Buckmaster said awkwardly: “These are not sentiments I would divulge except before such as you, my friend.”
“Naturally not.”
“Shall we go?”
They went. They had lunch. Bowen tried all he knew to pay for it, but Buckmaster wouldn’t let him. Afterwards they went to the point where Buckmaster had arranged for the car to pick them up. It wasn’t there. Buckmaster said violently: “Mere selfishness. Inability to give attention to or even to comprehend the desires of others. One expects this, of course. Or one would expect it if one were not oneself blinded.”
His anger, visually signalled by a deep blush and jerky swallowings, was no real surprise to Bowen. From the moment they got into the car that morning it had been plain that Buckmaster and the chauffeur were having a little difference about something. Buckmaster had snapped at him; the chauffeur had moved his shoulders to and fro like a small girl enjoying a fit of temper. Buckmaster had been provocatively emphatic when they parted; the chauffeur had winked at Bowen, getting a cold stare in return, and had driven off as destructively as possible. In England such a scene, should it take place at all, must indicate something a bit special going on between Buckmaster and the chauffeur, but on this side of the water you could never be sure. Here passions and desires ran close to the surface, without regard for the empty ritualistic forms under which Anglo-Saxon provincialism had buried them, so that to find a grown man behaving like a child or an animal was nothing out of the way and could be related to any grade of emotion from peevishness upwards. You got used to it, presumably, if you lived over here long enough.
Buckmaster started churning out a long spiralling rigmarole of self-justification and apology. With notable self-restraint he inserted quite long episodes between the various statements of his recurrent theme about the difficulties of the artist. Exceptional men, he said, were likely to behave in exceptional ways, and said it as if he thought this was a justification for something or other, granted that it could be established as applying in any particular case. Some of the rest of the time he talked about the ebb and flow to be discerned in all human relationships. Bowen could feel his eyes beginning to glaze over; he wanted the chance of mulling over his conclusions about the old boy, and of going to bed for twelve hours or so.
The car arrived, roaring, smoking, honking, pulling up with a squeal. A fairly long double bawling-out took place. A crowd collected, only a small one but comprehensive in that all age-groups and social strata seemed to be represented. It showed an interest that never approached partisanship and was individual rather than corporate, recalling the demeanour of English people watching a road-repair gang. Here and there was evident speculation as to why Bowen, although clearly involved in some way, was failing to join in. Otherwise he was left to himself. It occurred to him that it would be nice not to be there.
Having reduced the chauffeur to a shoulder-shrugging, scowling dummy, Buckmaster opened a rear door and motioned to Bowen. Under the influence of rage, the old life-enhancer looked all ears, nose and hat. They got in and were driven furiously away.
More apologies were offered and accepted. Buckmaster then fell asleep. So did Bowen. He had a dream about playing the xylophone to Oates and Afilhado which seemed very significant at the time. It lasted him most of the way back.
Feeling that his body had finally started to wear out in earnest, he went to his bedroom and wrote a short letter to Barbara. This, together with a completed article and other material, he took down to the post office and despatched. It took him a nice long time. He had another sleep and was woken by the sound of the gong, an instrument that had started life in Portuguese West Africa, or was it Portuguese East Africa? At dinner Buckmaster had little to say, seemingly still oppressed by the row with the chauffeur. Bowen tried to hint to him that at any rate he, Bowen, found nothing embarrassing or strange in the situation. He found Buckmaster much easier to talk to now that there was no longer any mystery about him. He wished he could tell him so.
About half-past ten they said good night. Bowen looked out of his bedroom window for some time. Beyond the level area round the house the land rose and fell in exaggerated undulations, like a relief model in geography. The soil was apparently too poor to support anything more ambitious than thin grass and a few trees that looked incapable of producing anything that people might want. Or perhaps it was just that Buckmaster had let the place run to seed. Why not? What a curious way to live. How could he manage without friends? And without neighbours? And without noise? At the moment it was almost totally quiet. The lorries passing on the road to or from Lisbon could be heard at this distance, but this was not much of a country for lorries. Not enough got produced which they could usefully carry about. At this time the characteristic sound was that of loud groaning creaks from the woodwork as the temperature went down. For the first couple of days these had startled him, but never as much as the pistol-shot noise produced when Oates creaked his way round the bungalow last thing and turned off the lights. He wondered how that representative of the Portuguese middle classes was
