Why?
They're interested in nothing but personalities. If I'd painted the greatest portrait since Rembrandt, it wouldn't interest him unless he thought I'd had an affair with the sitter.
This time, Sorme made no effort to contradict him. He glanced at his watch, wondering if he could suggest going out. The thought of Nunne arriving soddenly worried him. He said lightly:
I don't see why you let it bother you. I only told you to amuse you. I don't take Austin seriously.
Glasp looked at him, frowning.
But why did he say it? Where did he get the idea? You didn't tell him about that picture of a girl in my room?
No.
He felt acutely uncomfortable; he had seen the picture of the girl while Glasp was out of the room, and found the idea of lying about it disagreeable. He said:
I've told you, anyway. He got the idea from two Americans. I can vouch for it. I've met them.
Glasp shrugged irritably. He said:
Well, I don't give a damn, anyway. But I bet what you like he's seen me around with the girl in that picture, or been told about it.
Sorme said untruthfully:
I can't remember the picture, anyway. I doubt whether Austin knows about it.
Glasp subsided into silence, wolfing huge mouthfuls of bread with Spanish onion; the muscles of his jaw stood out as he chewed and swallowed. Somewhere below, a door slammed; again, Sorme wondered if Nunne had arrived. He said:
You know, I'm pretty sure you're wrong about Austin…
Glasp said:
Would you suppose I've got a taste for twelve-year-old girls?
I… well, I presume not. But quite honestly, it wouldn't particularly shock me if you had. Girls can often look quite adult at twelve.
Glasp said gloomily:
This one doesn't. She looks about nine.
Yes but… Look here, Oliver. I don't want to pry into your private life. Let's drop the subject, shall we?
Does it embarrass you?
No, but…
Well, it doesn't embarrass me either. I don't mind talking about it.
Sorme wondered if Glasp was slightly drunk: the assertiveness was blurred and heavy sounding. He said:
OK, if you want to, let's talk about it. Who is this girl, anyway?
Glasp emptied the quart flask of beer into his glass with deliberation, then screwed its cap on and placed it carefully on the floor. He said:
Her name's Christine.
To cover the awkwardness he was feeling, Sorme opened the second quart of beer and filled his glass. He felt a certain absurdity in the conversation; Glasp was, after all, under no compulsion to tell him about the girl; this seemed somehow the wrong moment and the wrong way in which to talk about her. He noticed that the gas fire was beginning to go out, and searched his small change for shillings, glad to have something to do, waiting for Glasp to go on. When he spoke finally, there was no trace of drunkenness in his voice. He said seriously:
You know, Gerard, it makes my blood boil when somebody like Austin gets nosey about my affairs. I never did anything to him, did I? I live on my own out there. I don't ask people to take notice of me. I avoid people because I don't enjoy playing the game. Do you know what I mean?
The social game, you mean?
I mean the personal game. You see…
Looking at him, Sorme could almost watch the words trying to force their way out; he found himself leaning forward, concentrating to help Glasp.
If you get involved with people, you've got to stick to the rules. It's like going to a public school or joining a posh club. If you want the advantages, you have to stick to the rules. Well, I'd rather not join the club. I'll do without the advantages. It's like exhibiting. If you exhibit your work, you put yourself at the mercy of a lot of half- witted bastards who don't know paint from shit. But it's no good complaining about not being understood. If you put your work on show it's like asking people to look at it. And if they make stupid comments, you've got nothing to complain about, because you asked them. Well, so I don't exhibit. Then if somebody makes a stupid comment about my work I've got a right to fetch him a backhander across the mouth and say: Shut your f-ing noise; nobody asked you.
It was coming now, and Glasp was talking like a machine, his face flushed, unaware of the breadcrumb stuck in the corner of his mouth. There was also a pleasure in his eyes, an astonishment that his feelings were really changing themselves into words and coming out.
It's the same with people. If you need people, you've got to persuade them to accept you on the level you want. It's OK for somebody like Picasso. Everybody accepts him, anyway, so he goes his own way. Do you see what I mean? But if you want to do good work, it costs more effort than it's worth to make them accept you…
I know just what you mean, Sorme said. It's happened to me many times. Just before I gave up work, I used to work in an office with a Scottish clerk who had a terrific chip on his shoulder. He knew I wanted to be a writer, and he used to enjoy getting at me — telling me I was a bloody intellectual and out of touch with reality.
You should have belted him one, Glasp said.
I felt like it. But what was the good? He'd just succeeded in getting under my skin. I think he had some sort of inferiority complex — he stuttered badly. But I had to put up with him because he sat next to me. I used to feel the same as you — a feeling of outrage that he should criticise me. I felt like saying: You're a bloody fool. I don't want to know you. Unfortunately, I couldn't help knowing him, and I couldn't help talking to him and working with him…
Glasp said bitterly:
Well, that's how I feel about Austin Nunne. Except that I did say to him 'You're a bloody fool. I don't want to know you.' And still I can't get away from his stupidities.
Sorme said: But wouldn't you feel differently if your work made you famous?
Of course. Because then I shouldn't have to argue with the fools. I could leave that to my admirers. Look at this man tonight — Brother whatsisname at Gertrude's. I could see he was a bloody fool and there was no point in exchanging two words with him. So I didn't. That's how it's supposed to be.
Sorme said guiltily:
You know, you're being a bit unfair to Austin about this matter of the girl. I'm pretty sure he doesn't know anything about her.
But you said he had…
Two Americans said it, Sorme said firmly. And they weren't sure it was you.
Glasp said irritably:
Austin's a fool, anyway.
Sorme said, smiling:
I wondered why you looked so fierce when I first introduced myself to you as a friend of Austin's.
It was about the worst thing you could say. But when I talked to you I found I liked you.
Thanks.
Shall I tell you why?
Sorme nodded. Glasp said:
You've got a job of your own to do. You don't waste time like Austin.
Sorme said, shrugging:
I waste too much.
Not like Austin. You know, something goes wrong with a man who wastes time. He starts to go rotten. You can almost smell him. Don't you feel that about Austin?
No. I don't feel he's very different from me.
