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"
"
Like
what
?
"
"
’
do
you
think
the
novel
is
exhausted
as
an
art
form
?
’
No
serious
answer
was
expected
.
"
"
I
see
.
It
was
not
serious
.
"
"
Not
at
all
.
"
I
looked
at
the
notebook
.
"
Are
my
measurements
interesting
?
"
"
No
.
"
He
dismissed
that
.
"
Well
—
I
am
serious
.
The
novel
is
dead
.
As
dead
as
alchemy
.
"
He
cut
out
with
his
hands
,
with
the
calipers
,
dismissing
that
as
well
.
"
I
realized
that
one
day
before
the
war
.
Do
you
know
what
I
did
?
I
burnt
every
novel
I
possessed
.
Dickens
.
Cervantes
.
Dostoievsky
.
Flaubert
.
All
the
great
and
all
the
small
.
I
even
burnt
something
I
wrote
myself
when
I
was
too
young
to
know
better
.
I
burnt
them
out
there
.
It
took
me
all
day
.
The
sky
took
their
smoke
,
the
earth
their
ashes
.
It
was
a
fumigation
.
I
have
been
happier
and
healthier
ever
since
.
"
I
remembered
my
own
small
destroying
and
thought
,
grand
gestures
are
splendid
—
if
you
can
afford
them
.
He
picked
up
a
book
and
slapped
the
dust
off
it
.
"
Why
should
I
struggle
through
hundreds
of
pages
of
fabrication
to
reach
half
a
dozen
very
little
truths
?
"
"
For
fun
?
"
"
Fun
!
"
He
pounced
on
the
word
.
"
Words
are
for
truth
.
For
facts
.
Not
fiction
.
"
"
I
see
.
"
"
For
this
.
"
A
life
of
Franklin
Roosevelt
.
"
This
.
"
A
French
paperback
on
astrophysics
.
"
This
.
Look
at
this
.
"
It
was
an
old
pamphlet
—
An
Alarme
for
Sinners
,
Containing
the
Last
Words
of
the
Murderer
Robert
Foulkes
,
1679
.
"
There
,
take
that
and
read
it
over
the
weekend
.
See
if
it
is
not
more
real
than
all
the
historical
novels
you
have
ever
read
.
"
His
bedroom
extended
almost
the
seaward
width
of
the
house
,
like
the
music
room
below
.
At
one
end
was
a
bed
—
a
double
bed
,
I
noticed
—
and
a
huge
wardrobe
;
at
the
other
,
a
closed
door
led
through
into
what
must
have
been
a
very
small
room
,
a
dressing
room
perhaps
.
Near
that
door
stood
a
strange
-
looking
table
,
the
top
of
which
he
lifted
.
It
was
(
I
had
to
be
told
)
a
clavichord
.
The
center
of
the
room
was
fitted
out
as
a
kind
of
sitting
room
and
study
.
There
was
another
tiled
stove
,
and
a
desk
littered
with
the
papers
he
must
have
been
working
on
,
and
two
armchairs
upholstered
in
pale
brown
to
match
a
chaise
longue
.
In
one
corner
there
was
a
triangular
cabinet
full
of
pale
blue
and
green
Isnik
ware
.
Flooded
with
evening
light
,
it
was
altogether
a
more
homely
room
than
the
one
downstairs
,
and
by
contrast
pleasantly
free
of
books
.
But
its
tone
was
really
set
by
its
two
paintings
:
both
nudes
,
girls
in
sunlit
interiors
,
pinks
,
reds
,
greens
,
honeys
,
ambers
;
all
light
,
warmth
,
glowing
like
yellow
fires
with
life
,
humanity
,
domesticity
,
sexuality
,
Mediterraneity
.
"
You
know
him
?
"
I
shook
my
head
.
"
Bonnard
.
He
painted
them
both
five
or
six
years
before
he
died
.
"
I
stood
in
front
of
them
.
He
said
,
behind
me
,
"
These
,
I
paid
for
.
"
"
They
were
worth
it
.
"
"
Sunlight
.
A
naked
girl
.
A
chair
.
A
towel
,
a
bidet
.
A
tiled
floor
.
A
little
dog
.
And
he
gives
the
whole
of
existence
a
reason
.
"
I
stared
at
the
one
on
the
left
,
not
the
one
he
had
inventoried
.
It
showed
a
girl
by
a
sunlit
window
with
her
back
turned
,
apparently
drying
her
loins
and
watching
herself
in
the
mirror
at
the
same
time
.
I
was
remembering
Alison
,
Alison
wandering
about
the
flat
naked
,
singing
,
like
a
child
.
It
was
an
unforgettable
painting
;
it
set
a
dense
golden
halo
of
light
round
the
most
trivial
of
moments
,
so
that
the
moment
,
and
all
such
moments
,
could
never
be
completely
trivial
again
.
Conchis
moved
out
on
the
terrace
,
and
I
followed
him
.
By
the
westward
of
the
two
French
doors
stood
a
small
Moorish
ivory
-
inlaid
table
.
It
carried
a
bowl
of
flowers
set
,
as
if
votively
,
before
a
photograph
.
It
was
a
large
picture
in
an
old
-
fashioned
silver
frame
,
with
the
photographer
’
s
name
stamped
floridly
in
gold
across
the
bottom
corner
—
a
London
address
.
A
girl
in
an
Edwardian
dress
stood
by
a
vase
of
roses
on
an
improbable
Corinthian
pedestal
,
while
painted
foliage
drooped
sentimentally
across
the
background
.
It
was
one
of
those
old
photographs
whose
dark
chocolate
shadows
are
balanced
by
the
creamy
richness
of
the
light
surfaces
;
of
a
period
when
women
had
bosoms
,
not
breasts
.
The
young
girl
in
the
picture
had
a
massed
pile
of
light
hair
,
and
a
sharp
waist
,
and
that
plump
softness
of
skin
and
slightly
heavy
Gibson
-
girl
handsomeness
of
feature
that
the
age
so
much
admired
.
Conchis
had
stopped
and
saw
me
give
it
a
lingering
glance
.
"
She
was
once
my
fiancée
.
"
I
looked
again
.
"
You
never
married
her
?
"
"
She
died
.
"
The
girl
looked
absurdly
historical
,
standing
by
her
pompous
vase
in
front
of
the
faded
,
painted
grove
.
"
She
looks
English
.
"
"
Yes
.
"
He
paused
,
surveying
her
.
"
Yes
,
she
was
English
.
"
I
looked
at
him
.
"
What
was
your
English
name
,
Mr
.
Conchis
?
"
He
smiled
one
of
his
rare
smiles
;
like
a
monkey
’
s
paw
flashing
out
of
a
cage
.
"
I
have
forgotten
.
"
"
You
never
married
at
all
?
"
He
remained
looking
down
at
the
photograph
,
then
slowly
shook
his
head
.
"
Come
.
"
A
table
stood
in
the
southeast
corner
of
the
parapeted
L
-
shaped
terrace
.
It
was
already
laid
with
a
cloth
,
presumably
for
dinner
.
We
looked
over
the
trees
at
the
breathtaking
view
,
the
vast
dome
of
light
over
land
and
sea
.
The
mountains
of
the
Peloponnesus
had
turned
a
violet
-
blue
,
and
Venus
hung
in
the
pale
green
sky
like
a
white
lamp
,
with
the
steady
soft
brilliance
of
gaslight
.
The
photo
stood
in
the
doorway
,
placed
rather
in
the
way
children
put
dolls
in
a
window
to
let
them
look
out
.
He
sat
against
the
parapet
with
his
back
to
the
view
.
"
You
have
a
girl
.
You
are
engaged
?
"
In
my
turn
I
shook
my
head
.
"
You
must
find
life
here
very
frustrating
.
"
"
I
was
warned
.
"
Some
embarrassing
proposition
haunted
the
air
.
"
You
have
no
girl
.
You
have
no
family
.
You
have
no
friends
here
.
You
are
very
alone
.
"
"
Loneliness
has
its
advantages
.
"
I
looked
at
him
.
"
Hasn
’
t
it
?
"
"
I
am
lonely
here
.
Not
elsewhere
.
"
He
added
,
"
And
not
even
here
.
"
I
looked
out
to
sea
.
"
Well
there
is
a
girl
,
but
…
"
"
But
?
"
"
I
can
’
t
explain
.
"
"
Is
she
English
?
"
I
thought
of
the
Bonnard
;
that
was
the
reality
;
such
moments
;
not
what
one
could
tell
.
I
smiled
at
him
.
"
May
I
ask
you
what
you
asked
me
last
week
?
No
questions
?
"
"
Of
course
.
"
We
sat
in
silence
then
,
that
same
peculiar
silence
he
had
imposed
on
the
beach
the
Saturday
before
.
At
last
he
turned
to
the
sea
and
spoke
again
.
"
Greece
is
like
a
mirror
.
It
makes
you
suffer
.
Then
you
learn
.
"
"
To
live
alone
?
"
"
To
live
.
With
things
as
they
are
.
A
Swiss
came
to
live
here
—
many
years
ago
now
—
in
an
isolated
ruined
cottage
at
the
far
end
of
the
island
.
Over
there
,
under
Aquila
.
A
man
of
my
age
now
.
He
had
spent
all
his
life
assembling
watches
and
reading
about
Greece
.
He
had
even
taught
himself
classical
Greek
.
He
repaired
the
cottage
himself
,
cleared
the
cisterns
,
and
made
some
terraces
.
His
passion
became
—
you
cannot
guess
—
goats
.
He
kept
one
,
then
two
.
Then
a
small
flock
of
them
.
They
slept
in
the
same
room
as
he
did
.
Always
exquisite
.
Always
combed
and
brushed
,
since
he
was
Swiss
.
He
used
to
call
here
sometimes
in
spring
and
we
would
have
the
utmost
difficulty
in
keeping
his
seraglio
out
of
the
house
.
He
learnt
to
make
excellent
cheeses
—
they
fetched
good
prices
in
Athens
.
But
he
was
absolutely
alone
.
No
one
ever
wrote
to
him
.
Visited
him
.
Totally
alone
.
And
I
believe
the
happiest
man
I
have
ever
met
.
"
"
What
happened
to
him
?
"
"
He
died
in
1937
.
A
stroke
.
They
did
not
discover
him
till
a
fortnight
later
.
By
then
all
his
goats
were
dead
too
.
It
was
winter
,
so
you
see
the
door
was
fastened
.
"
His
eyes
on
mine
,
Conchis
grimaced
,
as
if
he
found
death
a
joker
.
His
skin
clung
very
close
to
his
skull
.
Only
the
eyes
lived
.
I
had
the
strange
impression
that
he
wanted
me
to
believe
he
was
death
;
that
at
any
moment
the
leathery
old
skin
and
the
eyes
would
fall
,
and
I
should
find
myself
the
guest
of
a
skeleton
.
Later
we
went
back
indoors
.
There
were
three
other
rooms
on
the
north
side
of
the
first
floor
.
One
room
he
showed
me
only
a
glimpse
of
,
a
lumber
room
.
I
saw
crates
piled
high
,
and
some
furniture
with
dustcovers
on
.
Then
there
was
a
bathroom
,
and
beside
the
bathroom
,
a
small
bedroom
.
The
bed
was
made
,
and
I
saw
my
dufflebag
lying
on
it
.
I
had
fully
expected
one
locked
room
,
the
woman
-
of
-
the
-
glove
’
s
room
.
Then
I
thought
that
she
lived
in
the
cottage
—
Maria
looked
after
her
,
perhaps
;
or
perhaps
this
room
that
was
to
be
mine
for
the
weekend
was
normally
hers
.
He
handed
me
the
seventeenth
-
century
pamphlet
,
which
I
had
left
on
a
table
on
the
landing
.
"
I
usually
have
an
aperitif
downstairs
in
about
half
an
hour
.
I
will
see
you
then
?
"
"
Of
course
.
"
"
I
must
tell
you
something
.
"
"
Yes
?
"
"
You
have
heard
some
disagreeable
things
about
me
?
"
"
I
only
know
one
story
about
you
and
that
seems
very
much
to
your
credit
.
"
"
The
execution
?
"
"
I
told
you
last
week
.
"
"
I
have
a
feeling
that
you
have
heard
something
else
.
From
Captain
Mitford
?
"
"
Absolutely
nothing
.
I
assure
you
.
"
He
was
standing
in
the
doorway
,
giving
me
his
intensest
look
.
He
seemed
to
gather
strength
;
to
decide
that
the
mystery
must
be
cleared
up
;
then
spoke
.
"
I
am
psychic
.
"
The
house
seemed
full
of
silence
;
and
suddenly
everything
that
had
happened
earlier
led
to
this
.
"
I
’
m
afraid
I
’
m
not
psychic
.
At
all
.
"
We
seemed
drowned
in
dusk
;
two
men
staring
at
each
other
.
I
could
hear
a
clock
ticking
in
his
room
.
"
That
is
unimportant
.
"
He
moved
away
.
"
In
half
an
hour
?
"
"
Of
course
.
But
why
did
you
tell
me
that
?
"
He
turned
to
a
small
table
by
the
door
,
and
struck
a
match
to
light
the
oil
lamp
,
and
then
carefully
adjusted
it
.
In
the
doorway
he
stopped
a
moment
.
"
In
half
an
hour
?
"
he
said
again
Then
he
went
down
the
passage
and
across
the
landing
into
his
room
.
I
heard
his
door
shut
.
The
house
was
very
still
.
I
had
a
sensation
that
I
couldn
’
t
define
;
except
that
it
was
new
.
The
bed
was
a
cheap
iron
one
.
Besides
a
second
table
,
a
carpet
,
and
an
armchair
,
there
was
only
an
old
,
locked
cassone
,
of
a
kind
to
be
found
in
every
cottage
on
the
island
.
It
was
the
least
likely
millionaire
’
s
spare
room
imaginable
.
The
walls
were
bare
except
for
a
photograph
of
a
number
of
village
men
standing
in
front
of
a
house
—
the
house
.
I
could
make
out
a
younger
Conchis
in
the
center
,
wearing
a
straw
hat
and
shorts
,
and
there
was
one
woman
,
a
peasant
woman
,
though
not
Maria
,
because
she
was
Maria
’
s
age
in
the
photo
and
it
was
plainly
twenty
or
thirty
years
old
.
I
held
up
the
lamp
and
turned
the
picture
round
to
see
if
there
was
anything
written
on
the
back
.
But
the
only
thing
there
was
a
fragile
gecko
,
which
clung
splayfooted
to
the
wall
and
watched
me
with
cloudy
eyes
.
Geckos
like
seldom
-
used
rooms
.
On
the
table
by
the
head
of
the
bed
there
was
a
flat
shell
to
serve
as
an
ashtray
,
and
three
books
;
a
collection
of
ghost
stories
,
an
old
Bible
and
a
large
thin
volume
entitled
The
Beauties
of
Nature
.
The
ghost
stories
purported
to
be
true
,
"
authenticated
by
at
least
two
reliable
witnesses
.
"
The
list
of
contents
—
Borley
Rectory
,
The
Isle
of
Man
Polecat
,
No
.
18
Dennington
Road
,
The
Man
with
the
Limp
—
reminded
me
of
being
ill
at
boarding
school
.
I
opened
The
Beauties
of
Nature
.
The
nature
was
all
female
,
and
the
beauty
all
pectoral
.
There
were
long
shots
of
breasts
,
shots
of
breasts
of
every
material
from
every
angle
,
and
against
all
sorts
of
background
,
closer
and
closer
,
until
the
final
picture
was
of
nothing
but
breast
,
with
one
dark
and
much
larger
than
natural
nipple
staring
from
the
center
of
the
glossy
page
.
It
was
much
too
obsessive
to
be
erotic
.
I
picked
up
the
lamp
and
went
into
the
bathroom
.
It
was
well
fitted
out
,
with
a
formidable
medicine
chest
.
I
looked
for
some
sign
of
a
woman
’
s
occupation
,
and
found
none
.
There
was
running
water
,
but
it
was
cold
and
salt
;
for
men
only
.
I
went
back
to
my
room
and
lay
on
the
bed
.
The
sky
in
the
open
window
was
a
pale
night
blue
and
one
or
two
first
faint
northerly
stars
blinked
over
the
trees
.
Outside
,
the
crickets
chirped
monotonously
,
with
a
Webern
-
like
inconsistency
yet
precision
of
rhythm
.
I
heard
small
noises
from
the
cottage
below
my
window
,
and
I
could
smell
cooking
.
In
the
house
was
a
great
stillness
.
I
was
increasingly
baffled
by
Conchis
.
At
times
he
was
so
Germanically
dogmatic
that
I
wanted
to
laugh
,
to
behave
in
the
traditionally
xenophobic
,
continentals
-
despising
way
of
my
race
;
at
times
,
rather
against
my
will
,
he
impressed
me
,
and
not
only
as
a
rich
man
with
some
enviable
works
of
art
in
his
house
.
And
now
he
quite
definitely
frightened
me
.
It
was
the
kind
of
illogical
fear
of
the
supernatural
that
in
others
made
me
sneer
;
but
all
along
I
had
felt
that
I
was
invited
not
out
of
hospitality
,
but
for
some
other
reason
.
He
wanted
to
use
me
in
some
way
.
I
now
discounted
homosexuality
;
he
had
had
his
chances
and
ignored
them
Beside
,
the
Bonnards
,
the
fiancée
,
the
book
of
breasts
,
all
discounted
it
.
Something
much
more
bizarre
was
afoot
.
Are
you
elect
…
Even
here
I
am
not
alone
…
I
am
psychic
…
it
all
pointed
to
spiritualism
,
to
table
tapping
.
Perhaps
the
lady
of
the
glove
was
a
medium
of
some
kind
.
Certainly
Conchis
hadn
’
t
got
the
petty
-
bourgeois
gentility
and
the
woolly
vocabulary
I
associated
with
séance
holders
;
but
he
was
equally
certainly
not
a
normal
man
.
I
lit
a
cigarette
,
and
after
a
while
I
smiled
.
In
that
small
bare
room
,
it
seemed
not
to
matter
,
even
if
I
was
a
shade
scared
.
The
truth
was
that
I
was
full
of
a
sort
of
green
stir
.
Conchis
was
no
more
than
the
chance
agent
,
the
event
that
had
come
at
the
right
time
;
just
as
in
the
old
days
,
I
might
,
after
a
celibate
term
at
Oxford
,
have
met
a
girl
and
begun
an
affaire
with
her
;
I
had
begun
something
exciting
with
him
.
It
seemed
linked
in
a
way
with
my
wanting
to
see
Alison
again
.
I
wanted
to
live
again
.
The
house
was
as
quiet
as
death
,
as
the
inside
of
a
skull
;
but
the
year
was
1953
,
I
was
an
atheist
and
an
absolute
nonbeliever
in
spiritualism
,
ghosts
and
all
that
mumbo
-
jumbo
.
I
lay
there
waiting
for
the
half
-
hour
to
pass
;
and
the
silence
of
the
house
was
still
,
that
day
,
much
more
a
silence
of
peace
than
one
of
fear
.
