“It isn’t a phoney, Arthur,” said Maria. “Simon has been telling us what it is, and phoney is the last word to use. It is an astonishing personal confession in the form of a picture.”
“Arthur is right, though,” said Darcourt. “They will have to be approached with the greatest tact. I can’t go to them and say, Listen, I have news for you: they must want me to come, to hear what I have to tell them. It’s the difference between ‘Come in, Barney,’ and ‘Barney, come in.’ “
“I suppose that’s one of your Old Ontario gobbets of folk wisdom,” said Maria.
“Yes, and a very wise one, when you think about it. I can’t just tell them what I know, and stop short. I must give them an idea about where this discovery might lead.”
“And where would that be?” said Arthur.
“It certainly can’t be the devaluation and destruction of the picture as a work of art. It must point a new way.”
“Simon, I know you. I see it in your eye. I see it wriggling up your sleeve. You have a scheme. Come on—tell.”
“Well, Maria, I wouldn’t say I had a scheme. Just a vague idea, and I feel rather embarrassed about bringing it out, because it is sure to sound stupid.”
“This modesty is just camouflage for some real Darcourt craftiness. Out with it.”
So, diffidently, but not artlessly—because he had been rehearsing what he would say for several days—Darcourt told them what he had in mind.
There was a long silence. After a while Maria fetched drinks; whisky for the men and for herself a glass that looked like milk, but was of a rich, golden colour. They sipped, amid further silence. At last Arthur spoke.
“Ingenious,” he said, “but I mistrust ingenuity. It’s too damned clever.”
“A little better than just clever,” said Darcourt.
“Too many intangibles. Too many things that cannot be controlled. I’m afraid the answer must be no, Simon.”
“I’m not ready to take that as your final word, Arthur,” said Darcourt. “Please think about it for a while. Forget it and then think about it again. Maria, what do you think?”
“I think it’s very foxy.”
“Oh, please! Foxy is a nasty word.”
“I didn’t mean it nastily, Simon. But you must admit that it’s a poopnoddy scheme, if ever there was one.”
“Poopnoddy?” said Arthur. “Is that one of your Rabelaisian words?”
“Go to the head of the class, Arthur,” said Maria. “Rabelaisian in spirit, though I don’t know quite what he would have said in French. Avalleur de frimarts, or something like that. Intending to deceive the unwary, anyhow. I must have a few Rabelaisian words to counteract Simon’s cataract of Old Ontario folk-sayings, about Barney and all the gang.”
“If you think those people in New York are unwary, you are out of your mind,” said Darcourt.
“But I think you think Arthur and I are unwary.”
“If you had been wary, would you ever have got yourselves into this opera thing?”
“That’s beside the point.”
“I think it’s the very finest end of the point. What has it brought you?”
“We don’t know, yet,” said Arthur. “We shall have to wait and see.”
“While you’re waiting, will you give some thought to my idea?”
“Now that you’ve brought it up, I don’t see how we can help it.”
“Good. That’s all I ask. But I must talk to the New York people, you know. After all, I am going to explode their picture. From one point of view, that is.”
“Look, Simon, can’t you somehow soft-pedal the whole business of the picture?”
“No, Arthur, I can’t and I won’t. It isn’t just the heart of my book. It’s the truth, and you can’t suppress truth forever. That skeleton is banging very loudly on the doors of the cupboard, and if you don’t want to let it out my way, you may be sure somebody else will eventually let it out by smashing the cupboard. Don’t forget all those sketches Francis bequeathed to the National Gallery.”
“Will that concern us? We don’t own the picture.”
“No, but I shall have written the book and if I soft-pedal this material it will be shown up as a stupid, know-nothing book. I don’t see why I should put up with that, just to satisfy your Kater Murr notions.”
“You make a lot of fuss about your damned book.”
“My damned book will be on the shelves when all of us are dust, and I want it to be the best book I can leave behind me. And I ask you, Arthur, as a friend, to think of that. Because I am going to write it, and write it my way, whatever you choose to do, and if it costs me your friendship, that will be part of the price of authorship.”
“Simon, don’t be pompous. Maria and I value your friendship highly, but we could live without it if we had to.”
“Oh shut up, both of you!” said Maria. “Why can’t men ever disagree without all this high-stomached huffing and puffing? No friendships are going to be broken, and if you and Simon part brass rags, Arthur, I’ll leave you and live in sin with him. So shut up! Have another drink, Simon.”
“Thank you, no. I have to be going. But do you mind telling me what that stuff is you are drinking? It looks delicious.”
“It is delicious. It’s milk with a good slug of rum in it. My doctor recommends it at bedtime. I haven’t been sleeping well, and he says this is better than sleeping-pills, even if the milk is a bit fattening for a lady in an interesting condition.”
“Marvellous! Do you think I could have a small one of those? After all, I am great with book, and I need all the little comforts of one who is about to give birth.”
“Will you get it for him, Arthur? Or are you too much on your dignity to help poor Simon in his delicate state? I was drinking this last night when Al and Sweetness were here, and Sweetness was shocked.”
“Shocked by rum and milk?—Oh, thanks, Arthur.—What shocked her?”
“She gave me a long, confused talk about what she called the foetal alcohol syndrome; booze in pregnancy can lead to pixie-faced, pin-headed, mentally retarded children. I knew something about that; you have to drink rather a lot to be in danger. But Sweetness is a zealot, and she’s deep into the squalor of pregnancy, poor wretch. I heard all about her agonizing little balls of gas, which won’t come up or go down; and how she can’t do a thing with her hair—not even wash it, I thought, looking at her; and she has to be dashing off every half-hour to what she delicately calls the tinkle-pantry, because her bladder capacity is now minimal. She is paying the full price nasty old Mother Nature can exact for Al’s baby. I just hope it’s a nice baby.”
“Did she say why they don’t get married, if they are so devoted?”
“Indeed she did. Sweetness has a cliché for everything. They do not admit that their union would be hallowed more than it is, if some parson mumbled a few words over them.”
“I wonder why people like that always talk about parsons mumbling a few words. I’ve married lots of people and I never mumble. I would scorn to mumble.”
“You have no proper respect for cliché. Performing your ignominious, outdated office, you ought to mumble for very shame.”
“I see. I’ll remember that. Am I to mumble at the christening, by the way? I’d very much like to.”
“Of course, Simon dear. Mumble, mumble, mumble.”
“Have you chosen any names, yet? Always wise to be ready with names.”
“Arthur and I haven’t made up our minds, but Geraint keeps putting forward Welsh names that are crammed with ancient chivalry and bardic evocation, but are rather demanding for the Canadian thick tongue.”
Darcourt had finished his rum and milk, and took his leave. Maria was loving and kind, and Arthur was friendly, with a hint of reserve. On the whole, Darcourt thought he had achieved about as much as he expected.
As he walked home he thought about pixie-faced, pin-headed, mentally retarded children. That was what Francis the First had been. But had Francis the First’s mother been a heavy drinker? Nothing he had found in his investigations suggested it. But a biographical researcher must reconcile himself to the fact that there are many things he will never know.