The Real Life of Sebastian Knight (8 page)

It is a pity Mr Goodman had not the leisure to peruse this passage, though it is doubtful whether he would have grasped its inner meaning.

He was kind enough to send me a copy of his work. In the letter accompanying it he explained in heavily bantering tones, with what was epistolarily meant to be a good-natured wink, that if he had not mentioned the book in the course of our interview, it was because he wanted it to be a splendid surprise. His tone, his guffaws, his pompous wit — all this suggested an old gruff friend of the family turning up with a precious gift for the youngest. But Mr Goodman is not a very good actor. Not for a moment did he really think that I would be delighted either with the book he wrote or with the mere fact that he had gone out of his way to advertise the name of a member of my family. He knew all along that his book was rubbish, and he knew that neither its binding, nor its jacket, nor the blurb on the jacket, nor indeed any of the reviews and notices in the Press would deceive me. Why he had considered it wiser to keep me in the dark is not quite evident. Perhaps he thought I might wickedly sit down and dash off my own volume, just in time to have it collide with his.

But he not only sent me his book. He also produced the account he had promised me. This is not the place to discuss these matters. I have handed them over to my solicitor who has already acquainted me with his conclusions. Here I may only say that Sebastian's candour in practical affairs was taken advantage of in the coarsest fashion. Mr Goodman has never been a regular literary agent. He has only bet on books. He does not rightfully belong to that intelligent, honest and hard-working profession. We will leave it at that; but I have not yet done with
The Tragedy of Sebastian Knight
or rather —
The Farce of Mr Goodman.

Two years had elapsed after my mother's death before I saw Sebastian again. One picture postcard was all I had had from him during that time, except the cheques he insisted on sending me. On a dull grey afternoon in November or December 1924, as I was walking up the Champs-Élysées towards the Étoile I suddenly caught sight of Sebastian through the glass front of a popular café. I remember my first impulse was to continue on my way, so pained was I by the sudden revelation that having arrived in Paris he had not communicated with me. Then on second thought I entered. I saw the back of Sebastian's glossy dark head and the downcast bespectacled face of the girl sitting opposite him. She was reading a letter which, as I approached, she handed back to him with a faint smile and took off her horn-rimmed glasses.

'Isn't it rich?' asked Sebastian, and at the same moment I laid my hand on his thin shoulder.

'Oh, hullo, V,' he said, looking up. .'This is my brother, Miss Bishop. Sit down and make yourself comfortable.' She was pretty in a quiet sort of way with a pale faintly freckled complexion, slightly hollowed cheeks, blue-grey near-sighted eyes, a thin mouth. She wore a grey tailor-made with a blue scarf and a small three-cornered hat. I believe her hair was bobbed.

'I was just going to ring you up,' said Sebastian, not very truthfully I am afraid. 'You see I am only here for the day and going back to London tomorrow. What will you have?'

They were drinking coffee. Clare Bishop, her lashes beating, rummaged in her bag, found her handkerchief, and dabbed first one pink nostril and then the other. 'Cold getting worse,' she said and clicked her bag.

'Oh, splendidly,' said Sebastian, in reply to an obvious question. 'As a matter a fact I have just finished writing a novel, and the publisher I've chosen seems to like it, judging by his encouraging letter. He even seems to approve of the title
Cock Robin Hits Back,
though Clare doesn't.'

'I think it sounds silly,' said Clare, 'and besides, a bird can't hit.'

'It alludes to a well-known nursery-rhyme,' said Sebastian, for my benefit.

'A silly allusion,' said Clare; 'your first title was much better.'

I don't know.... The prism.... The prismatic edge' murmured Sebastian, 'that's not quite what I want.... Pity Cock Robin is so unpopular....'

'A title,' said Clare, 'must convey the colour of the book, not its subject.'

It was the first time and also the last that I ever heard Sebastian discuss literary matters in my presence. Rarely, too, had I seen him in such a light-hearted mood. He appeared well groomed and fit. His finely-shaped white face with that slight shading on the cheeks — he was one of those unfortunate men who have to shave twice a day when dining out — did not show a trace of that dull unhealthy tinge it so often had. His rather large slightly pointed ears were aflame as they were when he was pleasurably excited. I, for my part, was tongue-tied and stiff. Somehow, I felt that I had barged in.

'Shall we go to a cinema or something,' asked Sebastian diving into his waistcoat pocket, with two fingers.

'Just as you like,' said Clare.

'Gah-song,' said Sebastian. I had noticed before that he tried to pronounce French as a real healthy Britisher would.

For some time we searched under the table and under the plush seats for one of Clare's gloves. She used a nice cool perfume. At last I retrieved it, a grey suéde glove with a white lining and a fringed gauntlet. She put them on leisurely as we pushed through the revolving door. Rather tall, very straight-backed, good ankles, flat-heeled shoes.

'Look here,' I said, 'I don't think I can go with you to the pictures. I'm dreadfully sorry, but I have got some things to attend to. Perhaps.... But when exactly are you leaving?'

'Oh, tonight,' replied Sebastian, 'but I'll soon be over again.... Stupid of me not to have let you know earlier. At any rate we can walk with you a little way....'

'Do you know Paris well?' I asked of Clare....

'My parcel,' she said stopping short.

'Oh, all right, I'll fetch it,' said Sebastian and went back to the café.

We two proceeded very slowly up the wide sidewalk. I lamely repeated my question.

'Yes, fairly,' she said. 'I've got friends here — I'm staying with them until Christmas.'

'Sebastian looks remarkably well,' I said.

'Yes, I suppose he does,' said Clare looking over her shoulder and then blinking at me. 'When I first met him he C looked a doomed man.'

'When was that?' I probably asked, for now I remember her answer: 'This spring in London at a dreadful party, but then he always looks doomed at parties.'

'Here are your bongs-bongs,' said Sebastian's voice behind us. I told them I was going to the Étoile underground station and we skirted the place from the left. As we were about to cross the Avenue Kléber, Clare nearly got knocked down by a bicycle.

'You little fool,' said Sebastian, gripping her by elbow.

'Far too many pigeons,' she said, as we reached the kerb.

'Yes, and they smell,' added Sebastian.

'What kind of smell? My nose is stuffed up,' she asked sniffing and peering at the dense crowd of fat birds strutting about our feet.

'Iris and rubber,' said Sebastian.

The groan of a motor-lorry in the act of avoiding a furniture van sent the birds wheeling across the sky. They settled among the pearl-grey and black frieze of the Arc de Triomphe and when some of them fluttered off again it seemed as if bits of the carved entablature were turned into flaky life. A few years later I found that picture, 'that stone melting into wing', in Sebastian's third book.

We crossed more avenues and then came to the white banisters of the underground station. Here we parted, quite cheerfully.... I remember Sebastian's receding raincoat and Clare's blue-grey figure. She took his arm and altered her step to fall in with his swinging stride.

Now, I learnt from Miss Pratt a number of things which made me wish to learn a good deal more. Her object in applying to me was to find out whether any of Clare Bishop's letters to Sebastian had remained among his things. She stressed the point that it was not Clare Bishop's commission; that in fact Clare Bishop knew nothing of our interview. She had been married now for three or four years and was much too proud to speak of the past. Miss Pratt had seen her a week or so after Sebastian's death had got into the papers, but although the two women were very old friends (that is, knew more about each other than each of them thought the other knew) Clare did not dwell upon the event.

'I hope he was not too unhappy,' she said quietly and then added, 'I wonder if he kept my letters?'

The way she said this, the narrowing of her eyes, the quick sigh she gave before changing the subject, convinced her friend that it would be a great relief for her to know the letters had been destroyed. I asked Miss Pratt whether I could get in touch with Clare; whether Clare might be coaxed into talking to me about Sebastian. Miss Pratt answered that knowing Clare she would not even dare to transmit my request. 'Hopeless,' was what she said. For a moment I was basely tempted to hint that I had the letters in my keeping and would hand them over to Clare provided she granted me a personal interview, so passionate was my longing to meet her, just to see and to watch the shadow of the name I would mention flit across her face. But no — I could not blackmail Sebastian's past. That was out of the question.

'The letters are burnt,' I said. I then continued to plead, repeating again and again that surely there could be no harm in trying; could she not convince Clare, when telling her of our talk, that my visit would be very short, very innocent?

'What is it exactly you want to know?' asked Miss Pratt, 'because, you see, I can tell you lots myself.'

She spoke for a long time about Clare and Sebastian. She did it very well, although, like most women, she was inclined to be somewhat didactic in retrospection.

'Do you mean to say,' I interrupted her at a certain point of her story, 'that nobody ever found out what that other woman's name was?'

'No,' said Miss Pratt.

'But how shall I find her,' I cried.

'You never will.'

'When do you say it began?' I interrupted again, as she referred to his illness.

'Well,' she said, 'I'm not quite sure. What I witnessed wasn't his first attack. We were coming out of some restaurant. It was very cold and he could not find a taxi. He got nervous and angry. He started .to run towards one that had drawn up a little way off. Then he stopped and said he was not feeling well. I remember he took a pill or something out of a little box and crushed it in his white silk scarf, sort of pressing it to his face as he did so. That must have been in twenty-seven or twenty-eight.'

I asked several more questions. She answered them all in the same conscientious fashion and went on with her dismal tale.

When she had gone, I wrote it all down — but it was dead, dead. I simply had to see Clare! One glance, one word, the mere sound of her voice would be sufficient (and necessary, absolutely necessary) to animate the past. Why it was thus I did not understand, just as I have never understood why on a certain unforgettable day some weeks earlier I had been so sure that if I could find a dying man alive and conscious I would learn something which no human being had yet learnt.

Then one Monday morning I made a call.

The maid showed me into a small sitting room. Clare was at home, this at least I learnt from that ruddy and rather raw young female. (Sebastian mentions somewhere that English novelists never' depart from a certain fixed tone when describing housemaids.) On the other hand I knew from Miss Pratt that Mr Bishop was busy in the City on weekdays; queer — her having married a man with the same name, no relation either, just pure coincidence. Would she not see me? Fairly well off, I should say, but not very.... Probably an L-shaped drawing room on the first floor and over that a couple of bedrooms. The whole street consisted of just such close-pressed narrow houses. She was long in roaking up her mind.... Should I have risked telephoning first? Had Miss Pratt already told her about the letters? Suddenly I heard soft footfalls coming down the stairs and a huge man in a black dressing-gown with purple facings came bouncing into the room.

'I apologize for my attire,' he said, 'but I am suffering from a severe cold. My name is Bishop and I gather you want to see my wife.'

Had he caught that cold, I thought in a curious flash of fancy, from the pink-nosed husky-voiced Clare I had seen twelve years ago?

'Why, yes,' I said, 'if she hasn't forgotten me. We met once in Paris!

'Oh, she remembered your name all right,' said Mr Bishop, looking at me squarely, 'but I am sorry to say she can't see you,'

'May I call later?' I asked.

There was a slight silence, and then Mr Bishop asked. 'Am I right in presuming that your visit is connected in some way with your brother's death?' There he stood before roe, hands thrust into his dressing-gown pockets, looking at roe, his fair hair brushed back with an angry brush — a good fellow, a decent fellow, and I hope he will not mind my saying so here. Quite recently, I may add, in very sad circumstances, letters have been exchanged between us, which have quite done away with any ill-feeling that might have crept into our first conversation.

'Would that prevent her seeing me?' I asked in my turn. It was a foolish phrase, I admit.

'You are not going to see her in any case,' said Mr Bishop. 'Sorry,' he added, relenting a little, as he felt I was safely drifting out. 'I am sure that in other circumstances... but you see my wife is not overkeen to recall past friendships, and you will forgive me if I say quite frankly I do not think you should have come.'

I walked back feeling I had bungled it badly. I pictured to myself what I would have said to Clare had I found her alone. Somehow I managed to convince myself now that had she been alone, she would have seen me: so an unforeseen obstacle belittles those one had imagined. I would have said: 'Let us not talk of Sebastian. Let us talk of Paris. Do you know it well? Do you remember those pigeons? Tell me what you have been reading lately.... And what about films? Do you still lose your gloves, parcels?' Or else I might have resorted to a bolder method, a direct attack. 'Yes, I know how you must feel about it, but please, please, talk to me about him. For the sake of his portrait. For the sake of little things which will wander away and perish if you refuse to let me have them for my book about him.' Oh, I was sure she would never have refused.