"Food's ready."
"What is there?" asked Edward, with a big yawn.
"Omelette, fruit, salad—I've tried it the new way Therese showed us."
"Splendid."
He rose wearily, weary of sitting still. He'd eaten enough for months. He ate with her eyes
upon him, forcing down the mouthfuls. She asked anxiously:
"Isn't it good?"
"It's first-class."
"No, but tell me, the flavouring isn't quite the same—is it?"
He roused himself to consider.
"I believe it needs a little more of that stuff that looks like parsley and isn't—what's it called?"
"Yes. You're right. It does."
That afternoon he'd lain watching her as she stood before the easel. She worked rapidly and decisively, dabbing at the canvas with a sort of triumph, half-smiling to herself. He knew that she liked him to lie near her, on the verandah or under the tree. If he went away by himself, down into the town or across the headland to Pampelonne, he'd find, when he returned, that she'd done scarcely any work. She missed her pet cat.
Yet she was always urging him to make little expeditions. To be independent.
"I believe old Morel is taking his car into St. Rafael tomorrow. Would you care to go?"
"Not particularly. Are you going?"
"Oh, I shall be working."
"You want to get rid of me."
She laughed: "My dear, you know I don't."
"Then come, too."
"Of course I'll come—if you want me."
"Why shouldn't I want you?"
So they stayed at home.
Sometimes Edward felt she'd be quite pleased if he came home drunk. She wanted him to be naughty. She encouraged his evenings out. So Edward dutifully strolled down to the little port with its picturesque fishing-boats, its three cafes and its brothel, which boasted an extremely antique and well-worn indecent film. Sometimes he sat up three-quarters of the night chatting to the painters or playing cards. The thin, delicate, staccato Frenchmen fiddling nervously with their cigarettes, winding themselves up slowly like springs while the others talked, then pouncing into a half second's opening in the conversation with their: "Je suppose que . . ." The small, untidy, worried-looking Spaniards, sombre and tragic, yet somehow like hairdressers. The large, lazy Russians with many wives. Scarcely a single Englishman. For that Edward was grateful. Yet he was bored. His boredom was like a nostalgia for the whole world. He was homesick for everywhere but here.
When he spent his evenings up at the villa, Margaret and he sat together on the verandah. They read to each other aloud. Or played poker-patience with two little travelling cases which had pockets for the cards. At twelve o'clock it was bedtime. They kissed:
"Good-night, my dear."
Margaret and Therese did all the housework. Edward wanted to help, but she wouldn't let him.
"The women must work and the men must sleep," he said.
She only laughed with her quiet, disconcerting triumph. At times it really angered him. It was like being patted on the top of the head.
He took to bathing. He walked down to Pampelonne, the great wild beach littered with bleached sea-rubbish, like bones. The currents were dangerous. In perverse moods he punished her with anxiety. Every morning he did exercises on the verandah; lay outstretched, crucified, drinking in the sun with his naked body. His skin turned to darkest bronze. Stark naked, with furious ironic energy, he performed his comic religious ritual of strainings, stretchings and heavings. Margaret watched him, smiling. And when he saw her looking at him, he felt suddenly ashamed of himself.
Then he went out sailing with the son of the lighthouse-keeper. Often they were away from early morning till sunset. Margaret would come down to the port to meet them.
"I should like to do a picture of Mimi," she said one day.
"Why?"
"He's such a magnificent type. Really beautiful, of his kind. Like an animal."
"Is he?" Edward felt irritated because quite unreasonably guilty.
"Really, Margaret," he added, with his most
unpleasant smile, "you describe people like a nursery governess at the National Gallery."
But after this he didn't go out with Mimi any more. Another boy, named Gaston, was only too glad to take his place. Gaston had a squint.
A few days later Edward asked if she'd mentioned the portrait.
"No, I haven't."
"Why not? I'm sure he'd be delighted."
As a matter of fact, Mimi had been rather attracted by Margaret. He found an excuse to call at the villa. Edward told him, in front of Margaret, about the picture. He was very much flattered. And, of course, after this, Margaret had to do it. Edward thought it the worst thing she'd ever painted. It was bold, cheaply attractive. One day, coming back to the house, he found she'd hung it in his bedroom. He got really angry:
"I wish you'd take that damned thing away!"
And so it was finally presented to Mimi himself. Presumably it occupied a place of honour in the lighthouse.
At length, one evening, Margaret said: "Edward, how much longer do you want to stop here?"
"Where would you like to go?"
"I didn't mean that. I meant—I know sometimes you like to be alone. You mustn't ever feel tied."
"But aren't you happy here?" he asked uneasily.
"Of course—so long as you are."
Nothing more was said. A few days later she told him:
"Edward, next week I'm going to Paris."
He accepted this. Alone, he was able to stand the villa for two days. Then he left for Marseilles and so by boat to Constantinople. In the autumn he was back again in Paris with a slight fever. They met. He said:
"You see, I fly to you when I cut my finger."
She laughed.
"My dear, that's what I wish."
But they were happy together. They went everywhere, playing a game that they were Americans seeing Paris for the first time. They bought horn-rimmed glasses and conversed in what they imagined to be Yankee accents. The joke collapsed rather feebly, however, when they met an extremely nice sculptor from Carolina and had to explain their behaviour.
Soon they crossed to London. Margaret settled at her studio. Edward took a flat. They went out everywhere together—were always invited as a married pair. They made endless jokes about this —particularly Margaret. Mary was really the
funniest. Her discretion, her unobtrusive air of giving her blessing, was really funny.
Margaret said:
"Mary's so sweet. She's really awfully innocent."
She added:
"Ah! Edward—if they but knew you as you are."
This kind of joking made him uneasy. She struck the wrong note; her humour was always slightly strained. They avoided being alone together. At parties they were very bright, playing up to each other like trained actors.
At the villa they'd already discussed what Edward described as "our duty to our neighbours." As he'd said: "Of course, we must try it one day. One never knows. It might be a success." And Margaret had laughed: "To think, Edward—I might cure you."
And so one evening, at the studio, after a particularly hectic party, they'd started—and it had been really very funny and not in the least disgusting—but quite hopeless. They sat up in bed and laughed and laughed. "Oh, Edward!" laughed Margaret—for she was pretty tight, too—"I shall never be able to sleep with a man again. At the critical moment I shall always think of you."
"I might return the compliment," said Edward.
In the spring they went south again, stopping
several weeks in Paris. They hadn't been very long at the villa before news came of the General Strike. Edward wanted to return at once.
"But what would you do?" she asked him, half impressed, half amused.
"I don't know. But I want to be mixed up in this."
He didn't even know which side he'd be on. She laughed at him. He was as angry as a boy.
"You don't understand," he said. "Something important is happening. There may be a revolution. And you want me to sit here, hiding in this damned country."