Mor began to walk across the playground in the direction of Library. He looked about him for Miss Carter, who was not to be seen, and kept the still rotating pair in the comer of his eye. As Mor neared the main door of Library he saw that Donald and Carde had noted his approach. They drew apart, and in a moment Carde had sped away back across the open space, leaping as he did so madly into the air and spreading out his arms with palms and fingers extended until at last, capering grotesquely, he disappeared through the door of School House. Carde was a scholar. Donald was left standing alone at the comer of the Library building. He was clearly uncertain what to do. He would have liked to slip away, but now that his father patently had him in his field of vision, it seemed improper to do this. On the other hand, Donald had no intention of making any approach to his father. He stood perfectly still, clutching his book and watching in a glassy way to see whether Mor would go into Library or pass round the far side of the building.
Mor also hesitated. Random encounters between himself and his son during school hours embarrassed both, and Mor avoided them as far as possible. However, he felt that he could not now ignore Donald. This might hurt the boy even more. So he turned towards him. Rooted to the spot, Donald awaited his father.
‘Hello, Don,’ said Mor, ‘how goes it?’
Donald looked at him, and looked away at once. He was tall enough now to look Mor in the eyes; indeed, there was scarcely an inch between them. His resemblance to his father was considerable. He had Mor’s crisp dark hair, his crooked nose and lop-sided smile. His eyes were darker though, and more suspicious. Mor’s eyes were a flecked grey, Donald’s a brooding brown. The black points upon his chin portended a dark and vigorous beard. His face was soft, however, still with the indeterminacy of boyhood. His mouth was shapeless and pouting, not firmly set.
Donald was long in growing up - too long, Mor felt with some sadness. He could not but grieve over his son’s strange lack of maturity. At an age when he himself had been devouring books of every kind in an insatiable hunger for knowledge, Donald appeared to have no intellectual interests at all. He worked at his chemistry in a desultory fashion, sufficiently to keep himself out of positive disgrace; but apart from this Donald seemed to do, as far as Mor could see, nothing whatever. He spent a lot of time hanging about, talking to Carde and others, or even, what seemed to Mor odder still, alone. He was to be seen for half an hour on end just leaning out of his window, or else sitting on the grass in the lower garden beyond the wood, his arms about his knees, doing absolutely nothing. This mode of existence was to Mor extremely mys — terious. But he had not yet ventured to chide or even question Donald concerning the employment of his time. Donald’s reading, such as it was, seemed to consist mainly of Three Men in a Boat, which he read over and over again, always laughing immoderately, and various books on climbing which he kept carefully concealed from his mother. During the holi — days he was a tireless and indiscriminate cinema-goer. As Mor looked at him now, at his suspicious and sideways-turning face, he felt a deep sadness that he was not able to express his love for his son, and that it could even be that Donald did not know at all that it existed.
‘All right,’ said Donald. ‘I’m just off down to the nets.’ Donald was a fanatical cricketer.
‘You’re in the house team, aren’t you?’ said Mor. Donald was in Mr Prewett’s house.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Donald. ‘I was last year.’
He half turned, not sure if it was now proper for him to go away.
But Mor wanted to keep him there, to keep him until something had been said which would be a real communication between them. He wished that Donald would meet his eyes. He hated his calling him ‘sir’.
‘Carde translated well in my Latin class,’ said Mor. He felt anxious to say something nice about Carde.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Donald.
Mor wondered whether Donald would tell Carde that he had said that, and whether it would please Carde to be told. How little he knew about them. He looked at the book under Donald’s arm. He knew from experience that the boy hated being asked what he was reading. But curiosity overcame his judgement. ‘What’s the book, Don?’ he asked.
Donald passed it over without a word. Mor looked at the title. Five Hundred Best Jokes and Puzzles.
‘Hmmm,’ said Mor. He could think of no comment on the book. He gave it back to his son.
At that moment Mor saw, over Donald’s shoulder, a small figure approaching. It was Miss Carter. Mor saw at once, with some annoyance, that she was wearing trousers. Donald half turned, saw her, and mumbling an excuse retreated rapidly and took to his heels, running in the direction of the playing fields.
‘I’m sorry to be so late,’ said Miss Carter, ‘and I hope I didn’t disturb you just now. One of your pupils?’
‘My son,’ said Mor.
Miss Carter seemed surprised. She looked at Mor curiously. ‘I did not think you could have a son so old,’ she said, her odd precise voice lilting slightly.
‘Well, you see I can, said Mor awkwardly. He wished that she had not made herself conspicuous by wearing trousers. They were close-fitting black ones, narrow at the ankles. With them Miss Carter wore a vivid blue shirt, blue canvas shoes, and no other adornments. She was slim enough; but all the same she looked in those garments, Mor thought, rather like a school child dressed to impersonate a Paris street boy.
‘It must be a wonderful thing to have a grown-up son,’ said Miss Carter.
‘It is good,’ said Mor, ‘but it has its stormy moments. Shall we go this way?’ They began to walk along towards the main door of Library.
‘I can see that you are irritated by my trousers,’ said Miss Carter, ‘and if I had thought more I would not have worn them. But I have them for working in, and it didn’t occur to me to change. I will next time.’
Mor laughed, and his irritation vanished completely. He led her up the stairs to show her the Library. As they walked in silence between the tables, now loaded with books over which the senior boys were bent at their work, Mor found himself wondering whether Miss Carter remembered with any sort of interest that in the garden last night she had taken his hand in hers. He did not imagine that she did. The speculation came quite quietly into Mor’s mind, and he entertained it without emotion. As they descended the stairs, he forgot it again.
They crossed the playground towards Main School. Mor thought he would show Miss Carter the hall next. They found it empty, its rows of windows open wide to show a slope of pine trees and a distant view of the playing fields. It was melancholy with summer. High in the rafters a few butterflies flitted to and fro. The velvet curtains on the stage swayed in the light breeze from the windows. Their feet echoed on the boards.
‘This is the hall,’ said Mor. He looked at it gloomily. It was deplorably familiar.
You must tell me all about Mr Demoyte,‘ said Miss Carter suddenly.
‘What do you want to know?’ said Mor. He felt that he had half expected this. They walked back slowly into the open air.
‘Well, everything,’ said Miss Carter, ‘as much as you know. As you will realize, painting a portrait is not just a matter of sitting down and painting what you see. Where the human face is concerned, we interpret what we see more immediately and more profoundly than with any other object. A person looks different when we know him - he may even look different as soon as we know one particular thing about him. And in any case there are simpler problems. A choice must be made about the clothes which the person is to wear in the picture, the posture which he is to hold, the expression on his face, the background, the accessories. A consideration of all these things will then affect one’s methods and one’s technique. It is impossible to be in a hurry.’
Mor smiled inwardly at this speech, which had been delivered in a slightly pompous and didactic tone. They were now walking across the playground in the direction of the Gym. He wondered if this was Miss Carter’s own voice or the voice of her father. Partly to try her, he said, ‘Why shou
ld you want to learn more about Demoyte? Who knows what view of him is the right one? Perhaps you, meeting him for the first time, and knowing no more than what you see, will see him more truly than we who have known him for so long.’
‘I am a professional portrait painter,’ said Miss Carter rather primly, ‘and I am employed to paint your Mr Demoyte, not my Mr Demoyte.’
Mor whistled to himself. He now saw what Demoyte had meant when he said that she had a sense of vocation like a steam hammer. They entered the Gymnasium. It was full of juniors, who were dangling on ropes, curling over bars, springing over the horse, or otherwise bouncing about on the floor after the rather frog-like manner of small boys. Mr Hensman, the gym instructor, smiled and waved to Mor. Mor liked him. He was one of Donald’s well-wishers.
Miss Carter looked a while at the pullulating scene. Then she said, as they turned away, ‘Of course, what I said just now was pretentious nonsense. What Mr Demoyte would call cant. At least I know him well enough to know one of his favourite words. I want to paint a really good likeness. We all think that there is something which is what a person is really like, and that this takes some time to learn. I think you know what Mr Demoyte is really like, and I want to find out’
They walked across the playground again, and entered School House. Mor felt a new respect for Miss Carter, and it occurred to him for the first time that he liked her. He wondered where she had been educated. He supposed in a French lycée. He would have liked to ask her, only it would have been too forward.
‘Well, I shall do what I can for you,’ he said. ‘Here is one of the main scholars’ dormitories.’ He opened the door and showed the long double line of iron beds, all with their blue coverlets. Beside each bed stood a white chest of drawers, on top of which each boy was allowed to place no more than three objects. Between the beds were white curtains which were pulled back in the day time.
This spectacle seemed to interest Miss Carter more than the Gym and the hall. ‘It looks Dutch,’ she said. ‘I wonder why? So much white material, and the light - Does your son sleep here?’
The question disturbed Mor. ‘My son isn’t a scholar,’ he said. ‘Anyway, only the younger boys sleep in dormitories. The older ones sleep in their studies.’
‘There’s something very touching about a dormitory,’ said Miss Carter. ‘I have seen graveyards which are touching in the same way.’
They began to descend the stairs.
‘I have the impression, for instance,’ said Miss Carter, ‘that Mr Demoyte is deliberately trying to deceive me about certain things. Since I arrived I am quite sure that he has been wearing clothes that he does not usually wear. I think this not only because of the smell of mothballs but because of the way the clothes look on him.’
Mor laughed. He felt no obligation to keep Demoyte’s absurd secret. ‘You’re right!’ he said. ‘Demoyte hardly ever puts on a suit. He usually wears corduroys and a sports coat during the day, and black trousers and a velvet smoking-jacket in the evening. And a bow tie, of course.’
‘I suspected the bow tie,’ said Miss Carter, ‘because of a certain gesture he makes as if to adjust one. Yes. Why should he want to deceive me?’
‘He doesn’t want to be summed up by a slip of a girl,’ said Mor. He glanced sideways at her..
Miss Carter smiled faintly. ‘But I will sum him up,’ she said. ‘I will!’
Not her father’s voice, thought Mor. Herself. They began to walk down the hill, across the ragged slope of grass which separated the Library building from the first trees of the wood. ‘Would you like to see the Chapel?’ he said.
‘No, thank you,’ said Miss Carter firmly. ‘Not dressed like this. I might offend someone. Tell me, has Mr Demoyte ever published a volume of poems called Falling Flowers?’
Mor stopped and went into a peal of laughter. ‘No!’ he said. ‘Did he try to tell you those were his?’
‘Yes,’ said Miss Carter. ‘When I asked to see all his published works he offered me the poems, and said he’d get the others in a day or two.’
‘He’s probably inventing something even more fantastic,’ said Mor. ‘It’s almost a shame to spoil his fun. Falling Flowers is an early effort of Mr Everard!’
Miss Carter laughed. ‘Mr Demoyte is enjoying himself,’ she said. ‘I’d better rely on you instead. Could you please get me all his books? Can I trust you, I wonder?’ She spoke with a cool peremptory air which Mor might have resented.
‘Yes!’ said Mor fervently. He did not resent it. ‘I’ll get you what he has written. There isn’t much. The book on Oriental rugs, some articles on rare editions, and a volume of sermons preached at School Services. That was published very long ago. Demoyte would be furious if he knew I’d given it to you.’
‘It shall be a secret between us,’ said Miss Carter.
Mor felt at once a little uneasy at the thought that he was going to deceive the old man; but he wanted to please Miss Carter, and he thought her wishes were reasonable.
‘What would you like to see now?’ he said. ‘What about the studio? There’s an exhibition of the boys’ art that was put on for Speech Day. I think it’s still there.’
‘Oh yes, please,’ said Miss Carter. ‘I love children’s art.’
It seemed to Mor a little quaint that she should refer to the boys as children. It occurred to him that he was regarding Miss Carter as being in some way more youthful than his own pupils. They walked out of the sun on to one of the shadowy paths of the wood, the ground underfoot crackling with twigs and leaves and scattered with patches of golden light.
‘But won’t we meet Mr Bledyard?’ said Miss Carter.
‘Would you mind?’ said Mor. ‘In fact, he’s hardly ever there on these sunny afternoons. He takes the boys out sketching.’
I haven’t met him yet,‘ said Miss Carter, ’and I feel a bit nervous.‘
‘He’s quite harmless, our Bledyard,’ said Mor, ‘only a little odd. He’s a sort of primitive Christian, you know. His views on portrait painting are connected with that. He thinks we ought to get back to Byzantine styles or else not paint at all.’
They approached the studio. It was a long rambling building which incorporated an old barn that had been standing there before. The music rooms were in a jumble of Nissen huts which were just visible farther on through the trees. Scattered sounds of a piano and of wind instruments were borne on the summer air. Miss Carter shivered and stopped in her tracks.
‘What is it?’ said Mor. He was surprised at her emotion. ‘Don’t be afraid. I can see from here that there’s no one in the studio.’
They came down the grassy path, stepping on the withered leaves of ferns, and crossed a cobbled yard towards the door. Mor stepped inside first. A strong smell of paint greeted him, the clean self-assertive smell of art, after the woodland perfumes of nature which had drifted with them down the hill. There was no one within.
‘Come on, the coast’s clear!’ he called to Miss Carter, who was still standing on the cobblestones and looking as if she was ready to run. She entered slowly, leaning warily round the side of the door.
Once she was well inside her attention was caught by the paintings which were pinned on to tall boards which leaned against the walls all round the room. She began to look at them. Through the high windows the golden light of the afternoon came benevolently down, and gave to the studio something of the air of a modern church. For the first time that day Mor felt himself at leisure to observe his companion. He sat down on one of the stools and watched her as she moved from picture to picture. She looked like a child’s picture herself, extremely gay and simple. Her dark hair, which was jaggedly cut, arched at the crown and crowded on her brow. Mor observed the youthful fullness of her face, pouting with concentration — and as he watched her he reflected to himself how rarely it was now that he met a woman.
‘How wonderfully children observe!’ said Miss Carter in an excited tone. ‘Look at this scene — it’s so dramatic. A grown-up artist would not dar
e to be so dramatic. Indeed he could hardly do it without being sentimental.’
Mor looked at the picture. It represented a young girl stepping on to a train, while a young man offered her a rose with a gesture of despair. Before Mor could think of a comment, Miss Carter had moved on to another picture, and another, making enthusiastic exclamations. At the end of the row lay a pile of white paper and some poster paint ready mixed. When she reached the last picture Miss Carter twirled on her heel, seized one of the brushes, and drew in paint an almost perfect circle on one of the sheets. She did this so quickly that Mor had to laugh.