The Finishing School

by Muriel Spark

  “The hypocrisy of her accusers,” said Chris, “. . . the cynicism of it all. I was entranced to hear you speak. You looked so wonderful, and now, as you are, you look more stunning than I can say.”

  “Look here,” she said.

  But eventually, having discussed the era and circumstances of Mary Queen of Scots a little more, and after Chris had expanded on the subject of Dr. Alice’s splendid voice and appearance, he slid into bed with her. The rain danced on the roof. She was overcome by the redness of his hair and his young beauty, and succumbed with a faint cry.

  Rowland was standing on the stairs leading down from the attic room when Chris let himself out. They did not exchange a word.

  On the way to the airport in the morning Dr. Alice said, “Yours is a very advanced type of college.”

  “Well, I hope it is,” said Nina.

  “And the students very mature, I think.”

  “They vary,” said Nina.

  Rowland said later to Nina, “Chris was in your scholar’s room last night. He’ll ruin the school. There won’t be a next school year.”

  “Get rid of him. Tell him to go,” Nina said.

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “He needs me.”

  “I know,” she said.

  14

  Rowland’s father died. He flew to join his family in Yorkshire. He wrote to Chris:

  I fear there is a new book published a few months ago about Mary Queen of Scots and the murder of Darnley. By a scholar of the times. I advise you to read it and reconsider your thesis.

  Chris sent an e-mail:

  I am a red-haired novelist of seventeen, soon to be world-famous as such. I weigh 160 lbs. I am at present 5’10’’ still growing. Active sex life. Excellent health. I speak good French. I will successfully study Arabic and master German and Russian in the decades ahead. I will also continue to be a successful writer and first-class tennis player. Bury your dead.

  Rowland e-mailed back:

  I have a degree in English and run a finishing school. I am 5’11’’. I weigh 163 lbs. My French is excellent. My father was buried yesterday. —Rowland.

  Chris took a printout of the latter communication and pinned it to the school notice board where it was much admired until it was rescued and removed by Nina.

  Rowland had intended to stay for a while with his family, his mother and aunt, both active middle-aged women, and a younger sister still at school. “Stay for a while and relax,” Nina had exhorted him on the phone. But there arrived, daily, a local male health counselor to teach them how to grieve, so Rowland made off once more for Switzerland. He had been attached to his father, whose unexpected death had rather taken Rowland out of his problem with Chris. It was on the plane to Geneva that he started picking up the threads of his former obsession. He decidedly fought against the temptation to dwell on Chris, and longed for his more peaceful state of mind only the day before, when he had recalled his father in early days very dear to him, and was mourning him deeply. But the nearer he got to Geneva, the closer came Chris. No longer a boy student, he was now a meaning, an explanation in himself.

  Nina met him at the airport.

  “I set a sort of exam,” she said. “They wanted to sort of be reminded of what an exam was like. Do you know, our lot are remarkably clever.”

  “Yes, they’re all bright. What was the exam about?”

  “What would you invest your money in, at a time of deep economic depression?”

  “What did they say?”

  Nina thought, He sounds bored, or am I imagining it?

  She said, “Tilly, if I remember, would buy a horse, maybe two, and rent them out as a reliable means of transport, and economical on the basis that oats are cheaper than petrol. Lionel would buy up all the automobile spare parts he could find, and lodge them in garages. This, on the reckoning that few people could afford new cars and would depend on repairs. Mary Foot, of course, has this fixation on pottery. For some reason she claims that rural ceramics would thrive in a depression. She spelt ceramics S-A-H-R-A-M-I-X. She really needs you, Rowland. She’s left a letter for you condoling you on the death of your father. How are you feeling?”

  “All right,” he said. “I was all right yesterday and the day before, after the funeral. I was thinking of my father, thinking a lot about him. His death took Chris completely off my mind. But now, I can hardly wait till I get back into my brooding environment, if you know what I mean. I know I’m obsessed with Chris, but I want my obsession. So does he.”

  “I think you’re very bogged down.”

  “It’s his fault. Trying to pass himself off as a creative writer, when all he’s doing is exploiting his looks and his youth.”

  “It might be a thrilling book, all the same,” Nina said. “Not historically sound, of course. But not impossible, just probable. Doesn’t that fit in with what you always tell your class: You have to persuade the reader to read on?”

  “My father’s death made me forget him,” Rowland said.

  “That’s understandable.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. You have to see an analyst,” Nina said.

  “I will if Chris will. The boy won’t leave me alone.”

  “Just hang on to the end of term,” Nina said. That, in fact, was what she was trying to do, herself. She said, “Try to think about your father, about the times you spent with him.”

  He said, “My father’s death was a respite.”

  She thought: He needs a death. And not a word for me, not a look. No “How are you feeling, I’ve missed you.” All I, I, I and “my problem.” All I hope is that he doesn’t murder Chris, that’s all I care now.

  Rowland said again, “My father’s death was a respite. Has Chris told you how much of his novel he still has to write?”

  “No.”

  “Have you seen any of it?”

  “Only that bit at the beginning before you told him to give up the idea.”

  “I shouldn’t have said that. It made him cagey, secretive.”

  “Well, I suppose so.”

  Here they were at the gate of College Sunrise, Rowland thinking of the state of mind he had experienced on the death of his father, but unable to recapture it.

  15

  There was a small sitting room at the back of College Sunrise, looking out on a leafy garden, which was generally used by the school’s small staff, mainly Albert Hertz the lovely garden boy, Elaine Valette and her sister, Célestine, Chris’s midnight lover. They met at tea and coffee breaks for a chat and a pause, and this afternoon they were joined by Claire Denis, the daily maid. Claire’s apparently formidable task of cleaning and washing up was considerably lightened by the apperance, once a month, of a housecleaning team from Geneva, and the fact that the students were obliged to tidy up their rooms. Even so, Claire worked hard.

  Their working hard was today partly the theme of the four who were gathered for tea and an understandable discussion of how they stood or would stand at College Sunrise when the new school year should begin in late January next. There was also the question of where the school would be located, since it was, by its foundation, free and mobile. Would their jobs be safe? Did they, individually, want the jobs to be safe?

  As usual, the staff knew more about the crisis at the management end than Rowland and Nina or any of the students suspected.

  Albert said, “The lease runs out at the end of the year, but if they don’t renew it someone else will take on the house. I like the garden, it’s small but I’ve made it mine.”

  “The marriage is finished,” said Célestine. “Nina stays late with Israel Brown, and Rowland, wouldn’t you know, is making for me. Would you believe it . . . his jealousy of Chris. And he thinks I’ll sleep with him instead of Chris, some hope.”

  “Are you that fond of Chris?” said Claire.

  “Oh yes, of course,” said Célestine, “and he’s got a great future. The publisher’s arriving tomorrow. Rowland could
kill him. I won’t leave Rowland alone in my kitchen in case he puts poison in the food and kills us all to take Chris with us.”

  “I wouldn’t exaggerate,” said her sister. “But I wonder what Chris will do when the school breaks up? You won’t see him again.”

  “I’d like a job in the hotel,” Célestine said.

  “I’m thinking of a tourist bureau in Geneva,” said Elaine.

  Claire said, “I think of some sort of tragedy. Pallas’s father has been arrested for smuggling a stolen picture. Israel’s aunt Giovanna spotted it in a friend’s gallery. They get to know everything in that world.”

  Albert said, “Nina’s hoping the school’s name will be famous through Chris’s success. Put up the fees. But if it gets known about the picture . . . a small El Greco, if it’s real, worth fifteen.”

  “Fifteen what?” said Claire.

  “Million dollars.”

  “But Chris,” said Célestine, “helped Pallas to smuggle it out of Switzerland. It was in the hothouse with the tomatoes for a few weeks. Very bad for the paint.”

  “And all the other students are so sweet,” said Elaine. “I love Lionel, he’s serious, Leg’s fun, Tilly’s rather a bitch but, well, she’s Tilly. Lisa, Joan, Mary, especially Mary, who adores Rowland—they’re charming. And Opal’s going to be a woman priest, how long will that last?”

  “Maybe I’ll marry Opal,” said Albert. “She grows on me.”

  “The parents will be looking for a match, a bon parti .”

  “I will marry her while the parents are still looking.” It was understood by all present that Albert had already made headway with Opal.

  “I can always get a domestic job,” said Claire, “but if Nina doesn’t keep me on, I’ll miss the school. —Albert, will you take your feet off the coffee table?”

  “Will you travel?” said Célestine.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Rowland won’t go,” said Célestine. “They are bound to part.”

  The prospective publisher of Chris’s novel checked in next day at the nearby hotel. Before Chris went to meet him he invited Rowland to accompany him.

  “It would be nice, you know, if you represented the school as patron of the arts. You could let it be understood you were the mentor of the book.”

  “Although I’m not,” said Rowland.

  “Although you’re not.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Can I quote you, Rowland?”

  “Whatever you please. It’s hell you’re going to, anyway.”

  “I’m sorry to hear,” said Chris, “that Célestine gave you the brush-off.”

  “Did she?”

  “I believe so, Rowland.”

  “There may be another time,” Rowland said. “Another occasion. Girls change their minds.”

  “You’ll come and meet my future publisher?”

  “Do you have a contract already?”

  “No. He’s expressed an interest. That’s sufficient.”

  “All right. I’ll come.”

  Chris and Rowland were seated in one of the hotel’s series of sitting rooms, one leading into another, each upholstered in a different floral pattern. Nina had offered the hospitality of the school but Chris had said he preferred to be independent.

  It was four thirty in the afternoon, the time of their appointment with Monty Fergusson the London publisher who had checked into the hotel at about two o’clock. Rowland left a message at the desk for the publisher, telling him where to find them.

  A clerk from the desk approached them: “Mr. Wiley?”

  “That’s me,” said Chris.

  “A message from Mr. Fergusson. He sent down a message to say he’s detained with some business on the phone to London and will be half an hour late. Can he offer you something to drink while waiting or would you prefer to return later?”

  Rowland said, “Well, I—”

  “We’ll wait,” said Chris.

  Rowland ordered a single malt, Chris, a Coca-Cola.

  “Has he read your book, so far as it goes?” Rowland said.

  “I expect so.”

  “Perhaps he’s actually looking at it now. Those big firms employ readers. The publishers don’t read everything themselves.”

  “Mine is a special case.”

  “Yes,” said Rowland.

  “Can you ever get me out of your mind?”

  “You’re not on my mind. In fact, all the time I was in Yorkshire I didn’t give you a thought.”

  Their drinks arrived.

  “Perhaps we should pay,” said Chris.

  “Certainly not. Why have you suddenly lost your confidence?”

  “Oh, fame’s a new experience for me. I’ll get used to it. Your father’s death made you forget me.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Maybe you need another death to get over your obsession. A more important one.”

  “Let’s hope not,” said Rowland.

  The windows of the room looked over the steel-gray lake. The surface was rough, the sky overclouded. Nonetheless, it was a handsome scene. Rowland was impatient for the publisher to arrive and enjoy the fine scene while it was still daylight. He said, “Once the school breaks up and you go away, you know I’m going to reorganize my life. I want you to leave me alone, though.” It was evident that he spoke as if he had a choking sensation, which in fact he had.

  “You will not murder me,” said Chris.

  Rowland sipped his drink and gazed out of the window. Chris said, “You will murder Nina.”

  “What?”

  “Nina. The papers will say you found her in bed with her lover. Crime passionnel. Something you’d have to live with, and forget me. A death.”

  “You’re mad, more mad than me,” said Rowland.

  “And it will be bad for the school,” Chris said.

  A very tall figure was approaching their table. Monty Fergusson, about fifty, with a shock of white hair surrounding a smooth, youngish face.

  “Nice place,” he said, meaning who knows what?

  “I’m Rowland Mahler,” said Rowland. “This is Chris.”

  Monty Fergusson took Rowland’s hand, and nodded to Chris. He had been put on the plane for Geneva that morning with a bulky piece of manuscript to read: The famous novel or rather, book, by the sort of famous youngster of seventeen. The boy had been well photographed and talked about. There would probably be a film. Monty was given to understand that the book involved “a new theory of the murder of Mary Queen of Scots’ husband.” A good commercial proposition while it lasted. Monty had started to look through it on the plane, flicking over the pages so as to absorb the paragraphs here and there, and for the last twenty-five minutes up in his room he had read the opening chapters entirely, and the last ten pages of the unfinished script.

  “Our school,” said Rowland, “also looks over the lake.”

  Monty sat with the fat package on his lap and looked at Chris. “You’ve put in a lot of work, here.”

  “Oh, yes, I should be finished quite soon. I have two alternative endings. I have to make a choice.”

  “Yes, choice . . . Choices are rather a problem aren’t they?”

  “It will turn out all right.”

  “It will be all right because of your youth and the publicity you’ve spread about. How far has the film project come along? Do you have a contract?”

  “Not yet. Of course, they’re waiting for publication of the book itself.”

  “The book itself,” said the publisher, “is actually a lot of shit.”

  “Oh, come,” said Rowland in a very soft, awed, voice.

  “Are you trying to beat down the price?” said Chris.

  “I haven’t made an offer,” said the publisher.

  “But there are other publishers, other offers,” said Chris.

  “And other authors,” said Monty. “Which reminds me I have to hire a car to get back to Geneva for dinner tonight. I have an author to see, there in Geneva. Very interesting . . .”
He got up and went to the desk to order his car. When he came back he didn’t sit down again. He merely shook their hands and said to Chris, “I’ll be interested to see the final draft. Our readers will get copies. I think, though, you’ll have a lot of work to do on the book. That would be up to the editors if they could rework it. If they could . . . Nice to see you. Good-bye. Good-bye.”

  16

  That Chris’s book needed a whole lot of work on it was a story that soon caught on in the swift tale-bearing publishing world. Chris, struggling with his alternative endings, was now stuck in his final chapter. Shaken by Monty Fergusson’s reaction he telephoned a literary agent, from whose tone he sensed a decided drop in enthusiasm for his forthcoming novel.

  “Monty Fergusson is an enemy,” he told Nina, who reported it to Rowland.

  “Not an enemy of yours, anyway,” Rowland said. He didn’t go so far as to tell her that Chris could be regarded as her enemy, but he recounted calmly the embarrassing encounter in the hotel sitting room with Monty Fergusson.

  “He’s reputed to be tough,” Nina said.

  “Where money’s concerned they’re all tough. It’s only because he’s a juvenile prodigy that Chris has all this attention. Perhaps if he was an active author of 100 years old in a wheelchair the result would be the same.”

  “But he looks nice and wild. The younger set will like him.”

  “The younger people don’t read books much. They’re not all like us.”

  “What about the movie?”

  “If you ask me,” said Rowland, shaking a lock of hair off his face, “the whole thing’s an air bubble. The book’s a lot of shit.”

  “That isn’t unusual.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  She could see Rowland was less tense, even pleased at the awful meeting with the very busy publisher. She noticed he was making notes on his computer. He looked up and said, “Practical jokers can easily become psychopaths, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, yes, but what has Chris actually done that’s awful?” said Nina.

  “He has awful ideas.”

  “Oh, ideas . . .”

  Tilly was all vigilant. She made it her business to know that a few days later Chris had put through a call to an alternative publisher, who was expected to ring him back but didn’t.