An Accomplished Woman (27 page)

When Mary was gone Lydia
placed the sheets of the
Interlocutor
back on the table with a sort of
guilty haste, as if she had been nearly caught reading someone else’s letters,
or a private diary. Not so wide of the mark, in truth: there was a good deal of
self-exposure in laying your verses open to the public like this. The effect,
in her case at least, had not been an increase of esteem for William Beck. Of
course it was wrong to judge him on the merits, or otherwise, of his writing.
(It was wrong to judge him altogether, she reminded herself: she was here only
to be a sort of neutral invigilator. A title, perhaps: the
Invigilator?
No,
too stern.) But putting together his writing with what she had seen of him,
Lydia formed a dispiriting impression of a man living within thick walls of
self-regard, unpierced by any ray of humour.

Could Phoebe really wish
to join him within those walls — handsome and romantically battlemented as they
were — for a whole lifetime? If that was what she should
choose,
of
course, then there was no more to be said. But choice, Lydia reflected, was not
a simple act. It depended not only on what you thought and felt, but on things
you were quite unconscious of thinking and feeling, and to which only an
outside agency could alert you. Choice implied a clear view of the object
before the chooser: but whose view was not impeded, not smeared a little by the
careless accretions of self? Surely to polish up that glass to perfect
transparency was not to
interfere
with choice: really it was doing a
service both to the chooser and to truth.

And besides, he wrote
‘squeezish’.

Why do you say I must be
bored?’ asked Lewis Durrant, calling at Sydney Place the next morning.

‘Because,’ Lydia said, sitting
down, ‘you have nothing better to do with your time than pay a dull visit to
two maiden ladies.’

‘Oh, as to that, I
chiefly came to ask if you have had a letter lately from your father, and to
enquire after his health.’

‘I had a letter
yesterday, and he is in good health and spirits, thank you.’ She left a pause.
‘Your enquiry after my own health I shall take as read.’

‘Why, you look well
enough. Actually you are hardly ever ill, are you?’

‘No: I must be blessed
with a good constitution. But if it will please you, I shall try to cultivate a
little indisposition. It might be interesting to have one of those antique
ones, like Rising of the Lights, or a Surfeit.’

Mr Durrant twitched a
smile. ‘Apparently Daniel Defoe died of
lethargy—
He must have contracted
it in Bath . . . No, it’s curious your saying I must be bored. It is exactly
what I have been saying to myself, or rather asking myself:
am
I bored?
And, oddly enough, I don’t know how to answer. Perhaps eventually boredom
itself ceases to be boring, because you stop feeling it. The other day I found
myself sitting in Sydney Gardens for a full hour, contemplating a single tree.
When there is nothing else to do, it is surprising how much tranquil interest
you can find in a tree.’

‘Now I know you are not
suited to Bath. Here you must confine your staring and gazing to its proper
object — the dress, hair and probable bank-book of other people.’

‘Oh, never fear, I am
taking the social waters now. I have dined at two houses, and attended
evening-parties at three.’

‘And which do you like
best, or detest least?’

‘I prefer the
evening-parties,’ he said consideringly, ‘as there you only smell the dinner
instead of having to eat it.’

Lydia repressed a smile.
‘Mr Durrant,’ she said, as he roamed about, peering disdainfully into cabinets,
‘in case it has escaped your notice, this maiden lady is sitting down: feel
free to do so.’

‘Oh, I don’t much care
for sitting down. One only has to get up again. Where is the other maiden lady,
by the by?’

‘Writing letters, I think.’

‘Ah, shouldn’t you be
supervising her? Yes, unworthy, I know. Speaking of letters, I have had the
favour of an excessively impudent one from Hugh, telling me that the news of my
Bath adventure is the best joke he has ever heard, that he dines out on the
strength of it, and whatnot. It has rattled him, in other words; and so I
collect from a letter from his mother, who laments that her poor boy is
dreadfully cut up with regard to his prospects. Which proves there is light in
the darkest sky,’ he concluded, with grim satisfaction, picking up a book.
‘What’s this, a novel?’

‘Yes, the third volume.
I have just finished it.’

‘When did you begin it?’

‘Yesterday . . . Has
Bath turned you into a novel-reader, Mr Durrant?’

‘Oh, with a vengeance,’
he said, skimming the pages. ‘A very tolerable way of passing the time. It is
different from history or poetry: one is reading, but without any uncomfortable
sensation of using the brain to do it.’

‘Borrow it by all means
— the other volumes are on the window-shelf. As long as you remember to return
it to Meyler’s, next to the Pump Room.’

‘I will, thank you — as
long as you can assure me of the absence of two things, which I cannot abide in
a novel. There must be nobody who lives in the town of Blank, or belongs to the
Blankshire Regiment; and there must not be a couple who are in love with each
other all the time without knowing it, and who signal it by constantly
quarrelling.’

‘For once I agree with
you: there is nothing more unlikely, or more destructive of the illusion of
reality. I can assure you the book has none of that; and what is more, the
descriptions of places are helpfully indicated by the length of the paragraphs,
so you may jump straight to the dialogue without trouble.’

‘An author who knows his
business.’ There was a knock below: Mr Durrant swept up the other volumes. ‘You
have another caller: I’ll leave you.’

‘Really, you don’t have
to.’

‘I know, but I want to.
Pray give my compliments to Dr Templeton when next you write.’

‘Certainly. I suppose,
Mr Durrant,’ she added, on irresistible impulse as he strode to the door, ‘that
I am not yet to wish you joy?’

He eyed her coolly. ‘No,
your fifty pounds is safe yet. But tell me —
would
you wish me joy, in
that event?’

She was prevented, or
saved, from answering by the manservant, who opened the door to announce Mr
Beck.

‘How do you do, Mr
Beck?’ Lydia began. ‘This is—’

‘Oh, Mr Durrant, hullo,’
Mr Beck said, with mild surprise.

‘Mr Beck. I hope I find
you well. Please excuse me, I have another errand.’

The exchange, perfectly
easy and polite, set Lydia wondering mightily about their previous
acquaintance. She might even have asked Mr Beck about it, if he had shown any
receptivity to normal conversation — instead of advancing to the centre of the
room, staring, turning with his arms hanging sculpturally at his sides, and
tonelessly declaring: ‘I thought to see Miss Rae here.’

But here she was: she
must have hurtled downstairs on hearing his name. The
Interlocutor,
dog-eared
from reading, was cradled tenderly in her arms.

‘Mr Beck, how do you
do?’ she said breathlessly. ‘So good of you to call.’

He uttered a sort of
crumbling laugh. ‘You surely could not suppose I would
not
call — could
you?’

‘Yes, indeed. Or no,
rather,’ Phoebe said, with faint, smiling perplexity, inviting him to sit down.
He did so, flingingly; and shot a frowning look at Lydia.

‘Mr Beck,’ she greeted
him, with a portion of a smile: fully aware that he desired her instant
disappearance up the chimney much more than her courtesy.

‘Well — Miss Rae. You
must tell me, you must tell me at once what you think of it. And I must remind
you of my injunction: absolute honesty.’ He sat forward, arms on his potent
thighs. Lydia meanwhile understood what a pet bird must feel like when a cloth is
thrown over its cage.

‘Dear me — this is a
very great responsibility.’ Phoebe said. ‘You would do much better to seek Miss
Templeton’s opinion—’

Lydia pantomimed an
urgent negative. (Besides, she was going to put her head under her wing and go
to sleep in a moment.)

‘Well — first of all I
must confess that I have not yet read it
all,’
Phoebe continued, ‘so
whatever I say must be incomplete. That is no reflection on the material or the
style — only on my own slowness of comprehension. And beyond that you must know
I have no understanding of politics or philosophy; and though I like to read, I
cannot call myself well-read, or properly versed in literature, so my
judgement—’

‘Your judgement must be
for that very reason all the more valuable,’ interrupted Mr Beck, ‘for it is
spontaneous — not dulled by familiarity with the classics — not stifled by
dusty prejudice.’

‘That is kind of you to
say so,’ pursued Phoebe steadily, ‘but still I insist you must not place too
much weight on my word: please, do not make a virtue of my ignorance.’

‘But that is precisely
what it is,’ Mr Beck said — not actually interrupting this time: it was just
that everything he said sounded like an interruption. ‘It is a virtue: the
greatest virtue of all, because of its sincerity. There is more of truth, worth
and wisdom in honest ignorance than in the greatest parade of learning:
infinitely more!’

Though she knew Mr Beck
to be unconventional, still Lydia felt a passing surprise at his way of being
complimentary: lovers were usually ready to praise everything in their
mistresses, from ready wit to dainty foot, but to hear a woman commended for
being a dunce was a little disconcerting. What chiefly occupied her mind,
however, was the fascination of discovery: it was not equal to religious revelation
or falling in love, no doubt, but still there was a certain awe in coming
across a statement you so vehemently, wholeheartedly and lastingly disagreed
with.

‘Well, you are
determined on making me your arbiter,’ Phoebe said, smiling, ‘but I fear you
will get nothing more discerning or useful from me than that it is very clever,
and very interesting, and I am sure it will do very well. Now if you were to
ask Miss Templeton — oh, but, Lydia, have you not read any of Mr Beck’s review?
I’m sure you must have—’

‘Really, I have scarcely
had a moment,’ Lydia said, throwing up her hands, and hearing more shrillness
in her voice than she liked.

‘Now Miss Templeton
really is well-read,’ Phoebe went on. ‘Not only in English but in Latin, and in
French and Italian — and not by any means light literature. She understands
poetry and essays with the greatest correctness — and she makes sense of opera
— and perspective in drawing too, which I could never comprehend. When I drew a
wall or a fence my drawing-master used to keep talking about the
vanishing-point on the horizon, but I couldn’t see how a wall
could
vanish.
It just stayed there. Oh, and she knows politics too—’

‘Please, stop, Phoebe,’
Lydia said, with discomfort, ‘if this monster is me, then I am dismayed — you
describe a perfect prig and bore.’

‘I shall always, I hope,
be prepared to lay my tribute at the feet of true learning and accomplishment,’
Mr Beck said, with rather muddy cordiality.

‘Oh, yes: I have never
met anyone as clever as Lydia.’

‘It is indeed seldom met
with,’ Mr Beck went on, in his ploughing way, ‘at least in its genuine state.
More often this learning is mere pedantry — affected superiority — and, what is
that wretched expression? — elegance of mind.’ He gave his first full laugh: Mr
Beck
could
laugh; but it took the form of a harsh shout of disbelief.
‘God preserve me from ever having an elegant mind.’

This prayer seemed to
Lydia very likely to be answered; but she felt she had better say no more.

Phoebe’s encomium,
however, had the effect of turning Mr Beck’s attention to Lydia — if not with
friendliness, then with a specific curiosity. He began, with more determination
than grace, to speak to her: enquiries about how long she had known Bath, how
she liked it, whether the air agreed with her, and so on, made with an effort
as obvious as his indifference to her answers; but just as plainly, to Lydia,
leading to a certain end. He must know where she fitted in. Was this woman who
stood between him and his goddess a stern preceptor, a guardian in all but
name, ready to cast a chill of watchful propriety over his ardent wooing? Or
perhaps, in spite of her ancient years and her pedantic ways, a potential ally
who would make fond allowances for the impetuosity of young love?

For Lydia soon divined
that a conventional courtship did not suit Mr Beck’s notions of romance or of
himself. There was nothing to prevent his meeting Phoebe Rae on perfectly
normal terms: he was known to Lady Eastmond, he had clearly received, if he had
not benefited from, a good education, and there was no vast disparity of wealth
or status to count against him — the labour of slaves having rendered him as
eligible as the labour of his own hands would have damned him. But Lydia
suspected that as a lover he must be Romeo or nothing. If there were no
opposition, he must imagine some.