I Like It Here

poured the drinks, rebuking himself under his breath for dropping an ice-cube, clashing two glasses together, serving Bowen before Barbara. “It’s a habit you pick up in these parts,” he said very loudly. “Male primacy has never been lost, which, as a mere male myself, I am bound heartily to endorse.” He gave a gobbling laugh. Bowen and Barbara found themselves talking faster and faster about the weather.
After a time, the boys having chased each other away and Barbara having again removed Sandra from within range of breakables, Bowen said: “Well, I should like to say how honoured I am to have come along here today and made your acquaintance.” He felt very horrible while saying this.
“You’re most kind, Mr. Bowen, most kind indeed. To one whose life as an artist is rounded, complete and now discarded, such kindness from one of your generation has the quality of a promise of support. I am grateful.”
“Then you’re quite sure you won’t write anything else?”
“Alas, yes. But why do I say alas? I have done what has been allowed to few men. I have performed what I was intended to perform and I have performed it well. It is my good fortune to be able to say with Mortimer that since there was no place to mount up higher, why should I grieve at my declining fall?”
“Well, yes, I can see that must be a comfort.”
“And since my lonely dedication is at an end, there is no reason any longer for me to prolong its circumstances. It is now my wish, for the years that I have left, to take that part in the life of my times to which my achievement entitles me. I plan to be in London at the time when my last work is given to the world, on purpose to study at close quarters the circumstances and effect of its launching, a form of self-indulgence which my creative regimen has hitherto denied me and which, I trust, may be deemed venial in one situated like myself.”
“Of course,” Bowen said vaguely, feeling rather overwhelmed. So Hyman, old Weinstein and the rest of them were going to have a lot less than a year’s grace before Buckmaster arrived on their doorstep. Well, that was something pretty tangible to tell them.
“But it will be an impersonal study, for in a very real sense I am not concerned in it. Are we to call our former selves our own? By custom and courtesy only.
In the fullest possible meaning of the phrase, I am not what I was. I have broken my staff, liberated my Ariel —a compelling image, it has always seemed to me, for the conscious resigning of the inspirational daemon. The moment I wrongly foresaw at the end of my penultimate work has finally arrived and passed. And so, on a more mundane level, I have had what I might perhaps describe as … as a spring clean.” He looked squarely at Bowen with a sort of bland emphasis. “Nothing remains to connect me with that former time. As soon as I had completed One Word More to my satisfaction, I destroyed all letters, all documents, everything inanimate, in a word, that connected me with yesterday. You will, it is true, find on my shelves copies of all my published works, alongside those of Jane Austen, of George Eliot, of Hardy, Conrad and James, of Stendhal, Flaubert and Proust, of the great Russians. But this is no more than one might expect to find in the library of any man who interests himself in observing the progress of the art of the novel. And such a man, at this time, am I. As perhaps you can understand, Mr. Bowen, that little quirk of fancy provides me with vast amusement.” The amusement he then allowed to escape was not vast, but it was considerable.
Bowen went on talking somehow, trying feebly to extract some concrete reminiscence, some verifiable piece of information. But no: Buckmaster had never, apparently, met any living persons and few dead ones; none, at any rate, that Bowen thought to mention. The old chap had lived in Spain “for some years” and had shifted to Portugal in 1936, having remained there “for the most part” ever since. When Bowen tried to probe further he met with a reticence that could not be penetrated without seeming, or indeed being, vulgarly inquisitorial. It was almost a relief when Barbara returned and announced that they must be getting along.
Buckmaster became violently apologetic. “But I have seen almost nothing of you, Mrs. Bowen, nor of the charming youngsters. Will you not change your mind and stay to luncheon? Or at least permit yourself another drink? I am desolated. Well, we must arrange things more spaciously next time. I will insist on there being a next time, since I for one have immensely enjoyed today’s occasion. And in my desire to talk about myself—for which I hope your good husband will pardon me—I have missed a rare, I should say an unique, opportunity for hearing at first hand how matters move in that strange world of London literary society. Well, it is only a pleasure deferred. On Friday I go to Coimbra for ten days or so, but on my return we must positively lose no time in renewing the acquaintance.”
“Are you visiting the University at Coimbra ?” Bowen asked as they descended the steps.
“I may well do so, but my purpose is to be the guest of an old friend of mine who lives nearby.” Suddenly twisting his head about like a frightened horse, he drew Bowen aside. “Would you like to … er … go … before your journey? And perhaps the children … and …?”
The lavatory was on the far side of the house at ground level. Its cleanliness made Bowen want to linger nostalgically there, but he repressed this. Idle curiosity made him go the other way round the building on his way back. This new route revealed to