“Can you let me think about this?” asked Isabel.
“Of course.”
“And is there any legal reason to turn it down?” she asked.
Simon paused before giving his answer. “No legal reason, as far as I can see. But . . . morally, I think that you wouldn’t want somebody to be disadvantaged by a false impression she laboured under.” Simon paused for a moment. “I hope that you don’t mind my saying that. You’re the one who knows all about ethics . . .”
Isabel’s response was immediate. “You’re quite right. Of course I can’t let her act on that strange idea. Of course not.”
Simon’s relief was evident in his voice. “I thought you’d come to that conclusion. I’ll let her lawyer know that his client was—how shall we put it?—misinformed. Then we can come up with a bid, same as anybody else.”
Isabel agreed, and after the exchange of a few niceties the conversation came to an end. She turned back to her desk, but did not sit down immediately. She stood for a good few minutes, staring at the books on her shelf, the serried ranks of titles.
Kant. Schopenhauer. Midgley. Kekes. All these people who had spent so much time, given up on so many other diversions (one assumed) in order to devote themselves to the elucidation of 7 0
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h what was right. And here she had been faced with a moment of financial temptation—the saving of ten thousand pounds—and she had hesitated in her response. She had almost said yes. She had almost told Simon that they should accept Florence’s offer immediately. She had almost done that. And everything on those shelves, all the elaborate structures of right and wrong, had been for a few moments forgotten. Which is how most people acted when it came to temptation. They gave in. And we should never forget, thought Isabel, that every one of us is capable of doing the same thing if the gain that we see for ourselves is large enough. She had often thought that if she were ever to give in to a yearning for the material it would have to be a very large sum; her price would be a high one—a kingdom. But now she had seen that the opposite was, in fact, true. Her price was as low as anybody else’s. And if she could give in over a mere matter of ten thousand pounds, could she not give in over the mere matter of a young man, a musician, whose company she so appreciated and whose profile, at the right angle, stopped her heart?
I have learned something about myself, thought Isabel.
C H A P T E R S I X
E
JOE AND MIMI settled into their routine. He went off to the National Library each morning and returned shortly after five in the evening. He seemed pleased with what he found. It was slow work, he said, and he was not sure what it would bring forth—a book, perhaps, but not a big book; an article certainly, that he would send to people who were interested in this sort of thing. Joe knew them all and they would send him their articles too. “The dean loves us to write these things,” he said. “It gives him a warm feeling.”
Mimi looked for Arthur Waley and one or two other authors.
She found a first edition of the life of Li Po, in good condition, with the dust jacket, which pleased her, and some Auden, which pleased Isabel, but which would not have pleased Auden, as it was a pamphlet, elegantly set and printed, of “Spain 1937,” a poem which he disowned.
“I feel disloyal when I read the poems he disliked,” said Isabel. “Even that marvellous ‘September 1, 1939.’ Remember the poem? It had those lines at the end which people in New York copied and sent to one another in consolation in that other 7 2
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h terrible September. But Auden said it was all wrong. He didn’t mean it any more.”
Mimi took off her spectacles and polished them on a square of soft silk. “But people take different things from works of art.
The poem, the painting, changes.”
Isabel suddenly laughed, and Mimi looked at her cousin in puzzlement. “Amused?”
Isabel shook her head. “Sorry, not anything you said. I’ve just remembered what happened to my friend Gill Salvesen.
She’s an amateur printmaker. One of her prints was taken by a gallery and they inadvertently hung it sideways. She heard about it and was going to tell them about their mistake, but before she could do so, a friend of hers bought it and hung it in her house—sideways. Gill didn’t know what to do.”
Mimi smiled. “Well, that makes the same point, doesn’t it?
People see different meanings.”
“But there may be a real meaning. And if somebody doesn’t know that, shouldn’t we tell her?”
Mimi pointed upstairs. “What about that McTaggart in our room? What if I thought that it represented people arriving in Scotland rather than emigrating?”
“In art, immigrants don’t look sad,” countered Isabel. “They look apprehensive. Or even quite excited.”
“But would you tell me that? Would you tell me that if what gave the painting meaning for me was the thought that it was all about arrival?”
“I might let you carry on thinking that,” conceded Isabel.
“Well, there you are,” said Mimi.
Then Mimi said something which was to make a difference.
It had nothing to do with their discussion of art, but was a social arrangement which she and Joe wanted to propose.
T H E R I G H T AT T I T U D E T O R A I N
7 3
“We wondered if you were free the weekend after next,”
Mimi said. “There are some people we know who are here in Scotland for the summer. They’ve taken a large house outside town—Joe knows exactly where it is. One of these Scottish fortified houses. Somewhere near Peebles, I think. Anyway, they—or rather he, we don’t really know her—asked us whether we would come out for the weekend. They’re happy to make it a house party. They know we’re staying with you, so you’re invited.”
Isabel was free that weekend, and the idea of a house party appealed.
“Good,” said Mimi. “We’ll get in touch with them. Or Joe will, rather.”
Isabel was curious. “Who are they?”
“Dallas people,” said Mimi. “He’s called Tom Bruce. She’s called Angie. She’s his fiancée. Second time round, of course.
For him. I don’t know about her.”
There was something in Mimi’s tone that made it clear to Isabel that Angie was not in favour. That was not unusual, of course; an old friend remarried and, try as one might, the new wife was not quite the same. Countless friendships had foundered on that rock.
“You’re not too keen on her?” Isabel asked gently.
“I don’t like to be uncharitable,” said Mimi.
“Which is what people say before being uncharitable.”
“Well,” drawled Mimi. “Well . . . Let’s give her the benefit of the doubt. But put it this way: she’s a good bit younger than he is. And he’s . . .”
“Very well-off?”
“Exactly. Even by the standards of Preston Hollow, where he lives, he’s not hard up. Do you remember Preston Hollow from your Dallas visits?”
7 4
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h Isabel did not. But Mimi’s point was clear.
“He was one of those property people who acquired large tracts of land out near the airport. All that nothing acreage that nobody was interested in. Well, that changed, and Tom did very nicely. Not that anybody resented it. He’s a really nice man. He supports the symphony and the new museum. And he always said that he would support the law school too, but hasn’t exactly gotten round to it just yet.