The Drowning People (16 page)

I considered this. Eric was right: if the head of strings at the Guildhall was in a position to be influenced by either Regina Boardman or Michael Fullerton I had a chance of winning him round to my unorthodox plans, for I knew that I could be assured of the complete support of both patron and reviewer. So long as Eric’s facts, however obtained, were correct, anything might be possible.

“You’re right,” I said, beaming at the realization. “You’re absolutely right. There might just be a chance.”

“And if you came to Prague and it was all arranged,” he went on, grinning now, “would you like to share Madame Mocsáry’s apartment with me?”

“It’s very kind, but I couldn’t impose.”

There was a pause.

“I should be lonely without your company.”

Another pause followed, as I cursed the polite reserve of twenty-two years’ training.

“In that case,” I said, taking the plunge, “I … accept with pleasure.”

“And the only rent,” he continued, “would be a little help with the organization of the sale. Otherwise it would be completely free. And Prague is, in any case, a very cheap city. We could live like kings, not like,” he gestured about the room, “the rats we are in London. I do not like to live in holes, James.”

And in high spirits we shook hands on our plan and I got up to leave, glowing with excitement but telling myself not to allow my hopes to rise too high; that there were many hurdles yet to be jumped. But I thanked Eric for his generosity with sincere warmth.

“Not at all,” he said. “I like you extremely.”

And I, awkward at such direct affection, was irritated by my own awkwardness. I shook his hand again with renewed vigor; for thus does the Englishman express his regard for his friends. And as I did so I thought of Ella’s distaste for physical reserve; it was something which we had discussed at length. So I let go of Eric’s hand and hugged him, with a certain pride at thus proving my freedom from convention. He returned my hug, pleased but obviously surprised.

“Thank you,” I said again.

“I have told you,” he repeated, looking directly into my eyes, “it is nothing. To give pleasure to one’s friends is to give pleasure to oneself.”

And I left him and walked home through the gathering blue dusk, watching pink turn to gold and then to gray as the sun set over the roofs and smog of a great city. And I thought, as I looked at the heavens above me, enormous in their beauty, that all their splendor could not match the splendor of my own happiness, that all their color was as gray against the riches of my life. It was a fanciful thought, I see that now; but Ella had made me fanciful. And as the sun set I sat by the river and watched it go, first seeking in its power a metaphor and then resting, quite content, in the pale warmth of its final rays.

I find it strange, now, to think of how happy I was that day, to remember how I rejoiced in the opportunities that lay ahead at every turn. Experience has made me cynicm; for as innocence was the sin of my youth so cynicism is the sin of my age. I remember sitting by the river in the last warmth of that sinking sun, but the memory seems vicarious, as though synthesized from an account given me by a stranger. The boy who sat there, warm on that summer’s evening, is not the man who freezes in this icy room now. The image in my mind is not of me: the boy I see is someone I knew once and whom I know no more. He belongs to my past, an acquaintance from whom I am separated irrevocably, forever. The gulf between my knowledge and his innocence is too wide to be bridged.

I follow his thoughts as he sits, thinking himself not thinking, and watch them as they fly to foreign cities; to thunderous applause; to praise earned from the wrinkled lips of a great teacher with a wizened face and silver hair. Love for Ella, you see, and the reciprocation of that love, had already made me vainglorious. In the space of a few short weeks my life had been transformed; and I was young enough to think that its transformation had something to do with an innate quality of my own. My father used to say that luck came to those who earned it; and I felt as I sat by that river that I was vindicated by good fortune. Ella’s love, Eric’s friendship, my own fledgling success, all had been earned and all were mine to enjoy. I had not yet grasped, nor would I grasp for many years, that Fortune with her scales is a capricious force. Sitting by that river I suspected nothing of what I have learned now to be the truth: that she acts independently of her victims, choosing to raise this one up, to cast this one down; to ennoble, to degrade, to protect and to persecute, all on the flimsiest of whims. She ensures her pleasures by devious means, artful in their cruelty. She fans the flames of human pride and extinguishes them without warning; she bestows fleeting immortality and takes it back when it is needed most, leaving wretchedness in its place. Her bounty brings misery and eternal isolation; for it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle, we are told, than it is for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.

Now that Sarah is dead I am, I suppose, a rich man. Is my wealth to be another obstacle on my path to peace? Is it to join the long succession of barriers I can never hope to cross? I am trapped on a journey I cannot complete; I am alone with no one to turn to. My only companion, the boy who sits, staring dreamily at the golden river, is powerless to help me; he cannot hear my questions and I cannot hear his answers. He knows nothing of me; how could he? He knows no pain; his only pain is irritation, the temporary thwarting of immediate desires. He knows no guilt; his only guilt is the lapse of yesterday, soon forgotten. He knows no remorse, no shame, no despair. I resent him. He, who thinks himself so fine, does not move as I question him. He sits by the river, in an end-less idle dream, as I beg for signs I might have seen, for warnings I might have heeded. But still he sits, moving only to toss a pebble into the fast-flowing waters. He pays no attention to the ramblings of an old man; he does not hear them. And I am left helpless, watching.

CHAPTER 12

I
N DUE COURSE THE APPROPRIATE AUTHORITIES
were appealed to, the appropriate favors were called in, and a term’s sabbatical was granted. A tape of my playing at St. Peter’s was dispatched to Prague by courier with a long letter from Eric attached; and two days of tense waiting later, a telegram arrived from Mendl saying that he would be delighted to take me on for a term.

Camilla Boardman telephoned as soon as she knew.
“Daaarling!
You’re so fabulous!”

“I think it’s your mother’s work rather than mine, Camilla.”

“Didn’t I say you two would enjoy each other? Didn’t I say so?”

“You did.”

“And wasn’t I right?”

“You were. Thank you.”

Camilla required her own portion of recognition.

My only reservation in all the excitement was the thought of leaving Ella.

I had told her immediately, of course, of Eric’s offer; together we had endured the tense few days of Regina Boardman’s machinations. Neither of us had believed that they would come to anything, though Ella understood my hopes and hoped with me; and when they did it was Ella whom I wanted to be the first to know. But when I called the house in Chester Square I was told that the Harcourts were away; and the deep voice at the other end was not at liberty to tell me when they might be back.

For two days I waited, puzzled, while my mother told her friends of my good fortune and undoubted genius. The atmosphere at home had changed now beyond all recognition; for with the instinct of artful losers—or so I understood it at the time—my parents had come to believe that there had been no struggle between us at all. Of course a little uncertainty on their part was only to have been expected, they told me, but that said they had never sought to stand in my way. Quite the contrary in fact, though they still felt it was important not to forget the value of a safe job, whatever I did. With the indifference of youth I listened to their explanations and thought myself very fine for not judging their hypocrisy.

It was only years later that I was able to see beyond the confines of that struggle with my parents; to understand that, though snobbish, they were not hypocritical to see the love behind our long drawn-out conflict. Only years later could I appreciate the graciousness of their happiness for me; and then, as so often in life, it was too late to tell them so.

At the time I gave little thought to anything my parents said but concentrated instead on contacting Ella. For three days I was frustrated: again and again I was rebuffed by the deep voice that answered the telephone at Chester Square; again and again I was told that it was not at liberty to say when the Harcourts might be back. On the third day of fruitless calls a letter arrived from her. Its envelope was heavy; its paper thick; and it was engraved with a blue coronet and an address which I did not expect: S
ETON
C
ASTLE
, C
ORNWALL
.

My dearest, Ella had written.

You would be embarrassed to know how much I miss you; or at least to be told so in a letter. I think my Californian endearments would make you self-conscious. (And being at Seton in weather like this, with sparkling views of a sunlit sea, makes me achingly sentimental sometimes. So I shall be stern with myself and spare you.)

The reason for my presence here is a sad one, I’m afraid. Uncle Cyril has had some sort of seizure; he collapsed four days ago and has been in hospital in Penzance ever since. Things are apparently touch and go and the family has been summoned to squabble by his bedside and awe the villagers. Aunt Elizabeth insists on flaunting unity at times like this “as an example to the tenants” which of course is a remark guaranteed to make my blood boil. Such is the damage which an American education can do, even to members of the best families; and I have been the cause of much collective disquiet, I’m sure. Aunt Elizabeth and Sarah hum and ha in corners for hours, talking (I bet) of how reprehensible I am and how there is nothing to be done about it. Poor Pamela comes in for most of the reproving looks, however; she doesn’t have the protection of blood ties, you see—she’s just an interloper whose day will one day come and Elizabeth knows it. My aunt dreads being sent to the Dower House.

The family disapproval of me and Pamela makes Daddy very angry, naturally; and meals are frosty occasions. I hope Cyril is not sent home to recuperate in an atmosphere like this—it would kill him. But we must stay until he is out of danger, and that will mean at least a week, perhaps two. This, I think, is a good separation for us. Much as I love our times together (and I do love them) they distract me from the matter in hand. I am still engaged; nothing has changed; and I cannot go on behaving as though it has. Charlie is beginning to wonder why I’m always ill when he wants to see me, and my stock of excuses is not endless. I feel Sarah watching me, too, and I wonder how much those cool eyes of hers see. She makes me uncomfortable, as well she might. (You see I do have a conscience, after all.)

So I shall spend my time here thinking seriously of what is to be done. And I shall think also of you and your tremendous opportunities in Prague. How I shall miss you if you go (damn Regina Boardman—she’ll kill herself to arrange things, I know). But with a feeling as strong as ours there is plenty of time.

I love you and love you,

Ella

I did see Ella once before my departure, for studying permits took longer to arrange than Eric and I had anticipated and we remained in London while the bureaucracies of two governments took their time over us. Uncle Cyril came home, recovered, and sent his family away in irritation at the fuss which it made over him. So Ella returned to London and once again the house in Chester Square became a hive of wedding activities. We met on the day before my departure. Clothes and books had been carefully packed; visas collected; friends telephoned and seen. All was ready. Camilla Boardman had demanded a private interview and, over lunch, had told me that London would be
horribly
dull without me. Michael Fullerton had telephoned to wish me luck. And Regina Boardman, true to form, had organized a last charity concert, and so seen at least an initial return on her investment in my future.

Ella and I met in the triumphant Victorian splendor of the National Portrait Gallery. It was mid-September, one of the last days of that long, warm summer. Outside in Trafalgar Square and Charing Cross Road the crowds were sweaty and loud; inside, in the sepulchral cool of the gallery and its long deserted rooms, there was silence. I can see her as she walked up the stairs towards me; can see the expectant haste of her quick, light step; the smile on her lips; the glow of her cheeks. She was wearing a short, flimsy dress of pale blue cotton; her knees were bare; her hair looked wet and was brushed back from her face.

I don’t remember all we talked of, though she must have told me about her visit to Seton; about her uncle’s recovery; about the suppression of family bitterness in the invalid’s presence at least, if not elsewhere. I remember telling her of Regina Boardman’s supremely focused efforts on my behalf; of the fraught days before Mendl’s acceptance of me as a pupil; of the fact that Eric’s great-aunt had been Isabelle Mocsáry. I remember going next door with her to the National Gallery to see its small collection of Mocsárys and our disappointment on being told that they were on loan to the Musée d’Orsay in Paris. Above all I remember the intimacy of those few hours, the ease with which we talked and laughed and, over tea in a Covent Garden café, kissed. It was only as evening drew on that our talk grew serious, with the seriousness of lovers about to be parted.

“I can’t say how glad I am for you,” Ella told me quietly. “And how sad I am for me. But I think this separation will be good for us.” She paused to light a cigarette and I watched the elegant arch of her fingers as she clasped it and put it to her lips. She lit it and took two meditative puffs, slowly. “And I think that it should be a complete separation, at least for the moment.”