The Beautiful Visit (20 page)

‘Are they hostile?’ I was thinking of my father.

‘Perhaps hostile is a bad word. They perpetrate a kind of wilful indifference which is just as bad.’

He continued in this strain for some time. At first I thought that he was merely trying to put me at my ease – to avoid any personal subject which might force me to reveal my situation
(about which I was sure he had doubts); but then I realized that he was simply obsessed with artistic problems and his own uncertainty, and glad to have a new listener to whom he could talk about
them. He finished by saying: ‘The other point about people being kind when they know things can’t last, is people being lenient about somebody when they know he can’t do any
more.’

There was a knock on the door.

‘Oh, heavens!’ He leapt up to open it.

Maria stood there with a tray. She wore a black skirt with a white blouse; but her hair still hung down her back. Rupert seized her hair with both hands, one on each side of her face.

‘Listen, Maria. You are not to start being jealous and knocking.’

‘There was the tray in my hands.’

He shook her head.

‘You know that is not why you knocked. We were talking.’

‘
You
were talking,’ she interrupted.

‘
We
were talking. Weren’t we?’ He turned to me, his hand on her hair. ‘You wouldn’t have enjoyed it. You wouldn’t have understood one single
word.’

This statement was calculated to calm her; as even I could see.

She was trying to frown, to glower at him, but her hair was strained bade from her forehead too hard; it was not possible, and only her brows met.

‘Will you be reasonable? I shall introduce you from here and if you are not polite and kind, you’ll be sorry.’

He introduced us. I was terribly embarrassed; but Maria seemed quite unmoved by the situation. She accepted the introduction with dignity, continuing to frown at Rupert.

‘What were you talking about? I
should
have understood,’ she added like a child.

He shook her head impatiently again. ‘About art. About life.’

‘Oh, that,’ she said and shrugged her shoulders, so that the tea-cups rattled violently; after which she smiled a magnificent smile. She had the kind of face which seemed correctly
arranged when smiling: I remember her small, exceedingly white teeth, and her upper lip curved above them.

‘Please may I put the tray down?’ He was looking at her; he nodded slowly, running his fingers down to the ends of her hair, and finally releasing her.

We had tea. There were two boiled eggs for Rupert, and one for me. Maria said she was not hungry, whereupon Rupert looked at her with an exasperated anxiety and tried to feed her with egg. She
sat on the floor. At the beginning of tea she watched me, but in the end she watched Rupert. I noticed that she treated him with a kind of restrained but agonized attention, that she hated him to
see her watch him anticipated a glance from him and dropped her eyes or turned her head; but even then, I felt her desperate concentration. It was as though his voice touched her, and was
unbearable; as though she knew how breathing felt to him; how the eggshell felt to his fingers; these and countless other minute sensations were as if shared by her all the time. At first I thought
that he was unaware of this, but as the meal progressed I was less sure. I think in the end we were all affected by it. Apparently we talked easily. We talked about the Lancings: Rupert had not
been to see them again, although he had had lunch with Deb and her mother when they were shopping in London; about my family (most superficially); about Rupert’s painting (that was when I was
acutely sensitive to Maria); about the war (this most vaguely, I being unable to contribute through ignorance, and Maria being vehemently averse to the subject).

‘You think wars should be fought, not talked,’ I remember Rupert saying to her, when the restraint suddenly loomed enormous before us, filling the room.

‘Not talked,’ she said.

After tea she lit a cigarette and smoked it very slowly. Almost everything seemed different I reflected. I watched her fascinated, until Rupert asked me whether I would like one, which I hastily
refused. When she had finished, Rupert got up off the bed. ‘Go and buy something for the pancakes. Enough for all of us, Will you do it now?’

‘Won’t you come?’

‘No. Do it now, or the shops will be closed.’

She left the room without a word. We stacked the things on a tray.

‘I’ll take this out. I shan’t be long,’ he said.

‘When are we having pancakes?’

‘For supper.’ He kicked the door and went.

The room was very peaceful. I wondered idly why Rupert had assumed I was staying to supper, but only for a moment. I heard a murmur of voices through the door, and envied Maria, with an abstract
impersonal envy, for the kind of life she led. Perhaps, though, it was very painful. She seemed unhappily obsessed with Rupert. He had said she was not happy today, and that she was bad at it. It
was strange to be here, not half an hour from my home and yet surrounded by so complete a change. Some of the things Rupert had said came back into my mind, and then, inevitably, I was forced to
consider what I should do on leaving this place. It would be worse in the evening. I struggled to enjoy the time I was spending, and still had left to spend. For a long while I stared miserably at
the rush matting, going over the insoluble crisis again and again. This unprofitable occupation was broken by Rupert.

‘She’s gone to buy mushrooms,’ said Rupert. He pulled out his pipe and sat on the floor leaning against the bed. ‘Now I think you had better talk. You are not an
accomplished liar, which is the only possible excuse for being one. You can stay here tonight if you want, but don’t bother about lies, because there isn’t enough time.’

I was completely silent, shivering and picking the edge of the fringe.

‘Has somebody let you down badly? Was this a last resort?’

‘No.’

‘Poor creature. Were you so desperate then? Had to get away somewhere?’

I nodded.

‘Is that yes or no? I can’t see.’

‘Yes.’

‘Your father died – when?’

‘Just over two weeks ago.’

‘And that was what made you decide to do this?’

‘No – not exactly. It’s more complicated.’

‘I am not asking you from idle curiosity. I might be, but I’m not. Can you go back to your family?’

‘I suppose so. Not for a few days. I said that I was going to stay with a friend.’

‘Did you tell them it was me?’

‘Oh no. They wouldn’t have liked it. I said it was a girl who was very tired from nursing someone who’d just died.’

‘Very sensible of you,’ he said approvingly. ‘So that you can go back if you like.’

‘Yes.’

‘I feel that you are going to cry at any moment,’ he said after a pause. ‘So I shall just sit here and go on talking to you and asking you questions and we’ll both take
no notice of you. Why do you hate it at home so much?’

I began to tell him, starting with my brothers at tea, and working backwards. He did not listen in complete silence which would, I think, have frightened me, but threw in small practical
questions, which kept my balance for me. In a short time I did not want to cry. I told him nearly everything, the only large exception being Agnes and Edward and
The Mikado
. That I could
bear to tell no one, and I was able to persuade myself that it was quite irrelevant.

I came to an end and waited. I think I was certain that he would present me with some solution. At those moments, waiting for someone to speak is rather like the moment before opening a book
which one had long desired; or the second at a concert before some new work begins; or the ten seconds before somebody kisses you; or the minute before you open that person’s next letter: the
almost inevitable disillusionment is far away, indeed it is blessed for the contrast which at that moment it presents. I waited trustfully, expectantly, joyously for that solution; and during those
seconds I experienced the complete calm of peaceful certainty.

He had twisted round on the floor facing me and now he suddenly knelt, took my hands and kissed them. Then I thought I knew that he would not be able to help me; and my heart sank down into my
hands so that they were heavy and lifeless as he held them.

‘Now you will see how very little use people can be to each other,’ he said. ‘Practically speaking, I’m let out of it. I’m going away tomorrow. Joining the
Army.’

‘The
Army
?’

‘Yes. This war you know. It’s going to take up a great many people’s time.’

‘The Army!’ I repeated, dazed. It seemed fantastic. Everyone was in it. Everyone.

‘Yes. We can talk about that later. The point is that even if I were continuing here, it would be very difficult for me to be much help. Don’t misunderstand me. I think I see your
difficulties most clearly, and I am the last person to underestimate them. A purpose in life. I find that hard enough for myself, but for another person, a woman, why it’s almost
impossible.’ He fell silent, staring at my hands.

‘Some work,’ I said. ‘I thought I might be able to do a job of some kind.’

‘You might. You might even earn your living. For what? There is little purpose in earning your living simply in order to go to sleep for the next day’s work. And there’s very
little purpose in marrying someone in order not to earn your living.’

‘But I should like it.’

‘To marry or work?’

To work. And marry some day,’ I added truthfully.

‘Work isn’t an end in itself. I know that is a platitude, and so no one really believes it. People are beginning to think of work as an end. I think they may even consider this war
as an end. What do you consider the end of a war?’

‘To win it?’

He gave my hands a little shake.

‘Nobody wins a war nowadays. There is no end to it. War is becoming a compulsory amateur affair. Look at me. I shall be an amateur. That means somebody who does it for the love of the
thing. It’s not amateur. It’s simply compulsory. Once you drag everybody into something, there’s no end to it. They muddle along until they’re all either dead, or so clearly
dying that they can see their own end. Then it stops. It doesn’t end.’

‘I don’t know anything about war.’

‘You will,’ he said tiredly, and dropped my hands.

I was afraid that he was going to talk and forget me and I was not ready for it. ‘I think I should like almost any job as a contrast.’

‘Would you?’ He looked at me gently. ‘I believe you would. What do you want to do?

‘Everyone asks me that. I don’t know. But I think that what you said was all very well for people who have a choice, or a talent or something like that, but no use to me. I
haven’t got any choice, because I don’t know what jobs there are, and I haven’t any talent that I can see.’

‘What, no talent? No talent at all? And you a young lady. Do you not sing?’

‘I hate you when you’re like that. You won’t be serious.’

‘I am frequently very serious.’

‘Only about yourself, or other things. You won’t be serious about my affairs. You think I’m a child. I wouldn’t have come if I’d realized . . .’

‘If you’d realized how little I could help you. Well, if it’s any comfort to you, I don’t think anyone else would be much better. Also, and again if it comforts you, I do
think you’ll get what you want, because at least you do really seem to want it. You are prepared to take some trouble. Now, let’s be practical. You have three possibilities that I can
see. One is to go home. From there your chances of getting work that you’ll be allowed to do are lessened; but you’ll be clothed and fed, which can’t be underestimated. Another is
to try and get some work which means that you’ll be living away from home. It limits the work again, because either you’ll have to keep yourself or else persuade your family to make you
an allowance which gives them some control over what you do. Considerable control. The third is to stay here with Maria if she’ll have you, and find your feet a bit. You’ll have to do
something for your keep as she won’t be able to earn enough. My money goes on keeping this place, as the war is not a paying proposition for those who fight it. The third possibility depends
very largely on Maria. All right?’

I nodded. ‘What does Maria do?’

‘She’s a model. No you couldn’t do that,’ he added seeing my face. ‘You aren’t nearly flamboyant enough to be popular. It would take a good painter to paint
you and they are in a minority. Maria gets plenty of work because she’s Spanish.’

‘And beautiful.’

‘And beautiful, too,’ he repeated softly.

‘How long have you known her?’ I wanted to digest the possibilities before further discussion, and I knew he would need very little encouragement to talk about Maria.

‘Three months. We met three months ago. She broke the heel of her shoe in the Underground, and when she calmly kicked off the other shoe, put it in her bag, and walked into the street I
followed her. It was all very like a play. She was married to a horrid little man who imports wine,’ he went on dreamily. ‘He told her a lot of lies about England and married her. Then
he brought her back to a semi-detached villa in Lewisham with a semi-detached family who hated her. That was last winter. She was cold and homesick. She hated the family, and wouldn’t clean
the house. One day she left with a man who sang ballads on the Halls. She went to see him nearly every night and persuaded him to take her. She told him she didn’t love him as soon as they
had left Lewisham and he was nice about it. He told her the address of an Art School, where he thought she would find work. Of course she got it. Now she lives with me. And tomorrow I go away and
leave her. She’s very unhappy about it. We haven’t had time. She’s
very
unhappy,’ he repeated with emphasis, and I could feel his grief and resentment.

‘Are you sorry?’

‘Of course I am. I’m very sorry for both of us. It’s worse for me although she may feel it more. It’s far worse for me.’

‘Now you are being sorry for yourself.’