Hold on. I'll give you a tray.
After looking around vaguely for a moment, he said:
Can't find a tray. Use this.
He pulled a large, thin book out of the case, and handed it to Sorme. Sorme asked: What is it?
He opened it, and discovered sheets of music, written with a pencil, and curious symbols drawn between the lines.
Do you recognise it?
No. I can't read music.
It's not just music. It's the original manuscript of Nijinsky's Rite of Spring. Those funny signs are a choreography he invented himself. That's his handwriting across the top.
Where did you get it?
From a collector.
Sorme began to eat again. He left the manuscript volume open on the cushions beside him. Nunne said, smiling:
Can't you bring yourself to eat off it?
It's a funny sensation. To know he wrote this with his own hand.
That writing in green ink on the cover is Stravinsky's handwriting.
Yes?
I say, you're not eating those asparagus spears whole!
Aren't I supposed to?
No! You eat down to the tough part. Like me.
Oh, I see. Thanks.
He reached out for his champagne glass. He said:
To Vaslav.
He emptied it in one draught. A sensation of warmth and delight coursed through him like a faint electric shock. Nunne repeated: To Vaslav, and drank, Sorme said: I suppose it must be rather fun to be rich.
Nunne grimaced:
Better than being poor. But it doesn't guarantee anything.
No?
He laughed, feeling that the pleasure had to find some expression. Nunne said curiously:
What is it?
I was hungry.
He would not tell Nunne the real reason: that he felt suddenly reconciled to his own existence, able to weigh it, summarise it, and feel only gratitude. It was a sensation he would have been glad to convey to Nunne, feeling grateful to him for being the cause of his insight. But saying it would have meant nothing. Nunne stood up and poured more champagne into both glasses. He said:
I'm surprised you get so enthusiastic about Nijinsky. You never saw him dance.
Sorme shrugged.
It's not that. There's something else. The independence. A sort of pure vitality.
I'm surprised you don't prefer someone like D. H. Lawrence, who expresses it far more clearly.
No. I can't stick Lawrence. He seems to me to stand for a diluted version of what Nijinsky stood for. He always gives me a feeling that people matter too much to him.
They nag him, and he doesn't like them much. Anyway, he was all wrong about sex.
I'm afraid I just can't agree. I admire him very much.
All right. Let's not argue about it. Tell me something. Why is Gertrude so fond of you?
I'm afraid I don't know. I just don't know. We've known one another so long…
He swallowed the last of the chicken leg, and placed the bone carefully on the side of his plate. He said, with apparent irrelevance:
I'm delighted you get on so well with her.
She's sweet. But all this religious stuff worries me.
Don't let it worry you. She likes you.
Do you think she's ever had any experience with men?
Probably very little. Why? Do you find her attractive?
Sorme admitted: She's the type that attracts me. Slim. Good figure.
Well, don't, please don't take her to bed. It wouldn't be good for her.
Why?
Because she takes everything too seriously. If she wants a man at this late date, she ought to marry.
Sorme said gloomily:
I dare say you're right.
He was sorry he had mentioned the subject; he was not sure yet whether he seriously wanted an affair with Gertrude Quincey, and to speak of it seemed premature.
As if he guessed Sorme's thought, Nunne said:
Don't worry! I don't really suspect your intentions towards Gertrude. Anyway, she's a little old for you. And that's not the real reason you like seeing her, is it?
Sorme looked at him with interest:
No, it's not. What do you think my reason is?
Something to do with her beliefs. You can't make out whether she's dishonest.
That's pretty good guessing! But it's not just Gertrude… it's me. I want to know where I differ from her. You know… I'd need to have a nervous breakdown, or be brainwashed or something, before I could swallow all that stuff about the Bible being the last word on everything… I just don't understand it. I mean… was she brought up to believe it? Is that it? She seems quite intelligent in other ways. You know what I mean? If she put on a powdered wig and claimed to be Madame de Pompadour it'd puzzle me less… I could understand someone with an obsession having strange ideas. But she seems perfectly balanced. She's not an Oliver Glasp…
Oliver? Do you know Oliver?
Sorme stopped, feeling, for a moment, that he had given something away: he recovered immediately, saying:
Yes. I went to call on him today.
Nunne was obviously astonished.
What on earth for?
What you told me of him made me curious to meet him. And I liked his canvases. Father Rakosi gave me his address.
Nunne regarded him with amusement:
You really are odd! Why didn't you mention it to me?
I intended to. It wasn't supposed to be a secret.
And what did you say to each other?
Not much. I thought he was going to be rude to begin with. He growled like a dog…
That sounds like Oliver!
Then we talked about… oh, religion, asceticism. And finally about murder…
That also sounds like Oliver!
Why? Is it one of his favourite subjects?
Oh yes. Quite his favourite.
Why, I wonder?
I don't know. He has a thing about pain and suffering. He lets it drive him a little haywire occasionally. Broods on it too much. When I first knew him, he had some theory… let me think… oh yes… an idea that life is a preparation for eternal torment.
He had it all worked out. The body acts as a sort of buffer against pain, but in spite of that we suffer all the time. And when we're freed from the body, there'd be nothing to keep off the pain.. just eternal pain. From which he deduced that everyone ought to make himself suffer all the time… as a sort of practice for eternity. I think he used to wear a shirt studded with tintacks.
