The Magus - John Fowles

by John Fowles

  There was also a supreme judge in Tartarus — Minos (the presiding "doctor" with a beard?); and of course there was Anubis-Cerberus, the black dog with three heads (three roles?). And Tartarus was where Eurydice went when Orpheus lost her.

  * * *

  I was aware that in all this I was acting the role I had decided not to act: that of detective, of hunter, and several times I abandoned the chase. But then one, and one of the apparently least promising, of my hits of research bore spectacular results.

  71

  It began, one Monday, with a very long shot, the assumption that Conchis had lived in St. John's Wood as a boy and that there had indeed been an original Lily Montgomery. I went to Marylebone Central Library and asked to look at the street directories for 1912 to 1914. Of course the name Conchis would not appear; I looked for Montgomery. Acacia Road, Prince Albert Road, Henstridge Place, Queen's Grove . . . with an A to Z of London by my side I worked through all the likely streets on the east of Wellington Road. Suddenly, with a shock of excitement, my eyes jumped a page. Montgomery, Fredk, 20 Allitsen Road.

  The neighbors' names were given as Smith and Manningham, although by 1914 the latter had moved and the name Huckstepp appeared. I wrote down the address, and then went on searching. Almost at once, on the other side of the main artery, I came across another Montgomery; this time in Elm Tree Road. But I no sooner caught sight of it than I was disappointed, because the full name was given as Sir Charles Penn Montgomery; an eminent surgeon, by the look of the trail of initials after his name; and obviously not the man Conchis described. The neighbors' names there were HamiltonDukes and Charlesworth. There was

  another title among the Elm Tree Road residents; a "desirable" address.

  I searched on, double-checking everything, but without finding any other Montgomery. I then followed up in later directories the two I had found. The Allitsen Road Montgomery disappeared in 1920. Annoyingly the Elm Tree Road Montgomery went on much longer, though Sir Charles must have died in 1922; after that the owner's name appeared as Lady Florence Montgomery, and continued so right up to 1938.

  After lunch I drove up to Allitsen Road. As I swung into it, I knew it was no good. The houses were small terrace houses, nothing like the "mansions" Conchis had described. Five minutes later I was in Elm Tree Road. At least it looked more the part: a pretty circumflex of mixed largish houses and early Victorian mews and cottages. It also looked encouragingly unaltered. No. 46 turned out to be one of the largest houses in the road. I parked my car and walked up a drive between banks of dead hydrangeas to a neo-Georgian front door; rang a bell.

  But it sounded in an empty house, and sounded so all through August. Whoever lived there was on holiday. I found out his name in that year's directory — a Mr. Simon Marks. I also found out from an old Who's Who that the illustrious Sir Charles Penn Montgomery had had three daughters. I could probably have found out their names, but I had by then become anxious to drag my investigations out, as a child his last few sweets. It was almost a disappointment when, one day early in September, I saw a car parked in the driveway, and knew that another faint hope was about to be extinguished.

  The bell was answered by an Italian in a white housecoat.

  "I wonder if I could speak to the owner? Or his wife."

  "You have appointment?"

  "No."

  "You sell something?"

  I was rescued by a sharp voice.

  "Who is it, Ercole?"

  She appeared, a woman of sixty, a Jewess, expensively dressed, intelligent-looking.

  "Oh, I'm engaged on some research and I'm trying to trace a family called Montgomery."

  "Sir Charles Penn? The surgeon?"

  "I believed he lived here."

  "Yes, he lived here." The houseboy waited, and she waved him away in a grande-dame manner; part of the wave came my way.

  "In fact . . . this is rather difficult to explain . . . I'm really looking for a Miss Lily Montgomery."

  "Yes. I know her." She was evidently not amused by the astonished smile that broke over my face. "You wish to see her?"

  "I'm writing a monograph on a famous Greek writer — famous in Greece, that is, and I believe Miss Montgomery knew him well many years ago when he lived in England."

  "What is his name?"

  "Maurice Conchis." She had clearly never heard of him.

  The lure of the search overcame a little of her distrust, and she said, "I will find you the address. Come in."

  I waited in the splendid hall. An ostentation of marble and ormolu; pier glasses; what looked like a Fragonard. Petrified opulence, tense excitement. In a minute she reappeared with a card. On it I read: Mrs. Lily de Seitas, Dinsford House, Much Hadham, Herts.

  "I haven't seen her for several years," said the lady.

  "Thank you very much." I began backing towards the door.

  "Would you like tea? A drink?"

  There was something glistening, obscurely rapacious, about her eyes, as if while she had been away she'd decided that there might be a pleasure to suck from me. A mantis woman; starved in her luxury. I was glad to escape.

  Before I drove off I looked once more at the substantial houses on either side of No. 46. In one of them Conchis must have spent his youth. Behind No. 46 was what looked like a factory, though I had discovered from the A to Z that it was the back of the stands of Lord's cricket ground. The gardens were hidden because of the high walls, but the "little orchard" must now be dwarfed by the stands overhead, though very probably they had not been built before the First War.

  The next morning at eleven I was in Much Hadham. It was a very fine day, cloudless September blue; a day to compare with a Greek day. Dinsford House lay some way out of the village, and although it was not quite so grand as it sounded, it was no hovel; a five-bay period house, posed graciously and gracefully, brick-red and white, in an acre or so of well-kept grounds. This time the door was opened by a Scandinavian au pair girl. Yes, Mrs. de Seitas was in — she was down at the stables, if I'd go round the side.

  I walked over the gravel and under a brick arch. There were two garages, and a little further down I could see and smell stables. A small boy appeared from a door holding a bucket. He saw me and called, "Mummy! There's a man." A slim woman in jodhpurs, a red headscarf and a red tartan shirt came out of the same door. She seemed to be in her early forties; a still pretty, erect woman with an open-air complexion.

  "Can I help you?"

  "I'm actually looking for Mrs. de Seitas."

  "I am Mrs. de Seitas."

  I had it so fixed in my mind that she would be gray-haired, Conchis's age. Closer to her, I could see crowsfeet and a slight but telltale flabbiness round the neck; the still brown hair was probably dyed. She might be nearer fifty than forty; but that made her still ten years too young.

  "Mrs. Lily de Seitas?"

  "Yes."

  "I've got your address from Mrs. Simon Marks." A minute change in her expression told me that I had not recommended myself. "I've come to ask you if you would help on a matter of literary research."

  "Me!"

  "If you were once Miss Lily Montgomery."

  "But my father —"

  "It's not about your father." A pony whinnied inside the stable. The little boy stared at me hostilely; his mother urged him away, to go and fill his bucket. I put on all my Oxford charm. "If it's terribly inconvenient, of course I'll come back another time."

  "We're only mucking out." She leant the besom she was carrying against the wall. "But who?"

  "I'm writing a study of — Maurice Conchis?"

  I watched her like a hawk; but I was over a bare field.

  "Maurice who?"

  "Conchis." I spelt it. "He's a famous Greek writer. He lived in this country when he was young."

  She brushed back a strand of hair rather gauchely with her gloved hand; she was, I could see, one of those country Englishwomen who are abysmally innocent about everything except horses, homes and children. "Honestly, I'm aw
fully sorry, but there must be some mistake."

  "You may have known him under the name of . . . Charlesworth? Or Hamilton-Dukes? A long time ago. The First World War."

  "But my dear man — I'm sorry, not my dear man . . . oh dear —" she broke off rather charmingly. I saw a lifetime of dropped bricks behind her; but her tanned skin and her clear bluish eyes, and the body that had conspicuously not run to seed, made her forgivable. She said, "What is your name?"

  I told her.

  "Mr. Urfe, do you know how old I was in 1914?"

  "Obviously very young indeed." She smiled, but as if compliments were rather continental and embarrassing.

  "I was ten." She looked to where her son was filling the bucket. "Benjie's age."

  "Those other names — they mean nothing?"

  "Good Lord yes, but . . . this Maurice — what did you call him? — he stayed with them?"

  I shook my head. Once again Conchis had tricked me into a ridiculous situation. He had probably picked the name with a pin in an old directory: all he would have had to find was the name of one of the daughters. I plunged insecurely on.

  "He was the son. An only son. Very musical."

  "Well, I'm afraid there must be a mistake. The Charlesworths were childless, and there was a Hamilton-Dukes boy but —" I saw her hesitate as something snagged her memory — "he died in the war."

  I smiled. "I think you've just remembered something else."

  "No — I mean, yes. I don't know. It was when you said musical." She looked incredulous.

  "You couldn't mean Mr. Rat?" She laughed, and put her thumbs in the pockets of her jodhpurs.

  "The Wind in the Willows. He was an Italian who came and tried to teach us the piano. My sister and me."

  "Young?"

  She shrugged. "Quite."

  "Could you tell me more about him?"

  She looked down. "Gambellino, Gambardello . . . something like that. Gambardello?" She said the name as if it was still a joke.

  "His first name?"

  She couldn't possibly remember.

  "Why Mr. Rat?"

  "Because he had such staring brown eyes. We used to tease him terribly." She pulled an ashamed face at her son, who had come back, and now pushed her, as if he was the one being teased. She missed the sudden leap of excitement in my own eyes; the certainty that Conchis had used more than a pin.

  "Was he shortish? Shorter than me?"

  She clasped her headscarf, trying to remember; then looking up, puzzled. "Do you know. . . but this can't be . . .?"

  "Would you be very kind indeed and let me question you for ten minutes or so?"

  She hesitated. I was politely adamant; just ten minutes. She turned to her son. "Benjie, run and ask Gunnel to make us some coffee. And bring it out in the garden."

  He looked at the stable. "But Lazy."

  "We'll do for Lazy in a minute."

  Benjie ran up the gravel and I followed Mrs. de Seitas, as she peeled off her gloves, flicked off her headscarf, a willowy walk, down beside a brick wall and through a doorway into a fine old garden; a lake of autumn flowers; on the far side of the house a lawn and a cedar. She led the way round to a sun loggia. There was a canopied swing-seat, some elegant cast-iron seats painted white. Money; I guessed that Sir Charles Penn had had a golden scalpel. She sat in the swing-seat and indicated a chair for me. I murmured something about the garden.

  "It is rather jolly, isn't it? My husband does almost all this by himself and now, poor man, he hardly ever sees it." She smiled. "My husband's an economist. He's stuck in Strasbourg." She swung her feet up; she was a little too girlish, too aware of her good figure; reacting from a rural boredom. "But come on. Tell me about your famous writer I've never heard of. You've met him?"

  "He died in the Occupation."

  "Poor man. What of?"

  "Cancer." I hurried on. "He was, well, very secretive about his past, so one has to deduce things from his work. We know that he was Greek, but he may have pretended to be Italian." I jumped up and gave her a light for her cigarette.

  "I just can't believe it was Mr. Rat. He was such a funny little man."

  "Can you remember one thing — his playing the harpsichord as well as the piano?"

  "The harpsichord is the plonkety-plonk one?" I nodded, but she shook her head. "You did say a writer?"

  "He turned from music to literature. You see, there are countless references in his early poems — and in, well, a novel he wrote — to an unhappy but very significant love affaire he had when he was still in England. Of course we just don't know to what extent he was recalling reality and to what extent embroidering on it."

  "But — am I mentioned?"

  "There are all sorts of clues that suggest the girl's name was a flower name. And that he lived near her. And that the common bond was music . . ."

  She sat up, fascinated.

  "How on earth did you trace this to us?"

  "Oh — various clues. From literary references. I knew it was very near Lord's cricket ground. In one . . . passage he talks of this girl with her ancient British family name. Oh, and her famous doctor father. Then I started looking at street directories."

  "How absolutely extraordinary."

  "It's just one of those things. You meet hundreds of dead ends. But one day you really hit a way through."

  Smiling, she glanced towards the house. "Here's Gunnel." For two or three minutes we had to go through the business of getting coffee poured; polite exchanges about Norway — Gunnel had never been further north than Trondheim, I discovered. Benjie was ordered to disappear; and the ur-Lily and I were left alone again.

  For effect, I produced a notebook.

  "If I could just ask you a few questions . . ."

  "I say — glory at last." She laughed rather stupidly; horsily; she was enjoying herself. "I believed he lived next to you. He didn't. Where did he live?"

  "Oh I haven't the faintest idea. You know. At that age."

  "You knew nothing about his parents?" She shook her head. "Would your sisters perhaps know more?"

  Her face gravened.

  "My eldest sister lives in Chile. She was ten years older than me. And my sister Rose —"

  "Rose!"

  She smiled. "Rose."

  "God, this is extraordinary. It clinches it. There's a sort of . . . well a sort of mystery poem that belongs to the group about you. It's very obscure, but now we know you have a sister called Rose . . ."

  "Had a sister. Rose died just about that time. In 1916."

  "Of typhoid?"

  I said it so eagerly that she was taken aback; then smiled. "No. Of some terribly rare complication following jaundice." She stared out over the garden for a moment. "It was the great tragedy of my childhood."

  "Did you feel that he had any special affection for you — or for your sisters?"

  She smiled again, remembering. "We always thought he secretly admired May — my eldest sister — she was engaged, of course, but she used to come and sit with us. And yes . . . oh goodness, it's strange, it does come back, I remember he always used to show off, what we called showing off, if she was in the room. Play frightfully difficult bits. And she was fond of that Beethoven thing — For Elise? We used to hum it when we wanted to annoy him."

  "Your sister Rose was older than you?"

  "Two years older."

  "So the picture is really of two little girls teasing a foreign music teacher?"

  She began to swing on the seat. "Do you know, it's frightful, but I can't remember. I mean, yes, we teased him, I'm jolly sure we were perfect little pests. But then the war started and he disappeared."

  "Where?"

  "Oh. I couldn't tell you. No idea. But I remember we had a dreadful old hattie-axe in his place. And we hated her. I'm sure we missed him. I suppose we were frightful little snobs. One was in those days."

  "How long did he teach you?"

  "Two years?" She was almost asking me.

  "Can you remember any sign at all
of strong personal liking — for you — on his side?"

  She thought for a long moment, then shook her head. "You don't mean . . . something nasty?"

  "No, no. But were you, say, ever alone with him?"

  She put on an expression of mock shock. "Never. There was always our governess, or my sister. My mother."

  "You couldn't describe his character at all?"

  "I'm sure if I could meet him now I'd think, a sweet little man. You know."

  "You or your sister never played the flute or the recorder?"

  "Goodness no." She grinned at the absurdity.

  "A very personal question. Would you say you were a strikingly pretty little girl . . . sure you were — but were you conscious that there was something rather special about you?"

  She looked down at her cigarette. "In the interests, oh dear, how shall I say it, in the interests of your research, and speaking as a poor old raddled mother, the answer is . . . yes, I believe there was. Actually, I was painted. It became quite famous. All the rage of the 1913 Academy. It's in the house — I'll show you in a minute."

  I consulted my notebook. "And you just can't remember what happened to him when the war came?"

  She pressed her fine hands against her eyes. "Heavens, doesn't this make you realize — I think he was interned . . . but honestly for the life of me I . . ."

  "Would your sister in Chile remember better? Might I write to her?"

  "Of course. Would you like her address?" She gave it to me and I wrote it down. Benjie came and stood about twenty yards away, by an astrolabe on a stone column, looking plainer than words that his patience was exhausted. She beckoned to him; caressed back his forelock.

  "Your poor old mum's just had a shock, darling. She's discovered she's a muse." She turned to me. "Is that the word?"

  "What's a muse?"

  "A lady who makes a gentleman write poems."

  "Does he write poems?"

  She laughed and turned back to me. "And he's really quite famous?"

  "I think he will be one day."

  "Can I read him?"

  "He's not been translated. But he will be."

  "By you?"

  "Well . . ." I let her think I had hopes.

  She said, "I honestly don't think I can tell you any more." Benjie whispered something. She laughed and stood up in the sunlight and took his hand. "We're just going to show Mr. Orfe a picture, then it's back to work."