended, no doubt, for a bookshelf. But Virginia was not very keen on books; the recess had been fitted up instead as a little shrine. You drew back a pair of short white velvet curtains (everything in the room was white) and there, in a bower of artificial flowers, dressed in real silk clothes, with the cutest little gold crown on her head and six strings of seed pearls round her neck, stood Our Lady brilliantly illuminated by an ingenious system of concealed electric bulbs. Barefooted and in white satin pyjamas, Virginia was kneeling before this sacred doll's house, saying her evening prayers. Our Lady, it seemed to her, was looking particularly sweet and kind tonight. Tomorrow, she decided, while her lips pronounced the formulas of praise and supplication, tomorrow morning, first thing, she'd go right down to the sewing-room and get one of the girls to help her make a new mantle for Our Lady out of that lovely piece of blue brocade she had bought last week at the junk shop in Glendale. A blue brocade mantle, fastened in front with a gold button—or, better still, with a little gold cord that you could tie in a bow, with the ends hanging down, almost to Our Lady's feet. Oh, that would be just gorgeous! She wished it were morning so that she could start right away.

The last prayer had been said; Virginia crossed herself and rose from her knees. Happening to look down as she did so, she saw to her horror that some of the cyclamen-coloured varnish had scaled off the nails of the second and third toes of her left foot. A minute later she was squatting on the floor beside the bed, the right leg outstretched, the other foot drawn across it, making ready to repair the damage. An open bottle stood beside her; she held a small paint brush in her hand, and a horribly industrial aura of acetone had enveloped the Schiaparelli “Shocking” with which her body was impregnated. She started to work and as she bent forward, two strands of auburn hair broke loose from their curly pattern and fell across her forehead. Under frowning brows, the large blue eyes intently stared. To aid concentration, the tip of a pink tongue was held between the teeth. “Helll” she suddenly said aloud, as the little brush made a false stroke. Then, immediately, the teeth clamped down again.

Interrupting her work to allow the first coat of varnish to dry, she shifted her scrutiny from the toes to the calf and shin of her left leg. The hairs were beginning to grow again, she noticed with annoyance; it would soon be time for another of those wax treatments. Still pensively caressing the leg, she let her mind travel back over the events of the day. The memory of that close call with Uncle Jo still gave her shivers of apprehensive excitement. Then she thought of Sig with his stethoscope, and the upper lip lifted ravishingly in a smile of amusement. And then there was that book, which it served Uncle Jo right that she should have had Sig read to her. And Sig getting fresh with her between the chapters and making passes; that also served Uncle Jo right for trying to spy on her. She remembered how mad she got at Sig. Not so much for what he actually did; for besides serving Uncle Jo right (of course it was only
afterwards
that she discovered quite how right it served him), what he actually did had been rather thrilling than otherwise; because after all Sig was terribly attractive and in those ways Uncle Jo didn't hardly count; in fact you might almost say that he counted the other way; in the red, so to speak; counted less than nobody, so that anybody else who
was
attractive seemed still more attractive when Uncle Jo had been around. No, it wasn't what he actually did that had made her mad at him. It was the way he did it. Laughing at her, like that. She didn't mind a bit of kidding at ordinary times. But kidding while he was actually making passes—that was treating her like she was a tart on Main Street. No romance, or anything; just that sniggering sort of laugh and a lot of dirty cracks. Maybe it was sophisticated; but she didn't like it. And didn't he see that it was just plain dumb to act that way? Because, after all, when you'd been reading that book with someone so attractive as Sig—well, you felt you'd like a bit of romance. Real romance, like in the pictures, with moonlight, and swing music, or perhaps a torch singer (because it was nice to feel sad when you were happy), and a boy saying lovely things to you, and a lot of kissing, and at the end of it, almost without your knowing it, almost as if it weren't happening to you, so that you never felt there was anything wrong, anything that Our Lady would really mind . . . Virginia sighed deeply and shut her eyes; her face took on an expression of seraphic tranquillity. Then she sighed again, shook her head and frowned. Instead of that, she was thinking angrily, instead of that, Sig had to go and spoil it all by acting hard-boiled and sophisticated. It just shot all the romance to pieces and made you feel mad at him. And what was the sense in that? Virginia concluded resentfully. What was the sense in that, either from his point of view or from hers?

The first coat of varnish seemed to be dry. Bending over her foot, she blew on her toes for a little, then started to apply the second coat. Behind her, all of a sudden, the door of the bedroom was opened and as gently closed again.

“Uncle Jo,” she said inquiringly and with a note of surprise in her voice, but without looking up from her enamelling.

There was no answer, only the sound of an approach across the room.

“Uncle Jo?” she repeated and, this time, interrupted the painting of her toes to turn round.

Dr. Obispo was standing over her. “Sig!” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “What
are
you doing?”

Dr. Obispo smiled his smile of ironic admiration, of intense and at the same time amused and mocking concupiscence. “I thought we might go on with our French lesson,” he said.

“You're crazy!” She looked apprehensively towards the door. “He's just across the hall. He might come in . . .”

Dr. Obispo's smile broadened to a grin. “Don't worry about Uncle Jo,” he said.

“He'd kill you, if he found you here.”

“He won't find me here,” Dr. Obispo answered. “I gave him a capsule of Nembutal before he went to bed. He'll sleep through the Last Trump.”

“I think you're awful!” said Virginia emphatically; but she couldn't help laughing, partly out of relief and partly because it really was rather funny to think of Uncle Jo snoring away next door, while Sig read her that stuff.

Dr. Obispo pulled the Book of Common Prayer out of his pocket. “Don't let me interrupt your labours,” he said with the parody of chivalrous politeness. “‘A woman's work is never done.' Just go right on as though I weren't there. I'll find the place and start reading.” Smiling at her with imperturbable impudence, he sat down on the edge of the rococo bed and turned over the pages of the book.

Virginia opened her mouth to speak; then, catching hold of her left foot, closed it again under the compulsion of a need even more urgent than that of telling him exactly where he got off. The varnish was drying in lumps; her toes would look just awful if she didn't go on with them at once. Hastily dipping her little brush in the bottle of acetone enamel, she started painting again with the focussed intensity of a Van Eyck at work on the microscopic details of the Adoration of the Lamb.

Dr. Obispo looked up from the book. “I admired the way you acted with Pete this evening/' he said. “Flirting with him all through dinner, so that you got the old man hopping jealous of him. That was masterly. Or should one say mistressly?”

Virginia released her tongue to say emphatically: “Pete's a nice boy.”

“But dumb,” Dr. Obispo qualified, as he sprawled with conscious elegance and a maddeningly insolent assumption of being at home, across the bed. “Otherwise he wouldn't be in love with you the way he is.” He uttered a snort of laughter. “The poor chump thinks you're an angel, a heavenly little angel, complete with wings, harp and genuine eighteen-carat, fully jewelled, Swiss-made virginity. Well, if that isn't being dumb . . .”

“You just wait till I get time for you,” said Virginia menacingly, but without looking up; for she had reached a critical phase in the execution of her work of art.

Dr. Obispo ignored the remark. “I used to underestimate the value of an education in the humanities,” he said after a little silence. “Now, I make that mistake no longer.” In a tone of deep solemnity, a tone, one might imagine, like Whittier's in a reading from his own works, “The lessons of great literature!” he went on. “The deep truths! The gems of wisdom!”

“Oh, shut up!” said Virginia.

“When I think what I owe Dante and Goethe,” said Dr. Obispo in the same prophetic style. “Take the case of Paolo reading aloud to Francesca. With the most fruitful results, if you remember.
‘Un giorno leggevamo per diletto di Lancilotto, come amor lo strinse. Soli eravamo e senz'alcun sospetto. Senz'alcun sospetto,' ”
Dr. Obispo repeated with emphasis, looking, as he did so, at one of the engravings in the “Cent-Vingt Jours.” “Not the smallest suspicion, mark you, of what was going to happen.”

“Helll” said Virginia, who had made another slip.

“No, not even a suspicion of hell,” Dr. Obispo insisted. “Though, of course, they ought to have been on the lookout for it. They ought to have had the elementary prudence to guard against being sent there by the accident of sudden death. A few simple precautions, and they could have made the best of both worlds. Could have had their fun while the brother was out of the way and, when the time for having fun was over, could have repented and died in the odour of sanctity. But then it must be admitted that they hadn't the advantage of reading Goethe's ‘Faust.' They hadn't learnt that inconvenient relatives could be given sleeping draughts. And even if they had learnt, they wouldn't have been able to go to the drug-store and buy a bottle of Nembutal. Which shows that education in the humanities isn't enough; there must also be education in science. Dante and Goethe to teach you what to do. And the professor of pharmacology to show you how to put the old buzzard into a coma with a pinch of barbiturate.”

The toes were finished. Still holding her left foot, so as to keep it from any damaging contact until the varnish should be entirely dry, Virginia turned on her visitor. “I won't have you calling him an old buzzard,” she said hotly.

“Well, shall we say ‘bastard'?” Dr. Obispo suggested.

“He's a better man than you'll ever be!” Virginia cried; and her voice had the ring of sincerity. “I think he's wonderful.”

“You think he's wonderful,” Dr. Obispo repeated. “But all the same in about fifteen minutes you'll be sleeping with me.” He laughed as he spoke and, leaning forwards from his place on the bed, caught her two arms from behind, a little below the shoulders. “Look out for your toes,” he said, as Virginia cried out and tried to wrench herself away from him.

The fear of ruining her masterpiece made her check the movement before it was more than barely initiated. Dr. Obispo took advantage of her hesitation to stoop down, through the aura of acetone towards the nape of that delicious neck, towards the perfume of ‘Shocking/ towards a firm warmth against the mouth, a touch of hair like silk upon the cheeks. Swearing, Virginia furiously jerked her head away. But a fine tingling of agreeable sensation was running parallel, so to speak, with her indignation, was incorporating itself in it.

This time, Dr. Obispo kissed her behind the ear. “Shall I tell you,” he whispered, “what I'm going to do to you?” She answered by calling him a lousy ape man. But he told her all the same, in considerable detail.

Less than the fifteen minutes had elapsed when Virginia opened her eyes and, across the now darkened room, caught sight of Our Lady smiling benignantly from among the flowers of her illuminated doll's house. With a cry of dismay she jumped up and, without waiting to put on any clothes, ran to the shrine and drew the curtains. The lights went out automatically. Stretching out her hands in the thick darkness, she groped her way cautiously back to bed.

“A
GAIN
, no dearth of news,” Jeremy wrote to his mother three weeks later. “News of every kind and from all the centuries. Here's a bit of news, to begin with, about the Second Earl. In the intervals of losing battles for Charles I, the Second Earl was a poet. A bad poet, of course (for the chances are always several thousands to one against any given poet being good), but with occasional involuntary deviations into charm. What about this, for example, which I found in manuscript only yesterday?