John Fowles - The Magus

“There are all sorts of clues that suggest the girl’s name was a flower name. And that he lived near her. And that the common bond was music…”

She sat up, fascinated.

“How on earth did you trace this to us?”

“Oh—various clues. From literary references. I knew it was very near Lord’s cricket ground. In one… passage he talks of this girl with her ancient British family name. Oh, and her famous doctor father. Then I started looking at street directories.”

“How absolutely extraordinary.”

“It’s just one of those things. You meet hundreds of dead ends. But one day you really hit a way through.”

Smiling, she glanced towards the house. “Here’s Gunnel.” For two or three minutes we had to go through the business of getting coffee poured; polite exchanges about Norway—Gunnel had never been further north than Trondheim, I discovered. Benjie was ordered to disappear; and the ur -Lily and I were left alone again.

For effect, I produced a notebook.

“If I could just ask you a few questions…”

“I say—glory at last.” She laughed rather stupidly; horsily; she was enjoying herself.

“I believed he lived next to you. He didn’t. Where did he live?”

“Oh I haven’t the faintest idea. You know. At that age.”

“You knew nothing about his parents?” She shook her head. “Would your sisters perhaps know more?”

Her face gravened.

“My eldest sister lives in Chile. She was ten years older than me. And my sister Rose—”

“Rose!”

She smiled. “Rose.”

“God, this is extraordinary. It clinches it. There’s a sort of… well a sort of mystery poem that belongs to the group about you. It’s very obscure, but now we know you have a sister called Rose…”

“Had a sister. Rose died just about that time. In 1916.”

“Of typhoid?”

I said it so eagerly that she was taken aback; then smiled. “No. Of some terribly rare complication following jaundice.” She stared out over the garden for a moment. “It was the great tragedy of my childhood.”

“Did you feel that he had any special affection for you—or for your sisters?”

She smiled again, remembering. “We always thought he secretly admired May—my eldest sister—she was engaged, of course, but she used to come and sit with us. And yes… oh goodness, it’s strange, it does come back, I remember he always used to show off, what we called showing off, if she was in the room. Play frightfully difficult bits. And she was fond of that Beethoven thing— For Elise ? We used to hum it when we wanted to annoy him.”

“Your sister Rose was older than you?”

“Two years older.”

“So the picture is really of two little girls teasing a foreign music teacher?”

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 realize—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 paneling 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 apologized 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 towards her and her sisters, towards his own youth, towards England and the English; just as I ought to have had more confidence in my inevitably arriving, one day, at the real truth about him. In a sense I, and all the others who had been through the “system” at Bourani, must represent his revenge for all the humiliations and unhappiness he had suffered in the Montgomery household, and probably others like them, during those distant years.

I came out into the main street. It was half-past twelve and I decided to get a bite to eat before I did the drive back into London. So I stopped at a small half-timbered pub. I had the lounge bar all to myself.