Thalia

by Frances Faviell

  I was so happy that I flung my arms round his neck—he wore a velvet painting coat—and hugged him. His beard was wiry and scratchy but I liked his hard, rough face. He was delighted. ‘Ah, she’s got the impulsive temperament and the passion of the painter, Armand my boy. But don’t try this on the masters I’m going to send you to—not all of them will be content to remain her future uncle!’ And looking maliciously at Armand he put the other arm round me.

  Armand didn’t find this as funny as his uncle appeared to. He was very angry with Xavier. He didn’t really approve of my wanting to be a painter any more than his mother did. To her it was a hobby which must be given up when the more serious matters of household and children would arise. She had made that clear to me, and because I was so much in love I had said nothing.

  When we were leaving Pont Aven Armand said, ‘You will be able to study in Paris the year I am there.’

  I didn’t answer because I knew that I would need many years, not just the one which would fit in with his movements.

  ‘My uncle lives in some ways a very disreputable life,’ he said as he started up the car, ‘and I’d rather you didn’t become too intimate with him.’

  ‘He’s a great painter—and I adore him!’ I said.

  ‘And don’t use such extravagant terms . . . people are apt to misunderstand you. For instance, some men wouldn’t like you flinging yourself on him as you did just now.’

  I shrank back into my coat. It was as if he had struck me.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said stiffly.

  He was going back to Rennes again and I wouldn’t see him until the following week-end, he said. He wouldn’t be able to get over. I said nothing but once when he had told me he would be away all the week I had been astonished to see his car out on the Vicomté road. I knew it was his by the colour and the number. It had been parked near the lovely little Chapelle de la Divine Bergère in the Franciscan Monastery on the Rond Point there. The brothers ran a school which was attached to the monastery. Armand had at one time attended the school—and he was very fond of some of the brothers. Seeing his car I had gone timidly into the chapel to look for him but it had been quite empty except for a monk in his marron robe. When he had asked me whether he could help me I said I was looking for Armand Tréfours. ‘I haven’t seen him. He hasn’t been here to-day. I expect he’s on the cliffs or walking on the beach . . . he’s fond of coming to the Vicomté.’

  I knew he was—didn’t he bring me here? This place was to me our special dedicated paradise. I loved it. Even now in February it was sheltered and warm if one went lower down on to the banks of the estuary, where below the thick pines, the tamarisks, rosemary and myrtle and mimosa bushes mingling with the gorse made a thick screen from the winds. Thalia had seen his car there on two occasions. But I didn’t say anything—his affairs were his own business—and if he went to see the Brothers he would prefer to go alone. Since that first small difference over the matter of his father and Catherine there had sprung up between us the very faintest coolness. I had been right when I’d said that it could never remain as perfect as it had been before our engagement had been made known to others.

  One afternoon in March, Thalia and I went walking round the coast beyond the Vicomté. Claude had gone to a party with Cynthia. Kiki had hurt his foot and we had left him unhappy at home. It was one of those sudden warm days which flash out after a cold spell and nature seems to awaken and force one to notice her. ‘Look at me, look at my wonders . . . look at me for I am life . . .’ and every cell in one’s body is aware of that life.

  It was really spring. The sea, the emerald after which the coast is named, was smooth as shining glass and as mystic. The trees were full of gossiping noisy birds, under our feet violets and small white star-like flowers thrust up everywhere. There seemed to be a burst of life . . . a throbbing of insects and small creatures awaking.

  We raced each other, clambered up and down the steep, rocky descents to the beaches below for sheer love of being alive. It was still—and a strange, misty, unreal quality which marked the entire coast was over it as a living cobweb. It was very warm, and we pulled off first one garment and then another. All around us the gorse in great golden masses wafted the scent of almonds, below us the dark, sinister rocks gleamed wet from the receding tide and their savage agelessness never failed to awe me.

  Suddenly Thalia raced madly away from me and when she was almost on the edge of the steep cliff she screamed wildly, threw up her arms and disappeared from view. Terrified and stricken with horror, I raced to the place where she had disappeared. Hardly daring to look I peered over the edge of the ravine-like cleft in the cliffs calling ‘Thalia . . . Thalia . . . Thalia . . .’ but there was no answer. I screamed again and again and the echoes answered up from the depth. Shaking and unable to realize what had happened I prepared to descend the frightening granite cliff face. And then I heard her laughing . . . laughing wildly . . . ‘Rachel . . . Rachel. Don’t go down. Look nearer. . . .’ And there flat in the long grass she lay laughing at me.

  I was so angry that I couldn’t speak. My stomach was full of quivering terror and my heart beat in uneven tearing breaths and suddenly my knees gave way and I sat down in the grass on the edge of the cleft.

  ‘You’re not angry . . . don’t be angry, Rachel. I was pretending to be Tristram. I can’t help teasing you to-day. It’s that sort of a day. You really thought I’d gone over. Why, you’re quite pale. Did you mind so much?’

  She was obviously pleased at my fright and distress, and came and sat with her arm round me. I was so thankful that she was safe that as she sat close to me in her plaid skirt and schoolgirl’s blouse for once I didn’t push her away as I usually did.

  ‘Thalia,’ I said suddenly, ‘d’you know your freckles are disappearing?’

  Her face literally glowed with joy. ‘Really? You’re not saying it to please me?’

  ‘Look for yourself.’ I handed her the small mirror from my handbag. She peered anxiously in it, then turned to me. ‘It’s true, it’s true!’ she cried as if she couldn’t believe it.

  ‘D’you mind them so much?’ I asked as she squeezed herself to me in impulsive delight.

  ‘You know. You know I do. I want more than anything in the world to be beautiful—like when I was Nefertiti. I know I’m ugly—and Mother hates it. She should have had Deirdre for her daughter. Deirdre’s lovely, isn’t she?’

  ‘Deirdre’s not lovely. She’s just pretty.’

  ‘Mother thinks she’s lovely. She said so. She’s going to be presented in the spring. She’s having a white tulle frock with bunches of rosebuds on it. . . .’

  I could sense the wistfulness of Thalia for something similar, although she would have looked ridiculous in it.

  ‘It’s all very silly . . . and meaningless. I hated it,’ I said.

  It was so hot in the sun that we lay there in the sweet thick grass full of little flowers. She put out a freckled hand and timidly touched my arm. ‘Rachel . . . there’s something I want to tell you.

  Oh God, I thought, if she’s going to tell me that she loves me I shall be sick.

  ‘Don’t,’ I said urgently.

  ‘I must. I’ve tried to tell you so many times—but you won’t let me. . . .’

  I sat up angrily, ‘And I tell you again—I don’t want to hear it.’

  She sighed and her face was suddenly old. She set her lips tightly together and, her eyes blinking and her hands twisting in an agony of nervousness, she began again . . . ‘But this time, Rachel, I’ve got to tell you . . . it’s common knowledge. It’s about Armand . . .’ her voice rushed on, gathering speed and strength before I could interrupt. ‘It’s Armand . . . there’s another woman. I’ve seen his car . . . here . . . he brings her here—up there. . . .’ She pointed higher up the slope. ‘He reads her the same poems as he reads you, that’s how I learned “Les Elfes”. . . .’

  I stared at her and then I laughed. ‘You’re making it up,’ I said. ‘You’r
e jealous! You’re always making trouble. Your mother has warned me about you. . . .’ And now I was angry.

  ‘But this time it’s true, it’s true! You must believe me. I’ll show you the exact spot where I’ve seen him. . . . He was here two days ago when you had gone to Dinan with Judy.’

  The thought that Armand took another woman to the spot which I had thought was sacred to us alone infuriated me. But it wasn’t true—and as I thrust it from me my anger with her increased. ‘I don’t want to see it. I don’t believe you. Let’s go home. You’ve done enough for one afternoon.’ I was still upset from that horrible trick she had played on me.

  We began climbing up the steep slope to the open, even ground above. . . . When we reached the top and paused for breath she said musingly . . . ‘You know what the matron at school tells you about sex and all that . . . well, it just isn’t true. When I asked her where one did all the things she was telling me about, she told me to use my common sense and did I suppose one would choose the open air?’

  I started walking quickly along the path past the monastery which Armand loved; she came behind lumbering and panting a little. . . . ‘It isn’t true . . .’ she repeated. ‘They do choose the open air. Armand does.’

  ‘Shut up!’ I cried violently. ‘You make me sick . . .’ We walked back in complete silence.

  This was the evening I used to spend with Julie when I would go to her flat and we would play records and talk. Since she had left I had met her several times in the town—she hadn’t yet obtained the post in Rennes. I still had a number of books she had lent me and two of her gramophone records. After dinner I felt restless and told Cynthia I would go for a walk. I longed for Armand—but he was in Rennes. ‘Then take Thalia. . . . Don’t go alone . . .’ she said.

  I didn’t want Thalia. I could hardly bring myself to speak to her since the afternoon. But she went at once and fetched a coat and scarf.

  ‘We’ll take these books and records back to Julie Caron,’ I said.

  ‘No!’ said Thalia violently. ‘Don’t let’s go there.’

  ‘Yes. Do go. And ask her if she would consider taking Claude out for two afternoons a week until she goes to Rennes,’ said Cynthia. ‘I can’t think why she left like that. She wrote me a charming letter in English telling me she was so sorry to leave me.’

  The flat was over the little grocer’s shop in the Square and as we were turning the corner we met Julie’s old mother. She greeted me with a strange malevolent stare. ‘Is Julie at home?’ I asked. ‘I’m returning these books and records to her.’

  ‘Oh, yes. She’s in! She’s in all right. Go up. The door’s open. I don’t think the bell rings. If she doesn’t answer—go right up.’

  I thanked her, and regarding me with a studied intent she said insolently, ‘I must congratulate you, Mademoiselle Rachel. Since you came here last you have become the fiancée of Armand Tréfours!’

  I was too taken aback at her tone to answer, and before I could—‘Felicitations! You’ve done well for yourself!’ she called and turned the corner.

  ‘How queer she was!’ I said to Thalia.

  ‘I don’t like her—and I hate Julie Caron. Don’t let’s go up, Rachel. Let’s leave the things on the doorstep.’

  The Square was quite deserted except for a starved cat. Behind the brightly lit, steamy windows of the bistros the men sat arguing, and from one came the tinkle of mechanical music. The door at the side of the grocer’s shop was painted yellow and it was very dirty. We rang the bell and waited. There was no answer.

  I pushed the door open. The small narrow passage inside smelt of garlic and of drains; it was dark, but a light burned on the landing above.

  ‘I’m not coming up. I’ll wait for you here,’ said Thalia.

  I went up. The stairs led on to a small landing where the Carons had three rooms. The paint was peeling off the walls and the banisters were scratched and shabby.

  ‘Julie! Julie!’ I called softly, pushing open the door of the sitting-room.

  The room was in darkness except for a small rose-pink table lamp by the couch. The first thing I saw was a skirt on the floor—Julie’s new pleated blue one—then a pair of bare legs. But I saw no more . . . for I would have known those legs anywhere in the world. Hadn’t I observed and sketched them a hundred times when Armand was running across the beach?

  I turned, and stumbled down the stairs, and the gramophone records fell, clattering to the hall below, and smashed into small pieces.

  I pushed Thalia roughly before me through the door into the street, ignoring the broken records, closing it behind me as if I would shut out for ever the vision of what I had just seen.

  ‘Take these,’ I said, leaning against the wall outside.

  She took the books without a word and I leaned there. The Square was no longer there—it was an empty space as was everything. A space in which like a meaningless object I was suspended. Suddenly I felt her dragging me away from the house. She pulled me across the Square and I recovered myself sufficiently to notice Armand’s white car parked outside one of the bistros.

  ‘He’s coming out,’ she whispered, dragging me urgently round the corner until we were in the shadow of the trees. ‘I saw his car when the old woman was talking to us. She knew he was up there.’

  I thought of Madame Caron’s malicious smile and her insolence. Yes, she had known all right. And then I turned on Thalia. And you! You knew too! You saw the car.’

  ‘I tried to stop you,’ she said sullenly, but there was no conviction in her voice, and I knew that it was what she had wanted—that I should see for myself what she had seen on the slopes of the Rance.

  ‘I didn’t know. How could I have known? I saw the car—that’s all. I tried to stop you. You never listen to me.’

  There was in her voice that pleased satisfaction which maddened me. I walked on, not feeling the solid ground, not seeing anything which we passed.

  She said desperately, ‘Rachel . . . Rachel . . . Don’t look like that. Don’t. He’s not worth it. It’s been going on for months. That’s why she left us—because of you. He can’t love you. He doesn’t.’

  ‘Go away. Go quickly . . . or I think I shall kill you,’ I said passionately.

  I don’t remember anything of the walk back to the villa but suddenly I was back. I felt stricken . . . withered . . . I wanted to hide myself from the bright light at the remembrance of what I had seen. Hot waves of shame came over me at the thought of my having been such an unwitting fool. But even as I fought the tumult in me, unable to weep, in a dry searing anguish I wondered why it was that I hated not Armand and Julie Caron for what they were doing but Thalia for having always known it.

  I was with Claude the following afternoon when Marie came to tell me that Armand was downstairs. Cynthia was playing bridge in the salon.

  ‘Where is he?’ I asked her. She was peering at me with her sharp old eyes. ‘I’ve put him in the kitchen—that’s the best place for him.’

  ‘Tell him to go down on the terrace—I’ll come down.

  ‘But it’s cold to-day,’ she protested.

  ‘Where else can we talk?’ I demanded.

  ‘Claude can come in the kitchen and he can come up here,’ she suggested.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘Thalia will be coming in at any minute now. I’ll come down—you stay here and give Claude his tea—will you, Marie?’

  I rubbed my cheeks until they were red, and brushed my hair violently, put on a jacket and went down the white pebbled path in the garden to the terrace. Armand was pacing up and down and hurried to me at once.

  ‘Rachel . . .’ he began, and then I suppose he saw in my face how I was feeling. He stopped, and tried to take me in his arms. I pushed him violently away. ‘Don’t touch me—if you do I’ll vomit.’

  And now he looked angry. His face was white, two red spots appeared below his high cheekbones.

  ‘So that’s how you feel about me—I make you sick?’

  ‘Yes,’ I sai
d, ‘you do.’

  ‘All you English are prigs!’ he said bitterly. ‘I suppose you are shocked. How could I imagine that you would come into someone’s flat without knocking?’

  ‘Madame Caron told me to go straight up. She knew the bell didn’t ring.’

  ‘You could have knocked.’

  ‘So that you and she could have arranged yourselves in time?’ I retorted. ‘What difference would that have made? I’d have known just the same.’

  ‘I’m sorry you had to see that. . . . For a young girl it must have been a shock . . .’

  ‘It’s not that. It’s the lies. Lies! How can you lie to me? I can’t stand deceit. I hate it and I hate liars.’

  ‘But what would you have me do? Would you have me tell you every time I went to my mistress? Would you prefer that?’

  ‘Your mistress? You admit that she’s that?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said impatiently.

  ‘No . . . no . . .’ I cried. I couldn’t bear it. A wave of some new, violent feeling assailed me. Was it jealousy?

  ‘But you accepted the fact that my father had a mistress—why can’t you accept the same of me?’ he asked, genuinely bewildered.