Oh, he thinks you have some . . . sexual peculiarities.
Naturally, Glasp said contemptuously. He’d have to.
Sorme said, laughing:
Oh, I agree. They always want to pin it on other people. . . .
What does he think . . . I’m addicted to? Men, boys or animals?
Neither. Little girls.
The effect was greater than he had anticipated. Glasp laid down the knife on the plate, staring incredulously.
He what?
Sorme ignored his excitement; he said:
Oh, you know what it’s like. . . .
He said that? Tell me exactly what he said.
As he spoke, Sorme heard someone outside his door; for a moment, he expected to see Nunne’s face; then the key turned in the next room, and he heard the Frenchman open his own door. His heart pounding, he said quickly:
Oh, to do Austin justice, he was only reporting something he’d heard.
Are you sure?
Quite sure. Two Americans thought they’d known you in London several years ago. But after all, it might easily have been someone else. Or they might have said it for effect.
Glasp said slowly:
Well I’ll be damned!
He emptied his beer glass, and refilled it; then sat hunched forward in the chair, staring into the fire. Something in the crouched tenseness of his body made Sorme aware that he was experiencing an inner upheaval that he was unwilling to show. Sorme’s heart was still beating heavily from the noise outside the door. He said:
Look. Why don’t we skip the subject? I’m sorry I told you.
But didn’t he say any more than that?
Nothing.
Glasp said slowly:
These bloody queers amaze me.
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 suddenly 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:
O.k., 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 back-hander 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 bread-crumb 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 o.k. 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. Th
at’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.
You’ll find out, Glasp said.
He sank deeper into the chair, bending his knees above the footstool, saying meditatively:
I’ll introduce you to Christine some time. You’ll like her. She’s a talented child.
Does she paint?
A little. I’m trying to teach her. She has a lot of talent . . . more than me.
Seriously?
Seriously. I’m not talented; I have to work like hell for all my effects. She does it easily.
How old is she? Nine, did you say?
No, twelve. She looks nine, though.
How did you meet her?
In rather an odd way. One day, I was standing outside a bookshop in the Mile End Road looking through the sixpenny case, and this little girl stood at the side of me. She kept looking at an old leather-covered autograph book—years old, the pages discoloured, but for some reason unused. And I could see she wanted this thing. When I looked inside it, I saw it was more expensive than the other books—not much—a shilling or one and six. And she kept putting it back and looking at other books, then taking out this thing again. I began to wonder if she intended to pinch it. But she didn’t. She finally put it back, and walked off. Well, I’d found a couple of books I wanted, and I’d just sold some woodcuts to a shop, so I took the autograph book and bought it with the other two. Well, when I got outside she was already about half a mile away, so I ran after her, caught her up, and gave her the book.
Sorme asked, laughing:
What did she do?
She just took it, and stared at me. I felt a bit silly about buying it, so I turned and walked away. And that was that. Neither of us spoke.
What a strange thing to do!
Oh, I dunno. It was just an impulse, you know.
But how did you get to know her?
That happened later. I saw her a couple of times in the street, and guessed she must live near me. But I wasn’t really curious, you know. . . . Anyway, one day I was walking past the cinema in the Commercial Road—it was a Saturday afternoon and there was a queue of kids outside. And she came running out of the queue and said hello. Then she went belting back into the queue before I could say anything. Then about two days later I met her as I came out of a bread-shop in Vallance Road, and she walked along with me. I felt a bit embarrassed—you know, I hate asking kids how old they are and what they do at school and all that stuff—I remember how it used to bore me when I was a kid. But it’s difficult to think of much else to say. Anyway, she asked me what I did, and I said I was a painter. She said ‘Oh!’ not very interested—she thought I meant a painter and decorator. Then when I said I painted pictures she got very interested. I could almost see her building romantic day-dreams about a real artist. Well, she had to go home that day, but I said I’d show her my pictures some time, and the next day I found her outside my house at about four in the afternoon, so I asked her in. She was funny. She looked both ways to see no one was watching, then dashed through the doorway like a jack rabbit. And I showed her my pictures, and gave her a cup of tea, and told her to come in any time she liked. She was obviously pretty shy. . . . Well, the next Saturday afternoon, she turned up and insisted on watching me paint. Her parents thought she’d gone to the threepenny rush again. . . . And that was how I got to know her.
She sounds charming, Sorme said. Was she really romantic about being an artist?
Oh yes. I found out that she’d developed a grand passion. I met her one day with some school-friend, and she blushed like mad. And the following Saturday afternoon I started to pump her about it, and finally got her to admit that she’d told her friend that I’d asked her to marry me when she was sixteen!
Sorme said, laughing:
Well, why not?
Glasp shrugged:
Well, it’s a possibility, I suppose—she has only three years to go. She’s nearly thirteen.
Sorme said with astonishment:
Are you that interested?
I . . . You don’t understand. You see, she comes from a big family—she’s got seven brothers and sisters. They used to sleep four in a bed once. And her father’s a warder in Brixton gaol—an absolutely bloody moron who spends all he can on booze. She’s got an elder sister who’s married. She married a Pole, and they live next-door. And when the Pole comes home drunk and tries to beat his wife, she goes next door and sleeps with Christine and her other sister in a single bed. . . . She sleeps down the other end. And I saw her mother once—a poor, wrecked old thing with terrific sagging breasts and no teeth. She can’t be more than fifty, and she looks seventy. That’s the sort of background she comes from. She wants to study at art school—she’s brilliant enough to get a scholarship—but her parents wouldn’t even dream of it. Her mother told her that art students are no better than prostitutes. And, anyway, they want her to go to work when she leaves school and bring in a few shillings a week until she marries. Her family have lived in slums for generations. They don’t want to do anything better.
That’s stupid. Can’t you persuade them?
Not a hope. Christine daren’t even let them know she still sees me. I had a fight with her father once.
Blimey! How?
Glasp shrugged, then shook himself, grimacing, as if rejecting an unpleasant memory.
He’s a drunk, a blustering stupid drunk. Christine’s brother saw us in a café and told her parents. They gave her a thrashing and made her promise not to see me again. Luckily, we spotted the brother when he saw us, and I was able to warn Christine not to tell her parents everything—to say she’d only met me once or twice in the Whitechapel Art Gallery. Otherwise she might have told them about posing for me and had the skin beaten off her. Anyway, the next day I was passing a pub in Hanbury Street when her father came out and started to yell at me.
How did he recognise you?
Oh, he’d seen me around, and I’d seen him—they only live five hundred yards away, round the corner.
What was he shouting about?
Stupid lies . . . filthy lies. If a quarter of it had been true, he could have had me thrown in gaol for ten years. I didn’t know what to do. . . . I didn’t want him to get Christine into any more trouble. So I tried soothing him. That only made him worse. He was half-drunk. He grabbed my collar and started shouting in my face—shooting spit and beer all over me. I told him to let go and he just shouted louder. So I jerked my knee into his crotch, and hit him in the face.
Sorme exclaimed: Christ! He found it hard to imagine Glasp hitting anyone.
Then luckily a policeman came along and threatened to throw us both inside, so we broke it up and separated pretty quickly. The Whitechapel police don’t stand much nonsense—they’re a rough crowd. I half expected him to start telling the policeman I’d seduced his daughter, but he didn’t. He just slunk off. I was pretty shaken . . .
Did he take it out on C
hristine?
No, that’s the odd thing. She came round the next day and told me about it. She’d been in the kitchen when he came in, and he started to yell about taking her to a doctor to get evidence against me. Then her mother flew into a rage and threatened to leave him if he tried anything of the sort. And later her mother questioned her about me—wanted to know if anything had ever happened with me, and, of course, Christine denied it, and her mother believed her.
Sorme listened gravely, nodding, wondering how to phrase the question that was forming and anxious not to let it appear on his face. He said:
But even if he’d taken her, nothing would have come of it?
Nothing . . . except gossip, probably. That’d be bad enough. If it came out that she’d posed for me it might cause trouble.
Did she pose often?
Oh yes. . . . I drew her the first time she came. But not in the nude, of course.
Then why should there be trouble?
Because later on she started posing naked for me.
Ah . . . that’s difficult. Did she want to?
Oh yes. At first she was shy. Then one day she fell in the brook in Victoria Park and got soaked. Her mother’d threatened to whip her if she played near water again, so she came around to me to get dry. She got into bed while I made a fire—it was a summer evening—and stayed there till her clothes were dry. Well, I persuaded her to pose sitting in front of the fire, and made a good sketch of her with the firelight behind her—one of the best things I ever did. After that she often posed.
Sorme said:
I can’t help feeling you’re playing with fire. Her father doesn’t sound the kind who’d forget a quarrel.
Glasp said hopelessly:
I know. What can I do? Stop seeing her?
Well . . . that’s up to you, of course. Would it make a big difference if you stopped seeing her for a few months—just to let things cool down?
Of course.
But you’ve done a lot for her. You’ve shown her a different way of life. She won’t change now.
Glasp grimaced, shrugging:
I’m not so sure. Two of her sisters work in a hosiery factory. That’s what her family want her to do. Besides, it’s a pretty awful environment to fight against.