John Fowles - The Magus

“I read the passage you marked in Le Masque Fran çais .”

“It is only a metaphor. But it may help.”

He handed me an ouzo . We raised glasses.

Coffee was brought and poured, and the lamp moved to the table behind me, so that it shone on Conchis’s face. We were both waiting.

“I hope I shan’t have to forego the rest of your adventures.”

He raised his head, in the Greek way, meaning no. He seemed a little tense, and looked past me at the bedroom door; and I was reminded of that first day. I turned, but there was no one there.

He spoke. “You know who it will be?”

“I didn’t know if I was meant to come in last week or not.”

“You are meant to do as you choose.”

“Except ask questions.”

“Except ask questions.” A thin smile. “Did you read my little pamphlet?”

“Not yet.”

“Read it carefully.”

“Of course. I look forward to it.”

“Then tomorrow night perhaps we can perform an experiment.”

“On communicating with other worlds?” I didn’t bother to keep a certain scepticism out of my voice.

“Yes. Up there.” The star-heavy sky. “Or across there.” I saw him look down, making the visual analogy, to the black line of mountains to the west.

I risked facetiousness. “Up there—do they speak Greek or English?”

He didn’t answer for nearly fifteen seconds; didn’t smile.

“They speak emotions.”

“Not a very precise language.”

“On the contrary. The most precise. If one can learn it.” He turned to look at me. “Precision of the kind you mean is important in science. It is unimportant in—”

But I never found out what it was unimportant in.

We both heard the footsteps, those same light footsteps I had heard before, on the gravel below, coming as if up from the sea. Conchis looked at me quickly.

“You must not ask questions. That is most important.”

I smiled. “As you wish.”

“Treat her as you would treat an amnesiac.”

“I’m afraid I’ve never met an amnesiac.”

“She lives in the present. She does not remember her personal past—she has no past. If you question her about the past, you will only disturb her. She is very sensitive. She would not want to see you again.

I wanted to say, I like your masque, I shan’t spoil it. I said, “If I don’t understand why, I begin to understand how.”

He shook his head. “You are beginning to understand why. Not how.”

His eyes lingered on me, burning the sentence in; looked aside, at the doors. I turned.

I realized then that the lamp had been put behind me so that it would light her entrance; and it was an entrance to take the breath away.

She was dressed in what must have been the formal evening style of 1915: an indigo silk evening wrap over a slim ivory-colored dress of some shot material that narrowed and ended just above her ankles. Her hair was up, in a sort of Empire fashion. She was smiling and looking at Conchis, though she glanced with a cool interest at me as I stood. Conchis was already on his feet. She looked as stunningly elegant, as poised and assured—because even her slight nervousness seemed professional—as if she had just stepped out of a cabine at Dior. That was indeed my immediate thought: She’s a professional model. And then, the old devil.

The old devil spoke, after first kissing her hand.

“Lily. May I present Mr. Nicholas Urfe. Miss Montgomery.”

She held out her hand, which I took. A cool hand, no pressure. I had touched a ghost. Our eyes met, but hers gave nothing away. I said, “Hello.” But she replied only with a slight inclination, and then turned for Conchis to take off her wrap, which he placed over the back of his own chair.

She had bare shoulders and arms; a heavy gold and ebony bracelet; an enormously long necklace of what looked like sapphires, though I presumed they must be paste, or ultramarines. I guessed her to be about twenty-two or three. But there clung about her something that seemed much older, ten years older, a sort of coolness—not a coldness or indifference, but a limpid aloofness; coolness in the way that one thinks of coolness on a hot summer’s day.

She arranged herself in her chair, folded her hands, then smiled faintly at me.

“It is very warm this evening.”

Her voice was completely English. For some reason I had expected a foreign accent; but I could place this exactly. It was very largely my own—product of boarding school, university, the accent of what a sociologist once called the Dominant Hundred Thousand.

I said, “Isn’t it?”

Conchis said, “Mr. Urfe is the young schoolmaster I mentioned.” His voice had a new tone it it: almost deference.

“Yes. We met last week. That is, we caught a glimpse of each other.” And once again she smiled faintly, but without collusion, at me before looking down.

I saw that gentleness Conchis had prepared me for. But it was a teasing gentleness, because her face, especially her mouth, could not conceal her intelligence. She had a way of looking slightly obliquely at me, as if she knew something I did not—not anything to do with the role she was playing, but about life in general; as if she too had been taking lessons from the stone head. I had expected, perhaps because the image she had presented me with the week before had been more domestic, someone less ambiguous and far less assured.

She opened a small peacock-blue fan she had been holding and began to fan herself. Her skin was very white. She obviously never sunbathed. And then there was a curious little embarrassed pause, as if none of us knew what to say. She broke it, rather like a hostess dutifully encouraging a shy dinner guest.

“Teaching must be a very interesting profession.”

“Not for me. I find it rather dull.”

“All noble and honest things are dull. But someone has to do them.”

“Anyway, I forgive teaching. Since it’s brought me here.” She slipped a look at Conchis, who bowed imperceptibly. He was playing a kind of Talleyrand role. The gallant old fox.

“Maurice has told me that you are not completely happy in your work.” She pronounced Maurice in the French way.

“I don’t know if you know about the school, but—” I paused to give her a chance to answer. She simply shook her head, with a small smile. “I think they make the boys work too hard, you see, and I can’t do anything about it. It’s rather frustrating.”

“Could you not complain?” She gave me an earnest look; beautifully and convincingly earnest. I thought, she must be an actress. Not a model.

“You see…”

So it went on. We must have sat talking for nearly fifteen minutes, in this absurd stilted way. She questioned, I replied. Conchis said very little, leaving the conversation to us. I found myself formalizing my speech, as if I too was pretending to be in a drawing room of forty years before. After all, it was a masque, and I wanted, or after a very short while began to want, to play my part.

I found something a shade patronizing in her attitude, and I interpreted it as an attempt to upstage me; perhaps to test me, to see if I was worth playing against. I thought once or twice that I saw a touch of sardonic amusement in Conchis’s eyes, but I couldn’t be sure. In any case, I found her far too pretty, both in repose and in action (or acting), to care. I thought of myself as a connoisseur of girls’ good looks; and I knew that this was one to judge all others by.

There was a pause, and Conchis spoke.

“Shall I tell you now what happened after I left England?”

“Not if it would bore… Miss Montgomery.”

“No. Please. I like to listen to Maurice.”

He kept watching me, ignoring her.