Arnold was sitting with his legs straight out in front of him, balanced on the heels. A characteristic pose. His face wore the affectionate quizzical ironical expression which I had once liked so much.
I said, «Let's have a drink.» I went to the walnut hanging cupboard.
I should of course have been, and in a way I was, relieved that the thing had been done so quietly. But I was also upset and annoyed and felt an impulse to shatter Arnold's complacency by showing him Rachel's letter. The letter was in fact lying on the Pembroke table, where I could even see the corner of the envelope protruding from under some papers. Naturally such treachery was not to be seriously envisaged. It is the woman's privilege to save herself at the man's expense. And though, as it seemed at that moment, whatever had happened had been Rachel's idea and not mine, I had to take full responsibility and suffer the consequences. I decided at once that I must not discuss or dispute the proffered view, but just pass the matter off as coolly as possible. It then came to me: but is Arnold lying? He could well be lying about Christian. Was he also lying about Rachel? What had passed between Arnold and his wife and would I ever know it for certain?
I looked at Arnold and found him looking at me. He seemed hugely amused. He looked well and strong and young, his lean greasy pale brown face had the look of a keen undergraduate. He looked like a clever undergraduate teasing his tutor.
«Bradley, it's true what I said about me and Chris. I care far too much about my work to indulge in muddles. And Christian is rational too. In fact she's the most rational woman I've ever met. What a grip on life that woman has!»
«Having a grip on life would be quite compatible with having a fling with you, I dare say. Anyway, as you have politely indicated, it's not my business. I'm sorry if I offended Rachel. I certainly wasn't intending to pester her with attentions. I was depressed and she was sympathetic. I'll try to be less disorderly. Can we leave it at that?»
«I read your so-called review with some interest.»
«Why call it a so-called review? It's a review. I'm not going to publish it.»
«You oughtn't to have sent it to me.»
«True. And if it's any satisfaction to you I regret having done so. Could you just tear it up and forget it?»
«I've already torn it up. I thought I might be tempted to read it again. I can't forget it. Bradley, you know how vain and touchy we artists are.»
«I know from my own case.»
«I wasn't excluding you, for Christ's sake. We, you too. When one's attacked through one's work it goes straight into the heart. I don't mean that one bothers about journalists, I mean people one knows. They sometimes imagine that you can despise a man's book and remain his friend. You can't. The offence is unforgivable.»
«So our friendship is at an end.»
«No. Because in rare cases one can overcome the offence by moving much closer to the other person. I think this is possible here. But there are one or two things I must say.»
«Go on.»
«You, and you aren't the only one, every critic tends to do this, speak as if you were addressing a person of invincible complacency, you speak as if the artist had never realized his faults at all. In fact most artists understand their own weaknesses far better than the critics do. Only naturally there is no place for the public parade of this knowledge. If one is prepared to publish a work one must let it speak for itself. It would be unthinkable to run along beside it whimpering, 'I know it's no good.' One keeps one's mouth shut.»
«Quite.»
«I know I'm a second-rater.»
«Uh-hu.»
