‘correct’: to have saved his self-respect by small doses of rudeness or inattention. But for him—to have remained correct would have meant death. He said suddenly, ‘Do you know if any trains are running yet from the Gare Montparnasse?’
‘A few and they are very slow. They haven’t got the fuel. They stop at every station. Sometimes they stop all night. You wouldn’t get to Brinac before morning.’
‘There’s no hurry.’
‘Are they expecting you, Monsieur Chavel?’
‘Who?’
‘Your tenants.’
‘No.’ The unaccustomed brandy was running along the dry subterranean channels of his mind: sitting there in the familiar café, where even the mirrors and cornices were chipped in the places he remembered them, he felt an enormous longing just to be able to get up and catch a train and go home as he had often done in past years. Suddenly and unexpectedly to give way to a whim and find a welcome at the other end. He thought: After all, there is always time to die in.
8
THE BELL LIKE most things about the place was old-fashioned. His father had disliked electricity, and though he could well have afforded to bring it to Brinac, he had preferred lamps almost until his death (saying they were better for the eyes) and ancient bells which dangled on long fronds of metal. Himself he had loved the place too much to change things: when he came down to Brinac it was to a quiet cave of dusk and silence—no telephone could petulantly pursue him there. So now he could hear the long twanging wire before the bell began to swing at the back of the house, in the room next to the kitchen. Surely if he had been in the house that bell would have had a different tone: one less hollow, more friendly: less sporadic like a cough in a worn-out breast … A cold early-morning breeze blew through the bushes and stirred at ankle level the weeds in the drive: somewhere—perhaps in the potting shed—a loose board flapped. Without warning the door opened.
This was Janvier’s sister. He recognized the type and in a flash built her up on the lines of her brother. Fair and thin and very young she had still had time to develop what must have been the family trait of recklessness. Now that he was here and she was there, he found he had no words of explanation: he stood like a page of type waiting to be read.
‘You want a meal,’ she said. She had read the whole page like so many women do at a glance, even to the footnote of his thin shoes. He made a gesture which might have been deprecation or acceptance. She said, ‘We haven’t much in the house. You know how things are. It would be easier to give you money.’
He said, ‘I’ve got money … three hundred francs.’
She said, ‘You’d better come in. Make as little dirt as you can. I’ve been scrubbing these steps.’
‘I’ll take off my shoes,’ he said humbly, and he followed her in, feeling the parquet floor cold under his socks. Everything had changed a little for the worse: there was no question but that the house had been surrendered to strangers: the big mirror had been taken down and left an ugly patch on the wall: the tallboy had been shifted, a chair had gone: the steel engraving of a naval engagement off Brest had been hung in a new place—tastelessly he thought. He looked in vain for a photograph of his father, and exclaimed suddenly, furiously, ‘Where’s …?’
‘Where’s what?’
He checked himself. ‘Your mother,’ he said.
She turned round and looked at him as though she had missed something on the first reading. ‘How do you know about my mother?’
‘Janvier told me.’
‘Who’s Janvier? I don’t know any Janvier.’
‘Your brother,’ he said. ‘We used to call your brother that in the prison.’
‘You were with him there?’
‘Yes.’
He was to learn in time that she never quite did the expected thing: he had imagined that now she would call her mother, but instead she laid her hand on his arm and said, ‘Don’t speak so
‘A few and they are very slow. They haven’t got the fuel. They stop at every station. Sometimes they stop all night. You wouldn’t get to Brinac before morning.’
‘There’s no hurry.’
‘Are they expecting you, Monsieur Chavel?’
‘Who?’
‘Your tenants.’
‘No.’ The unaccustomed brandy was running along the dry subterranean channels of his mind: sitting there in the familiar café, where even the mirrors and cornices were chipped in the places he remembered them, he felt an enormous longing just to be able to get up and catch a train and go home as he had often done in past years. Suddenly and unexpectedly to give way to a whim and find a welcome at the other end. He thought: After all, there is always time to die in.
8
THE BELL LIKE most things about the place was old-fashioned. His father had disliked electricity, and though he could well have afforded to bring it to Brinac, he had preferred lamps almost until his death (saying they were better for the eyes) and ancient bells which dangled on long fronds of metal. Himself he had loved the place too much to change things: when he came down to Brinac it was to a quiet cave of dusk and silence—no telephone could petulantly pursue him there. So now he could hear the long twanging wire before the bell began to swing at the back of the house, in the room next to the kitchen. Surely if he had been in the house that bell would have had a different tone: one less hollow, more friendly: less sporadic like a cough in a worn-out breast … A cold early-morning breeze blew through the bushes and stirred at ankle level the weeds in the drive: somewhere—perhaps in the potting shed—a loose board flapped. Without warning the door opened.
This was Janvier’s sister. He recognized the type and in a flash built her up on the lines of her brother. Fair and thin and very young she had still had time to develop what must have been the family trait of recklessness. Now that he was here and she was there, he found he had no words of explanation: he stood like a page of type waiting to be read.
‘You want a meal,’ she said. She had read the whole page like so many women do at a glance, even to the footnote of his thin shoes. He made a gesture which might have been deprecation or acceptance. She said, ‘We haven’t much in the house. You know how things are. It would be easier to give you money.’
He said, ‘I’ve got money … three hundred francs.’
She said, ‘You’d better come in. Make as little dirt as you can. I’ve been scrubbing these steps.’
‘I’ll take off my shoes,’ he said humbly, and he followed her in, feeling the parquet floor cold under his socks. Everything had changed a little for the worse: there was no question but that the house had been surrendered to strangers: the big mirror had been taken down and left an ugly patch on the wall: the tallboy had been shifted, a chair had gone: the steel engraving of a naval engagement off Brest had been hung in a new place—tastelessly he thought. He looked in vain for a photograph of his father, and exclaimed suddenly, furiously, ‘Where’s …?’
‘Where’s what?’
He checked himself. ‘Your mother,’ he said.
She turned round and looked at him as though she had missed something on the first reading. ‘How do you know about my mother?’
‘Janvier told me.’
‘Who’s Janvier? I don’t know any Janvier.’
‘Your brother,’ he said. ‘We used to call your brother that in the prison.’
‘You were with him there?’
‘Yes.’
He was to learn in time that she never quite did the expected thing: he had imagined that now she would call her mother, but instead she laid her hand on his arm and said, ‘Don’t speak so
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