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I
was
experiencing
what
he
meant
;
a
new
selfacceptance
,
a
sense
that
I
had
to
be
this
mind
and
this
body
,
its
vices
and
its
virtues
,
and
that
I
had
no
other
chance
or
choice
.
It
was
an
awareness
of
a
new
kind
of
potentiality
,
one
very
different
from
my
old
sense
of
the
word
,
which
had
been
based
on
the
illusions
of
ambition
.
The
mess
of
my
life
,
the
seffishnesses
and
false
turnings
and
the
treacheries
,
all
these
things
could
fall
into
place
,
they
could
become
a
source
of
construction
rather
than
a
source
of
chaos
,
and
precisely
because
I
had
no
other
choice
.
It
was
certainly
not
a
moment
of
new
moral
resolve
,
or
anything
like
it
;
I
suppose
our
accepting
what
we
are
must
always
inhibit
our
being
what
we
ought
to
be
;
for
all
that
,
it
felt
like
a
step
forward
—
and
upward
.
He
had
finished
,
was
watching
me
.
"
You
make
words
seem
shabby
things
.
"
"
Bach
does
.
"
"
And
you
.
"
He
grimaced
,
but
I
could
see
he
was
not
unpleased
,
though
he
tried
to
hide
it
by
marching
me
off
to
give
his
vegetables
their
evening
watering
.
An
hour
later
I
was
in
the
little
bedroom
again
.
I
saw
that
I
had
new
books
by
my
bedside
.
There
was
first
a
very
thin
volume
in
French
,
a
bound
pamphlet
,
anonymous
and
privately
printed
,
Paris
,
1932
;
it
was
entitled
De
la
communication
intermondiale
.
I
guessed
the
author
easily
enough
.
Then
there
was
a
folio
:
Wild
Life
in
Scandinavia
.
As
with
The
Beauties
of
Nature
of
the
week
before
,
the
"
wild
life
"
turned
out
to
be
all
female
—
various
Nordic
-
looking
women
lying
,
standing
,
running
,
embracing
among
the
fir
forests
and
fjords
.
There
were
lesbian
nuances
I
didn
’
t
much
like
;
perhaps
because
I
was
beginning
to
take
against
the
facet
in
Conchis
’
s
polyhedral
character
that
obviously
enjoyed
"
curious
"
objects
and
literature
.
Of
course
I
was
not
—
at
least
I
told
myself
I
was
not
—
a
puritan
.
I
was
too
young
to
know
that
the
having
to
tell
myself
gave
the
game
away
;
and
that
to
be
uninhibited
about
one
’
s
own
sexual
activities
is
not
the
same
as
being
unshockable
.
I
was
English
;
ergo
,
puritan
.
I
went
twice
through
the
pictures
;
they
clashed
unpleasantly
with
the
still
-
echoing
Bach
.
Finally
there
was
another
book
in
French
—
a
sumptuously
produced
limited
edition
:
Le
Masque
Français
au
Dix
-
hnitième
Siècle
.
This
had
a
little
white
marker
in
.
Remembering
the
anthology
on
the
beach
,
I
turned
to
the
page
,
where
there
was
a
passage
bracketed
.
It
read
:
Aux
visiteurs
qui
pénétraient
dans
l
’
enceinte
des
murs
altiers
de
Saint
-
Martin
s
’
offrait
la
vue
delectable
des
bergers
et
bergères
qui
,
sur
les
verts
gazons
et
parmi
las
bosquets
,
dansaient
et
chantaient
entourés
de
leurs
blancs
troupeaux
.
Ils
n
’
étaient
pas
toujours
habillés
des
costumes
de
l
’
épo
qua
.
Quelquefois
us
étaient
vétus
a
la
romaine
ou
a
la
grecque
,
at
ainsi
réalisait
-
on
des
odes
de
Théocrite
,
des
bucoliques
de
Virgile
.
On
parlait
méme
d
’
évocations
plus
scandaleuses
,
de
charmantes
nymphes
qui
las
nuits
d
’
été
fuyaient
au
clair
de
lune
d
’
étranges
silhouettes
,
moitié
homme
,
moitié
chèvre
…
"
At
last
it
began
to
seem
plain
.
All
that
happened
at
Bourani
was
in
the
nature
of
a
private
masque
;
and
no
doubt
the
passage
was
a
hint
to
me
that
I
should
,
both
out
of
politeness
and
for
my
own
pleasure
,
not
poke
my
nose
behind
the
scenes
.
I
felt
ashamed
of
the
questions
I
had
asked
at
Agia
Varvara
.
I
washed
and
,
in
deference
to
the
slight
formality
Conchis
apparently
liked
in
the
evenings
,
changed
into
a
white
shirt
and
a
summer
suit
.
When
I
came
out
of
my
room
to
go
downstairs
the
door
of
his
bedroom
was
open
.
He
called
me
in
.
"
We
will
have
our
ouzo
up
here
this
evening
.
"
He
was
sitting
at
his
desk
,
reading
a
letter
he
had
just
written
.
I
waited
behind
him
a
moment
,
looking
at
the
Bonnards
again
while
he
addressed
the
envelope
.
The
door
of
the
little
room
at
the
end
was
ajar
.
I
had
a
glimpse
of
clothes
,
of
a
press
.
It
was
simply
a
dressing
room
.
By
the
open
doors
,
Lily
’
s
photograph
stared
at
me
from
its
table
.
We
went
out
onto
the
terrace
.
There
were
two
tables
there
,
one
with
the
ouzo
and
glasses
on
,
the
other
with
the
dinner
things
.
I
saw
at
once
that
there
were
three
chairs
at
the
dinner
table
;
and
Conchis
saw
me
see
.
"
We
shall
have
a
visitor
after
dinner
.
"
"
From
the
village
?
"
But
I
was
smiling
,
and
he
was
too
when
he
shook
his
head
.
It
was
a
magnificent
evening
,
one
of
those
gigantic
Greek
spans
of
sky
and
world
fluxed
in
declining
light
.
The
mountains
were
the
gray
of
a
Persian
cat
’
s
fur
,
and
the
sky
like
a
vast
,
unfaceted
primrose
diamond
.
I
remembered
noticing
,
one
similar
sunset
in
the
village
,
how
every
man
outside
every
taverna
had
turned
to
face
the
west
,
as
if
they
were
in
a
cinema
,
with
the
eloquent
all
-
saying
sky
their
screen
.
"
I
read
the
passage
you
marked
in
Le
Masque
Fran
çais
.
"
"
It
is
only
a
metaphor
.
But
it
may
help
.
"
He
handed
me
an
ouzo
.
We
raised
glasses
.
Coffee
was
brought
and
poured
,
and
the
lamp
moved
to
the
table
behind
me
,
so
that
it
shone
on
Conchis
’
s
face
.
We
were
both
waiting
.
"
I
hope
I
shan
’
t
have
to
forego
the
rest
of
your
adventures
.
"
He
raised
his
head
,
in
the
Greek
way
,
meaning
no
.
He
seemed
a
little
tense
,
and
looked
past
me
at
the
bedroom
door
;
and
I
was
reminded
of
that
first
day
.
I
turned
,
but
there
was
no
one
there
.
He
spoke
.
"
You
know
who
it
will
be
?
"
"
I
didn
’
t
know
if
I
was
meant
to
come
in
last
week
or
not
.
"
"
You
are
meant
to
do
as
you
choose
.
"
"
Except
ask
questions
.
"
"
Except
ask
questions
.
"
A
thin
smile
.
"
Did
you
read
my
little
pamphlet
?
"
"
Not
yet
.
"
"
Read
it
carefully
.
"
"
Of
course
.
I
look
forward
to
it
.
"
"
Then
tomorrow
night
perhaps
we
can
perform
an
experiment
.
"
"
On
communicating
with
other
worlds
?
"
I
didn
’
t
bother
to
keep
a
certain
scepticism
out
of
my
voice
.
"
Yes
.
Up
there
.
"
The
star
-
heavy
sky
.
"
Or
across
there
.
"
I
saw
him
look
down
,
making
the
visual
analogy
,
to
the
black
line
of
mountains
to
the
west
.
I
risked
facetiousness
.
"
Up
there
—
do
they
speak
Greek
or
English
?
"
He
didn
’
t
answer
for
nearly
fifteen
seconds
;
didn
’
t
smile
.
"
They
speak
emotions
.
"
"
Not
a
very
precise
language
.
"
"
On
the
contrary
.
The
most
precise
.
If
one
can
learn
it
.
"
He
turned
to
look
at
me
.
"
Precision
of
the
kind
you
mean
is
important
in
science
.
It
is
unimportant
in
—
"
But
I
never
found
out
what
it
was
unimportant
in
.
We
both
heard
the
footsteps
,
those
same
light
footsteps
I
had
heard
before
,
on
the
gravel
below
,
coming
as
if
up
from
the
sea
.
Conchis
looked
at
me
quickly
.
"
You
must
not
ask
questions
.
That
is
most
important
.
"
I
smiled
.
"
As
you
wish
.
"
"
Treat
her
as
you
would
treat
an
amnesiac
.
"
"
I
’
m
afraid
I
’
ve
never
met
an
amnesiac
.
"
"
She
lives
in
the
present
.
She
does
not
remember
her
personal
past
—
she
has
no
past
.
If
you
question
her
about
the
past
,
you
will
only
disturb
her
.
She
is
very
sensitive
.
She
would
not
want
to
see
you
again
.
I
wanted
to
say
,
I
like
your
masque
,
I
shan
’
t
spoil
it
.
I
said
,
"
If
I
don
’
t
understand
why
,
I
begin
to
understand
how
.
"
He
shook
his
head
.
"
You
are
beginning
to
understand
why
.
Not
how
.
"
His
eyes
lingered
on
me
,
burning
the
sentence
in
;
looked
aside
,
at
the
doors
.
I
turned
.
I
realized
then
that
the
lamp
had
been
put
behind
me
so
that
it
would
light
her
entrance
;
and
it
was
an
entrance
to
take
the
breath
away
.
She
was
dressed
in
what
must
have
been
the
formal
evening
style
of
1915
:
an
indigo
silk
evening
wrap
over
a
slim
ivory
-
colored
dress
of
some
shot
material
that
narrowed
and
ended
just
above
her
ankles
.
Her
hair
was
up
,
in
a
sort
of
Empire
fashion
.
She
was
smiling
and
looking
at
Conchis
,
though
she
glanced
with
a
cool
interest
at
me
as
I
stood
.
Conchis
was
already
on
his
feet
.
She
looked
as
stunningly
elegant
,
as
poised
and
assured
—
because
even
her
slight
nervousness
seemed
professional
—
as
if
she
had
just
stepped
out
of
a
cabine
at
Dior
.
That
was
indeed
my
immediate
thought
:
She
’
s
a
professional
model
.
And
then
,
the
old
devil
.
The
old
devil
spoke
,
after
first
kissing
her
hand
.
"
Lily
.
May
I
present
Mr
.
Nicholas
Urfe
.
Miss
Montgomery
.
"
She
held
out
her
hand
,
which
I
took
.
A
cool
hand
,
no
pressure
.
I
had
touched
a
ghost
.
Our
eyes
met
,
but
hers
gave
nothing
away
.
I
said
,
"
Hello
.
"
But
she
replied
only
with
a
slight
inclination
,
and
then
turned
for
Conchis
to
take
off
her
wrap
,
which
he
placed
over
the
back
of
his
own
chair
.
She
had
bare
shoulders
and
arms
;
a
heavy
gold
and
ebony
bracelet
;
an
enormously
long
necklace
of
what
looked
like
sapphires
,
though
I
presumed
they
must
be
paste
,
or
ultramarines
.
I
guessed
her
to
be
about
twenty
-
two
or
three
.
But
there
clung
about
her
something
that
seemed
much
older
,
ten
years
older
,
a
sort
of
coolness
—
not
a
coldness
or
indifference
,
but
a
limpid
aloofness
;
coolness
in
the
way
that
one
thinks
of
coolness
on
a
hot
summer
’
s
day
.
She
arranged
herself
in
her
chair
,
folded
her
hands
,
then
smiled
faintly
at
me
.
"
It
is
very
warm
this
evening
.
"
Her
voice
was
completely
English
.
For
some
reason
I
had
expected
a
foreign
accent
;
but
I
could
place
this
exactly
.
It
was
very
largely
my
own
—
product
of
boarding
school
,
university
,
the
accent
of
what
a
sociologist
once
called
the
Dominant
Hundred
Thousand
.
I
said
,
"
Isn
’
t
it
?
"
Conchis
said
,
"
Mr
.
Urfe
is
the
young
schoolmaster
I
mentioned
.
"
His
voice
had
a
new
tone
it
it
:
almost
deference
.
"
Yes
.
We
met
last
week
.
That
is
,
we
caught
a
glimpse
of
each
other
.
"
And
once
again
she
smiled
faintly
,
but
without
collusion
,
at
me
before
looking
down
.
I
saw
that
gentleness
Conchis
had
prepared
me
for
.
But
it
was
a
teasing
gentleness
,
because
her
face
,
especially
her
mouth
,
could
not
conceal
her
intelligence
.
She
had
a
way
of
looking
slightly
obliquely
at
me
,
as
if
she
knew
something
I
did
not
—
not
anything
to
do
with
the
role
she
was
playing
,
but
about
life
in
general
;
as
if
she
too
had
been
taking
lessons
from
the
stone
head
.
I
had
expected
,
perhaps
because
the
image
she
had
presented
me
with
the
week
before
had
been
more
domestic
,
someone
less
ambiguous
and
far
less
assured
.
She
opened
a
small
peacock
-
blue
fan
she
had
been
holding
and
began
to
fan
herself
.
Her
skin
was
very
white
.
She
obviously
never
sunbathed
.
And
then
there
was
a
curious
little
embarrassed
pause
,
as
if
none
of
us
knew
what
to
say
.
She
broke
it
,
rather
like
a
hostess
dutifully
encouraging
a
shy
dinner
guest
.
"
Teaching
must
be
a
very
interesting
profession
.
"
"
Not
for
me
.
I
find
it
rather
dull
.
"
"
All
noble
and
honest
things
are
dull
.
But
someone
has
to
do
them
.
"
"
Anyway
,
I
forgive
teaching
.
Since
it
’
s
brought
me
here
.
"
She
slipped
a
look
at
Conchis
,
who
bowed
imperceptibly
.
He
was
playing
a
kind
of
Talleyrand
role
.
The
gallant
old
fox
.
"
Maurice
has
told
me
that
you
are
not
completely
happy
in
your
work
.
"
She
pronounced
Maurice
in
the
French
way
.
"
I
don
’
t
know
if
you
know
about
the
school
,
but
—
"
I
paused
to
give
her
a
chance
to
answer
.
She
simply
shook
her
head
,
with
a
small
smile
.
"
I
think
they
make
the
boys
work
too
hard
,
you
see
,
and
I
can
’
t
do
anything
about
it
.
It
’
s
rather
frustrating
.
"
"
Could
you
not
complain
?
"
She
gave
me
an
earnest
look
;
beautifully
and
convincingly
earnest
.
I
thought
,
she
must
be
an
actress
.
Not
a
model
.
"
You
see
…
"
So
it
went
on
.
We
must
have
sat
talking
for
nearly
fifteen
minutes
,
in
this
absurd
stilted
way
.
She
questioned
,
I
replied
.
Conchis
said
very
little
,
leaving
the
conversation
to
us
.
I
found
myself
formalizing
my
speech
,
as
if
I
too
was
pretending
to
be
in
a
drawing
room
of
forty
years
before
.
After
all
,
it
was
a
masque
,
and
I
wanted
,
or
after
a
very
short
while
began
to
want
,
to
play
my
part
.
I
found
something
a
shade
patronizing
in
her
attitude
,
and
I
interpreted
it
as
an
attempt
to
upstage
me
;
perhaps
to
test
me
,
to
see
if
I
was
worth
playing
against
.
I
thought
once
or
twice
that
I
saw
a
touch
of
sardonic
amusement
in
Conchis
’
s
eyes
,
but
I
couldn
’
t
be
sure
.
In
any
case
,
I
found
her
far
too
pretty
,
both
in
repose
and
in
action
(
or
acting
)
,
to
care
.
I
thought
of
myself
as
a
connoisseur
of
girls
’
good
looks
;
and
I
knew
that
this
was
one
to
judge
all
others
by
.
There
was
a
pause
,
and
Conchis
spoke
.
"
Shall
I
tell
you
now
what
happened
after
I
left
England
?
"
"
Not
if
it
would
bore
…
Miss
Montgomery
.
"
"
No
.
Please
.
I
like
to
listen
to
Maurice
.
"
He
kept
watching
me
,
ignoring
her
.
"
Lily
always
does
exactly
what
I
want
.
"
I
glanced
at
her
.
"
You
’
re
very
fortunate
,
then
.
"
He
did
not
take
his
eyes
off
me
.
The
furrows
beside
his
nose
caught
shadow
,
deepening
them
"
She
is
not
the
real
Lily
.
"
This
sudden
dropping
of
the
pretense
took
me
,
as
once
again
he
knew
it
would
,
off
-
balance
.
"
Well
…
of
course
.
"
I
shrugged
and
smiled
.
She
was
staring
down
at
her
fan
.
"
Neither
is
she
anyone
impersonating
the
real
Lily
.
"
"
Mr
.
Conchis
…
I
don
’
t
know
what
you
’
re
trying
to
tell
me
.
"
"
Not
to
jump
to
conclusions
.
"
He
gave
one
of
his
rare
wide
smiles
.
"
Now
.
Where
was
I
?
But
first
I
must
warn
you
that
this
evening
I
give
you
not
a
narrative
.
But
a
character
.
"
I
looked
at
Lily
.
She
seemed
to
me
to
be
perceptibly
hurt
,
and
just
as
another
wild
idea
was
beginning
to
run
through
my
mind
,
that
she
really
was
an
amnesiac
,
some
beautiful
amnesiac
he
had
,
somehow
,
literally
and
metaphorically
laid
his
hands
on
,
she
gave
me
what
was
beyond
any
doubt
a
contemporary
look
,
a
look
out
of
role
—
a
quick
,
questioning
glance
that
flicked
from
me
to
Conchis
’
s
averted
head
and
back
again
.
At
once
I
had
the
impression
that
we
were
two
actors
with
the
same
doubts
about
the
director
.
"
Buenos
Aires
.
I
lived
there
for
nearly
four
years
,
until
the
spring
of
1919
.
I
quarreled
with
my
uncle
Anastasios
,
I
gave
English
lessons
,
I
taught
the
piano
.
And
I
felt
perpetually
in
exile
from
Europe
.
My
father
was
never
to
speak
or
write
to
me
again
,
but
after
a
while
I
began
to
hear
from
my
mother
.
"
I
glanced
at
Lily
,
but
now
,
back
in
role
,
she
was
watching
Conchis
with
a
politely
interested
expression
on
her
face
.
Lamplight
became
her
,
infinitely
.
"
Only
one
thing
of
importance
happened
to
me
in
the
Argentine
.
A
friend
took
me
one
summer
on
a
tour
of
the
Andean
provinces
.
I
learnt
about
the
exploited
conditions
under
which
the
peons
and
gauchos
had
to
live
.
I
urgently
felt
the
need
to
sacrifice
myself
for
the
underprivileged
.
Various
things
we
saw
decided
me
to
become
a
doctor
.
But
the
reality
of
my
new
career
was
harsh
.
The
medical
faculty
at
Buenos
Aires
would
not
accept
me
,
and
I
had
to
work
day
and
night
for
a
year
to
learn
enough
science
to
be
enrolled
.
"
But
then
the
war
ended
.
My
father
died
soon
after
.
Though
he
never
forgave
me
,
or
my
mother
for
having
helped
me
both
into
his
world
and
out
of
it
,
he
was
sufficiently
my
father
to
let
sleeping
dogs
lie
.
So
far
as
I
know
my
disappearance
was
never
discovered
by
the
authorities
.
My
mother
was
left
a
sufficient
income
.
The
result
of
all
this
was
that
I
returned
to
Europe
and
settled
in
Paris
with
her
.
We
lived
in
a
huge
old
flat
facing
the
Pantheon
,
and
I
began
to
study
medicine
seriously
.
Among
the
medical
students
a
group
formed
.
