«Oh God. Sorry.»
«Everyone was very disappointed.»
«I'm terribly sorry.»
«So were we.»
«I-er-hope it was a good party all the same-«In spite of your absence it was an excellent party.»
«Who was there?»
«All the old gang. Caldicott and Grey-Pelham and Dyson and Randolph and Matheson and Hadley-Smith and-«Did Mrs. Grey-Pelham come?»
«No.»
«Oh good. Hartbourne, I am sorry.»
«Never mind, Pearson. Can we make a lunch date?»
«I'm leaving town.»
«Ah well. Wish I could get away. Send me a postcard.»
«I say, I am sorry-«Not at all.»
I put the telephone down. I felt the hand of destiny heavy upon me. Even the air was thickening as if it were full of incense or rich pollen. I looked at my watch. It was time to go to Netting Hill. I stood there in my little sitting-room and looked at the buffalo lady who was lying on her side in the lacquered display cabinet. I had not dared to try to straighten out the buffalo's crumpled leg for fear of snapping the delicate bronze. I looked where a line of sloping sun had made a flying buttress against the wall outside, making the grime stand out in lacy relief, outlining the bricks. The room, the wall, trembled with precision, as if the inanimate world were about to utter a word.
Just then the doorbell rang. I went to the door. It was Julian Baffin. I looked at her blankly.
«Bradley, you've forgotten! I've come for my Hamlet tutorial.»
«I hadn't forgotten,» I said with a silent curse. «Come in.»
«You're wearing the boots,» I said.
«Yes. It's a bit hot for them, but I wanted to show them off to you. I'm so cheered up and grateful. Are you sure you don't mind discussing Shakespeare? You look as if you were going somewhere. Did you really remember I was coming?»
«Yes, of course.»
«Oh Bradley, you are so good for my nerves. Everybody irritates me like mad except you. I didn't bring two texts. I suppose you've got one?»
«Yes. Here.»
I sat down opposite to her. She sat sidesaddle on her chair, the boots side by side, very much on display. I sat astride on mine, gripping it with my knees. I opened my copy of Shakespeare in front of me on the table. Julian laughed.
«Why are you laughing?»
«You're so matter-of-fact. I'm sure you weren't expecting me. You'd forgotten I existed. Now you're just like a schoolteacher.»
«Perhaps you are good for my nerves too.»
«Bradley, this is fun.»
«Nothing's happened yet. It may not be fun. What do you want to do?»
«I'll ask questions and you answer them.»
«Go on then.»
«I've got a whole list of questions, look.»
«I've answered that one already.»
«About Gertrude and-Yes, but I'm not convinced.»
«You're going to waste my time with these questions and then not believe my answers?»
«Well, it can be a starting point for a discussion.»
«Oh, we're to have a discussion too, are we?»
«If you have time. I know I'm lucky to get any of your time, you're so busy.»
«I'm not busy at all. I have absolutely nothing to do.»
«I thought you were writing a book.»
«Lies.»
«I know you're teasing again.»
«Well, come on, I haven't got all day.»
«Why did Hamlet delay killing Claudius?»
«Because he was a dreamy conscientious young intellectual who wasn't likely to commit a murder out of hand because he had the impression that he had seen a ghost. Next question.»
«But, Bradley, you yourself said the ghost was real.»
«I know the ghost is real, but Hamlet didn't.»
«Oh. But there must have been another deeper reason why he delayed, isn't that the point of the play?»
«I didn't say there wasn't another reason.»
«What is it?»
«He identifies Claudius with his father.»
«Oh really? So that makes him hesitate because he loves his father and so can't touch Claudius?»
«No. He hates his father.»
«Well, wouldn't that make him murder Claudius at once?»
«No. After all he didn't murder his father.»
«Well, I don't see how identifying Claudius with his father makes him not kill Claudius.»
«He doesn't enjoy hating his father. It makes him feel guilty.»
«So he's paralysed with guilt? But he never says so. He's fearfully priggish and censorious. Think how nasty he is to Ophelia.»
«That's part of the same thing.»
«How do you mean?»
«He identifies Ophelia with his mother.»
«But I thought he loved his mother.»
«That's the point.»
«How do you mean that's the point?»
«He condemns his mother for committing adultery with his fa– «Wait a minute, Bradley, I'm getting mixed.»
«Claudius is just a continuation of his brother on the conscious level.»
«But you can't commit adultery with your husband, it isn't logical.»
«The unconscious mind knows nothing of logic.»
«You mean Hamlet is jealous, you mean he's in love with his mother?»
«That is the general idea. A tediously familiar one, I should have thought.»
«Oh thai.»
«That.»
«I see. But I still don't see why he should think Ophelia is Gertrude, they're not a bit alike.»
«The unconscious mind delights in identifying people with each other. It has only a few characters to play with.»
«So lots of actors have to play the same part?»
«Yes.»
«I don't think I believe in the unconscious mind.»
«Excellent girl.»
«Bradley, you're teasing again.»
«Not at all.»
«Why couldn't Ophelia save Hamlet? That's another of my questions actually.»
«Because, my dear Julian, pure ignorant young girls cannot save complicated neurotic overeducated older men from disaster, however much they kid themselves that they can.»
«I know that I'm ignorant, and I can't deny that I'm young, but I do not identify myself with Ophelia!»
«Of course not. You identify yourself with Hamlet. Everyone does.»
«I suppose one always identifies with the hero.»
«Not in great works of literature. Do you identify with Macbeth or Lear?»
«No, well, not like that-«Or with Achilles or Agamemnon or Aeneas or Raskolnikov or Madame Bovary or Marcel or Fanny Price or-«Wait a moment. I haven't heard of some of these people. And I think I do identify with Achilles.»
«Tell me about him.»
«Oh Bradley-I can't think-Didn't he kill Hector?»
«Never mind. Have I made my point?»
«I'm not sure what it is.»
«Hamlet is unusual because it is a great work of literature in which everyone identifies with the hero.»
«I see. Does that make it less good than Shakespeare's other plays, I mean the good ones?»
«No. It is the greatest of Shakespeare's plays.»
«Then something funny has happened.»
«Correct.»
«I forbid you to take notes. You may not open the window. You may take off your boots.»
«For this relief much thanks.» She unzipped the boots and revealed, in pink tights, the legs. She admired the legs, waggled the toes, undid another button at her neck, then giggled.
I said, «Do you mind if I take off my jacket?»
«Of course not.»
«You'll see my braces.»
«How exciting. You must be the last man in London who wears any. They're getting as rare and thrilling as suspenders.»
I took off my jacket, revealing grey army-surplus braces over a grey shirt with a black stripe. «Not exciting, I'm afraid. I would have put on my red ones if I'd known.»
«So you weren't expecting me?»
«Don't be silly. Do you mind if I take off my tie?»
«Don't be silly.»
I took off my tie and undid the top two buttons of my shirt. Then I did one of them up again. The hair on my chest is copious but grizzled. (Or, if you prefer, a sable silvered.) I could feel the perspiration trickling down my temples, down the back of my neck, and winding its way through the forest on my diaphragm.