Penelope Fitzgerald - The Golden Child

‘Yes, the universe is trinary,’ Rochegrosse-Bergson continued, courteously ignoring the interruption. ‘Just as the Ancients conceived of Three Graces linked in a circle and the Manxman dreams of three legs, so life is an eternal triad — going out — coming back and going out again. To understand the myth I proclaim to you that we must fold it in three. ’

He moved his dapper hands with the gestures of an expert laundryman.

‘Compare the Ball of Golden Twine, for example, which, in my view, is the most important object in your distinguished Exhibition, with the clue of thread given by Ariadne to Theseus — and again with the cat’s cradle, a game, chers auditeurs , which, unlike string itself, has no end. What do we find? We find, gentlemen, that we go into the labyrinth to discover what we once were. Holding firmly the precious thread of golden twine, we ascend to the upper air, but knowing that we shall have once again, one day, to return to the interior of our unacknowledged selves. The journey of humanity is a progression neither forward nor backward, but noward. All our thoughts are, to use my own word, my own chosen signifier, la pensée-stop — the irresistible impulse to stop thinking at all. Our art — for every man, let us admit it, is an artist — is to achieve absolutely nothing !’

Amazingly enough, this arrant nonsense was eagerly taken down by the two journalists. Their cynicism was gone; they appeared hypnotised. A serious résumé would evidently appear in the Times Literary Supplement. Trained in French lycées, they were unable to resist the rounded sentences which now dropped a couple of tones to announce the coming peroration.

‘And thus, my friends, I have endeavoured to make perhaps a little clearer this evening …’

Broad winter daylight shone through the windows. The journalists scribbled on.

Professor Untermensch also knew, from long habit, the falling sound of the peroration. His time was coming; he was drawing nearer to the fabled gold to which, at one remove, he had devoted so much of his life’s work. His eagerness was distinctly embarrassing. As the Director rose he also got up, ready to follow him like a shadow.

Hawthorne-Mannering was in agitation, feeling that things were not being done properly. Nobody had been thanked.

‘If you could just manage a few words,’ he murmured, hovering over Sir William. ‘If you could just make some acknowledgement … if you could recognise the name of Rochegrosse-Bergson …’

‘Why should I?’ asked Sir William. ‘It may be somebody’s name, but it’s not his.’

Waring had received a message from the impeccable Miss Rank. She rang down. The Director required the Golden Doll from the Exhibition, to show it, as he had undertaken to do, to Professor Untermensch.

‘Isn’t that really Hawthorne-Mannering’s business? He’s inclined to be a little touchy if he thinks I’m doing his job.’

‘The exhibit should have been up here with us four and three-quarter minutes ago,’ Miss Rank replied.

‘But I can’t go and open the cases until the public have left and the place is clear. I don’t think you can actually have been down there. They’re packed six abreast. It’s impossible.’

‘The object Sir John requires is not in the cases. I have checked that it has gone to Records. Your friend Len Coker is supposed to be making a scale drawing of it in the Records studio, but he should have finished and sent it up long ago.’

‘He’s not exactly a friend of mine,’ Waring protested feebly.

‘Your quickest way is through the Library. The other route to the studios will mean over half a mile of corridors.’

‘Yes, but —’

‘You are not entitled to a Library key. I am aware of that. I have sent the keys down to you. Returnable, of course.’

At that very moment one of the messengers (Internal), flat-footed in his buff overalls, padded in and laid a glittering bunch of keys in the in-tray.

Waring took them dutifully. He was in trouble all round. There would be Haggie to console when he eventually got home, and he was within something and a quarter minutes of actually keeping the Director waiting.

The Library, as Miss Rank had observed, was for the use of staff of a higher grade than Waring Smith, who did not earn enough to consult the many thousands of costly reference books. Buried deep underground, it adjoined the resource centres, studios and laboratories. There was a lift, but its operations were uncertain; so Waring ran down the circular iron staircase.

‘Hullo, Mr Smith. I didn’t know they gave you access to down here.’

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