John Fowles - The Magus

“I was furious. I was so disappointed.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it does.”

She gave me a quick, shy smile then, but said nothing; as if, after all, we really didn’t know each other, and a new intimacy had to be established; and something more serious to be discussed.

We came to a place where there was a naturally scalloped-out bank under a pine tree, facing the sea. I saw a white raffia bag there, and a large green rug with a book on It. She kicked off her pale gray shoes, stood on the rug and sat down with her legs curled under her; then patted the rug beside her. A cautious, muted look up at me.

I stooped before I sat, to pick up the book. But she reached first.

“Later.”

I sat.

She put the book into the bag behind her and as she turned the fabric tightened over her breasts; her small waist. She faced back and our eyes met; those fine gray-hyacinth eyes, tilted corners, lingering a moment in mine.

“Why did you do that last night?”

“Not come?” She sat with her knees drawn up, staring out to sea. “The script said I was to promise to meet you, the matchsticks, but June was really to meet you. You were to discover who she is. She was to tell you that I like you. Then we were all three to meet this morning. Just as we have. And then… you and I were to discover that we were falling in love. The only thing is that June was to have convinced you last night that I, I mean Lily, really is a schizophrenic. Or under hypnosis. And it’s mad. We knew we couldn’t do it. Just one final madness too much.” She had spoken quickly, with a completely new matter-of-factness, a complete abandonment of role. She threw me a look as if to say, I am sorry I tricked you earlier, and that my real self is going to be a disappointment; a tentative, uncertain look, turned off towards the sea. Suddenly she seemed more distant, as actresses one has been moved by onstage so often are offstage; a disconcerting alienation effect.

I offered her a Papastratos.

“No thanks. I don’t.”

“Like Lily.”

“Like Lily.”

There was silence; her old self had drained away, like water between stones.

“Well?”

“Either you ask me questions, or I ask you. I don’t mind. You did produce credentials to my sister. So I suppose I should go first.”

I lit my cigarette. “Let me guess your real surname… Holmes?”

Her head shot round. There was no mistaking her shock.

“How did you know that!”

“Intuition.”

“But June swore…” I was smiling. “Please. Really. This isn’t funny.”

“Maurice told me.”

It amazed her. “He told you our real names!”

“Just yours.”

“And what else?” She was propped on her right hand, staring suspiciously down at me as I lay on my side.

“I thought I was going to ask the questions.”

“What else? About who we really are?” I had never seen her so concerned; almost cross.

“This schizo thing.”

“Yes—and what else?”

I shrugged. “That you were dangerous. Good at deceiving. And that if ever one day you told me your real name I was to he especially suspicious.” She went back to hugging her knees, staring out through the branches of the two or three pine trees that stood between us and the clifftop. The sea came through them, deep azure merging into the sky’s deep azure. The sun-wind shook the branches, flowed round us like a current of warm water. She looked lost in doubts; in anxiety; gave me yet another quick probing look.

“Do you trust us at all?”

“'And everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go.'”

It was the wrong answer. She did not smile and killed the equivocal smile in my own eyes.

“I want a friend. Not a tame lamb.”

“I’m ready to be bought. By the right evidence.”

She searched my eyes, hunting down the other, physical, price I implied. Then looked away. “You realize that Maurice’s aim is to destroy reality? To make trust between us impossible?”

“I’m more interested in your aim.”

“Questions?”

“Questions.”

She turned away again, then changed her mind and lay on her side, on her elbow, facing me; a small smile.

“Go on. Anything.”

“You’re an actress?”

She shrugged, self-deprecating. “At Cambridge.”

“What did you read?”

“Classics. June did languages.”

“When did you come down?”

“Two years ago.”

“You’ve known Maurice how long?”

She opened her mouth, then changed her mind, and reached behind her for the bag, which she put between us. “I’ve brought all I could. Come a little closer. I’m so scared they’ll see what I’m doing.” I looked round, but we were in a position where they—whoever “they” were—would have had to be very close to see more than our heads. But I went nearer, shielding what she brought out of the bag. The first thing was the book.

It was small, half bound in black leather, with green marbled paper sides; rubbed and worn. I looked at the title page; Quintus Horatius Flaccus, Parisiis .

“It’s a Didot Ainé.”

“Who’s he?” I saw the date i8oo.

“A famous French printer.” She turned me back to the flyleaf. On it was, in very neat writing, an inscription: From the 'idiots’ of IVB to their lovely teacher, Miss Julie Holmes. Summer 1952 . Underneath were fifteen or so signatures: Penny O'Brien, Susan Smith, Susan Mowbray, Jane Willings, Lea Gluckstein, Jean Ann Moffat … I looked up at her.

“First of all explain how you were teaching last summer in England and—remember?—coping with Mitford here.”

“I wasn’t here last summer. That’s the script.” She ignored my unspoken question. “Please look at these first.”

Six or seven envelopes. Three were addressed to: Miss Julie and Miss June Holmes, do Maurice Conchis, Esquire, Bourani, Phraxos, Greece . They had English stamps and recent postmarks, all from Dorset.

“Read one.”

I took out a letter from the top envelope. It was on headed paper. ANSTY COTTAGE, CERNE ABBAS, DORSET. It began in a rapid scrawl:

Darlings, I’ve been frantically busy with all the doodah for the Show, on top of that Mr. Arnold’s been in and he wants to do the painting as soon as possible. Also guess who—Roger rang up, he’s at Bovington now, and asked himself over for the weekend. He was so disappointed you were both abroad—hadn’t heard. I think he’s much nicer—not nearly so pompous. And a captain!! I didn’t know what on earth to do with him so I asked the Drayton girl and her brother round for supper and I think it went off rather well. Billy is getting so fat, old Tom says it’s all the grass, so I asked the D. girl if she’d like to give him a ride or two, I knew you wouldn’t mind …

I turned to the end. The letter was signed Mummy. I looked up and she pulled a face. “Sorry.”

She handed me three other letters. One was evidently from a former fellow teacher—news about people, school activities. Another from a friend who signed herself Claire . One from a bank in London, to June, advising her that “a remittance of £ioo had been received” on May 31st.

“Our salary.”

It was my turn to be surprised. “He pays you this every month?”

“Each of us.”

“Good God.”

I looked at the letter from the bank again and memorized the address: Barclay’s Bank, Englands Lane, N.W.3. The manager’s name was P. J. Fearn.

“And this.”

It was her passport. Miss J. N. Holmes .

“N. ?”

“Neilson. My mother’s family name.”

I read the signalement opposite her photo. Profession: student. Date of birth: 16.12.1930. Place of birth: Cape Town, South Africa .