John Fowles - The Magus

“You are taking a long time, Mr. Urfe.”

“My name is Nicholas.”

“May I call you Nicholas?”

“If I may call you… ?”

“You may call me Lily, Nicholas. But you may not sit for hours pretending to read my hand.”

“It’s a very difficult hand to read. Very obscure. I can only see one thing clearly.”

“And what is that?”

“It’s extremely nice to look at and to hold.”

She snatched it away. “There. You prove what I said. You are treacherous.”

“Let me have it back. I’ll be serious.” But she shook her head, and put both her hands behind her, and turned, and looked at me with a perfectly done pert Edwardian rebelliousness. A wisp of hair blew across her face; the wind kindled in her clothes a wantonness, bared her throat, so that she suddenly looked very young, absurdly young, seventeen; a world away from an avenging goddess. I remembered what Conchis had said about the original Lily’s gentleness and mischievousness, and I thought how wonderfully well he had cast this Lily—there was, it seemed to me, a natural teasing obliquity in her that couldn’t be acted. Not when she was so close, in daylight; she seemed far less sophisticated than she had on the terrace the night before. All the condescension had disappeared. Impulsively she thrust her hand back out at me. I began to read it.

“I see all the usual things. Long life. Happiness. Children. And then… intelligence. A lot of intelligence. Some heart. And yes—great acting ability, combined with a strong sense of humor. And this line means that you love mystery. But I think the acting’s strongest.”

A little white cloud floated across the sun, casting shadow over the beach. She took her hand away, and stared down at it in her lap.

“And death?”

“I said. A long life.”

“But I am dead. One cannot die twice.”

I touched her arm. “You’re the most living dead person I’ve ever met.”

She did not smile; there was swiftly, too swiftly, something very cold and gray in her eyes, a silent trouble.

“Oh come on. There is a limit.”

“Death is the limit.”

I knew she must be improvising her moods and dialogue with me. The cloud had come; she had brought in death. It was time to call her bluff.

“Look—”

“You still do not understand.”

“Of course I’ll keep up the pretense in front of Maurice.”

“We are in front of Maurice.”

I thought for one mad moment that he had crept up behind us. I even looked round. There was no one; and no place where anyone could have hidden and overheard us.

“Lily—I admire him. I like him. I like this extraordinary masque of his. Very much. And I admire you for being so… faithful? But—”

She said abruptly, “I have no choice.”

This was a new tack. I thought I heard a faint note of regret. That he insisted on her keeping up the pretense at all times? On pain of dismissal, perhaps?

“Meaning?”

“Everything you say to me and I say to you, he hears, he knows.”

“You have to tell him?” I sounded incredulous.

She nodded, then stared out to sea and I knew that she was not unmasking at all. I began to feel exasperated; foiled.

“Are we talking about telepathy?”

“Telepathy and—” She broke off the sentence, and she shook her head.

“And?”

“I cannot say any more.”

She opened out her sunshade, as if she was thinking of going away. It had little black tassels that hung from the ends of the ribs.

“Why not?”

“Maurice would be angry. He would know.”

I gave an unbelieving sniff. I thought, then said, “Are you his mistress?”

She looked very genuinely shocked. “That is very impertinent. Very rude.” She turned her back on me and I grinned—at her skill, and remembering that naked “brother,” at her nerve.

“I just want to know where I am.”

“That was…” she dropped her voice and the wind almost carried the words away… “completely uncalled-for and most disgusting.”

Suddenly she stood up and began to walk quickly away over the shingle, towards the path that led up to the house. I ran after her and blocked her way. The sun had come out again. She stopped, her eyes down, then she looked up at me, hotly, apparently very near anger.

I said, “I am not disgusting.”

She burst out. “Why must you always know where you are? Why have you no imagination, no humor, no patience? You are like a child who tears a beautiful toy to pieces to see how it is made. You have no imagination… no poetry.” Her eyes stared at me intensely, as if she was going to cry. “That is why you are so treacherous.”

I spread the towel out before her feet, and knelt on it. Then looked up at her. “I beg forgiveness.”

“You make me angry. I want to be your friend and you make it so difficult.” She half turned away. But her voice was softer.

“Difficult to be friends if I can’t really know who you are.”

I sat back on my haunches. With a swift change of mood she lowered her shade and tapped me lightly on the shoulder with it.

“I deserve a knighthood now?”

“You deserve nothing now.”

She turned completely, as if she wanted to laugh; as if the effort of playing this “serious” exchange had exhausted her gravity. She ran, little stumbling steps, her skirt lifted with one hand, towards the jetty. I got up and lit a cigarette, and then went to where she was strolling up and down. There was more wind on the jetty, and she kept on having trouble with her hair; charming trouble. The ends of it floated up in the sunshine, silky wings of living light. In the end I held her closed sunshade for her, and she tried to hold her hair still. Her mood had veered abruptly again. She kept on laughing, fine white teeth catching the sunlight, hopping, swaying back when a wave hit the jetty end and sent up a little spray. Though once or twice she caught my arm, there was no physical coquettishness about her. She seemed absorbed in her game with the wind and the sea. A pretty, rather skittish schoolgirl in a gay striped dress.

I stole looks at the sunshade. It was newly made. I supposed a ghost from 1915 would have been carrying a new sunshade; but somehow I believed it would have been more authentic, though supernaturally less logical, if it had been old and faded.

Then the bell rang, from the house. It was that same ring I had heard the weekend before, in the rhythm of my own name. Lily stood still, and listened. Wind-distorted, the bell rang again.

“Nich-o-las.” She looked mock-grave. “It tolls for thee.”

I looked up through the trees.

“I can’t think why.”

“You must go.”

“Will you come with me?”

“I must wait.” The bell rang again. “You must go.”

I stood undecided. “Why must you wait?”

“Because it did not toll for me.”

“I think we ought to show that we’re friends again.”

She was standing close to me, holding her hair from blowing across her face. She gave me a severe look.

“Mr. Urfe!” She said it exactly as she had the night before. The same chilly over-precise pronunciation. “Are you asking me to commit osculation?”

And it was perfect; a mischievous girl of 1915 poking fun at a feeble Victorian joke; a lovely double remove; the linguistic-dramatic equivalent of some complicated ballet-movement; and she looked absurd and lovely as she did it. She pushed her cheek forward, and I hardly had time to touch it with my lips before she had skipped back. I stood and watched her bent head.

“I’ll be as quick as I can.” I handed her back her sunshade; gave her what I trusted was both a hopelessly attracted and a totally unduped look.