Читать книгу Three Continents - Ruth Prawer Jhabvala - Страница 12

WE all continued to attend the Rawul’s evening talks, which were getting to be like a family get-together with the same internal strains and the same sense of cohesion, of not being able to get out even if one wanted to. But now the Rawul said the time had come to reach outward—after all, we were not a private group, a personal club, but were there to reform the world. The Rawul could make these sort of statements absolutely without blinking, because they were so utterly serious to him; he really felt himself to be on this mission. Up till now, he had what he called “reached outward” only through the mail—that was what most of the activity in the house was about, getting publicity material together to send to government agencies in Washington, the U.N., the press, to schools, sponsors, donors, foundations, and generally responsible citizens. The Rawul now called for more direct contact with the outside world. It was the way they had operated previous campaigns—in England, Holland, and India so far—and had no doubt that it would work here too. The first step was to be a big party on the grounds of Propinquity for people from the town and from the adjacent houses—a sort of open house, like Lindsay’s family traditionally had on July Fourth. And in fact it was the July Fourth weekend that was chosen for this opening campaign.

I had doubts about it from the first, which I told Michael. He disagreed with me—we disagreed often nowadays; it made me sad, but he didn’t seem to notice. He said everybody used to love Grandmother’s parties and was eager to come—all sorts of different people, the bank manager and the real estate agent, the families from the big houses, the plumber, Grandmother’s favorite butcher, the package-store people, the garage owner—it was the event of the season for the neighborhood. Yes, I said, but hadn’t he noticed the neighborhood had changed: For one thing, it was much poorer; the rail service to the nearest town had been discontinued, the yellow-frame houses with white porches and hanging plants had been taken over by families on welfare, and the big houses had either been torn down or bought up and restored as weekend homes by lawyers and decorators from the city. And quite apart from the neighborhood changing, what about us? Didn’t he think, I asked Michael, that we—he and I, Lindsay and Jean, Manton and Barbara—were quite a change from our grandparents? Michael brushed me aside. He said I was proving his point—of course the neighborhood had changed; We had changed, two generations had passed, and didn’t I see that it was the moment for a real, a conscious change? In fact, for a new world movement to cohere this changed society in a new way? Michael was getting to be as persuasive as the Rawul.

In the years when Lindsay and Jean were alone in the house, living mostly in the kitchen, it seemed to rain almost all summer. But I never remember a wet July Fourth weekend when Grandmother had her open house, and this time too, for the Rawul, the weather held. Yes, the weather, the grounds, the house, these were all unchanged from our grandparents’ time, all glorious. And, just as in their time, the preparations for the party started days ahead and involved the whole household. The Rani and Crishi were in charge. Both were very good at giving orders and getting things done; they might have sounded a bit ruthless when it came to the followers, but they could be very tactful, as with the local tradesmen, who would later be guests at the party, and with Mrs. Schwamm. It was an achievement to get her to hand over her kitchen to the general maneuver and to participate in it. She outdid herself in the creation of Viennese tidbits, while the Rani supervised the preparations of various kinds of kebabs and fritters with exotic fillings—not quite Indian but a sort of mixture, like the Rani herself. It was very different from Grandmother’s hot dogs, spare ribs, and potato salad; but so were the Oriental rugs and bolsters spread on the lawns from her garden furniture; and most different of all were the principal hosts.

These were undoubtedly the Rawul, the Rani, and Crishi. Even though the family who owned Propinquity—after all, we hadn’t yet signed it over—were still there, the three of them completely overshadowed us. The Rawul had exchanged his English suit for white leggings worn under a high-collared coat of white silk and jeweled buttons. Stout and handsome, he looked what he was—an Indian prince. The Rani wore a kind of Parisian adaptation of the North Indian costume of long shirt over trousers, in heavy silk with elaborate gold embroidery over her bosom. The two of them did not move around among the guests; it was left to Crishi, lithe as a ballet dancer in velvet pants and silk shirt, to lead them up to the royal couple, who generated, besides their glamour, grace and benevolence.

The Rawul considered the occasion a great success, achieving everything he had aimed for. As he had explained to me one morning, when he and I had again been alone at the breakfast table, what he especially valued in using our house as his headquarters was that it placed him right at the heart of American society, at the very center of those traditions he wished to merge with his own. He was right, in a way. The guests who came to his Fourth of July party were the inheritors of those traditions—the interior decorators who had bought up and refurbished the big houses, and the antique dealers who sold and resold their contents. There were the traditional local people, like the Pickles family, who had lived here for over two hundred years and had once been prosperous tenant farmers. Nowadays they proliferated in a variety of jobs as cashiers at Shopwell and counter hands at Dunkin’ Donuts; and there was Mrs. Pickles, who cleaned some of the big houses, including ours, and had eight children, of whom six had emigrated to jobs in California and Florida, leaving only the younger two, one of whom was deaf and dumb and the other slightly retarded.

Mrs. Pickles herself came, dressed very smartly in a pastel-colored pants suit; other guests included Ernest and Robert, who had bought the van Kuypen estate; and Tom and Stanislav, who ran a mail-order business from the Old Mill; and Henry and Lucy Rabin, whose antique business in their restored historic house could be visited by appointment only; and jolly Mr. McKimberley, who gave out loans at the bank; and the painter Kenneth Lyon and his friend Jerry; the poet Meriel Pitts; the two potters Pete Davidson and Jenny Fine; and many others who milled around the grounds and around the shining figures of our royal family. These three cast their radiance on all alike; and to them everyone probably was alike—not individuals but the populace who were there to be won over to the Rawul’s cause. This was certainly how the Rawul regarded his guests, as he beamed on them. One could be less sure of the Rani and Crishi, for while they too beamed, they were not as open as the Rawul, and it was not possible to guess what they were really thinking.

In their way, Lindsay and Manton were almost as royal as those three—in the sense of as remote. Lindsay never particularized anyone either; she chattered away or was silent, as it suited her. Since she never looked at or thought of anyone except herself, it didn’t matter to her whether she was addressing Mrs. Pickles, Mr. McKimberley, or Meriel Pitts; she spoke to each in the same way—that is, in the girlish tone and idiom she had used with her mother’s guests. And Manton too did not discriminate as to the recipients of his social manner; as on every such occasion, he turned on the tap of his charm and left it running. Michael and I always hated this characteristic in both our parents but realized that it was as natural to them as its opposite was to us. For us, every person we encountered was so individual, made so strong an impact that, far from having too much manner, we had none whatsoever and remained frozen with shyness. I guess that was how we got our reputation of being cold and aloof, arrogant too, and were contrasted unfavorably with our parents, who were, everyone said, so warm and friendly.

I don’t know if everybody would have agreed with the Rawul that the party was a great success. He probably never noticed that many things were going on that had nothing to do with his movement but were just our own self-centered emotions. Although everyone, both from the Rawul’s family and from ours, was expected to turn out and contribute to the success of the day, there were two among us who wanted nothing to do with it—Barbara and Jean. They didn’t even come out of their rooms, except at one point Jean could be seen making her way determinedly through the crowd on the lawn to where Lindsay was in a little group around the Rani. I was alarmed when I saw Jean; and one couldn’t help seeing her, she was conspicuously not dressed up for the party but in her everyday jeans and crumpled shirt; and she was frowning too, and looked miserable. I tried to get to her before she could get to Lindsay. Other guests stopped her on the way—the people from the neighborhood who liked her for a decent, nice person. Even now, though obviously overwrought, she was decent and nice and made the right responses to Mrs. Pickles, who told her about someone permanently paralyzed from having been given the wrong injection in the hospital, to Lucy Rabin, who had been successful at an auction with an eighteenth-century pair of fire tongs, and to Mrs. McKimberley, who invited her to join a tour, with picnic lunch, of a newly restored ex-President’s house. With all these people Jean did her best, in spite of her swollen eyes, to be her usual caring self—until she got to Lindsay, and then she hissed “Come inside,” and gripped her arm.

I saw Lindsay remove her arm—as though it were held not by a person but had got caught accidentally in something. Her attention remained stubbornly fixed on the Rani, who was making conversation to the circle that surrounded her. There was this about the Rani’s conversation always—it didn’t matter what she said; one felt how kind it was of her to say anything when she really didn’t have to, when everyone was quite happy just to be near her, within her aura. But there she stood, with her arms folded over her gold-embroidered bosom, talking about—could it be?—yes, about her hairdresser, who apparently was wise and witty though what she reported sounded quite flat. Nevertheless, the Rani was smiling as she quoted him, and everyone else was laughing, obsequiously, as they eagerly listened to her. When Jean asked her to come inside, Lindsay laughed more deliberately, and that made Jean catch hold of her arm again. At that moment, Manton, who was also in the circle around the Rani, looked over at her and, waggling his fingers in greeting, called “Why hello there, Jean—where have you been? We’ve missed you, darling.” He was smiling across at Lindsay and Jean, as if he knew just exactly what was going on and was both anticipating and hoping for some misbehavior.

Lindsay went with Jean as far as the porch, and there she stopped and turned on her: “You leave me alone. Don’t you dare come near me. Because I hate you. You’d better know that.” She delivered these sentences with the force of body blows, while her icy eyes glared into Jean’s face. Jean glared back at her. They were about the same height and age—this somehow made them appear like two little girls who had got into a fight, and one almost expected them to start kicking each other’s shins, and pinching. And, in fact, their fights did sometimes have this nursery quality. The first time I saw one, I was appalled; later I got used to them and took no notice, especially as I knew they would make up very soon.

To emphasize her contempt for her friend, Lindsay swung away so violently that the impact accompanied her down the porch steps, making her hips swing, as well as her hair, which she kept long, blond, and young. Jean was left standing there, breathing heavily, frustrated in midfight. I think she would have liked to go running after Lindsay and physically stop her, and it wasn’t decorum that prevented her but age: for there is one thing about these sort of fights, these sort of strong emotions—you need to have stamina for them, and Jean obviously didn’t. She sank into a chair on the porch, and when I went up to her, I found her panting and swollen with a rush of blood to her face. She asked me to go up to her room for her pills. I went running through the empty house, through the hall and up the stairs—and as always, when it was deserted like this, empty of all its inhabitants, when it was just itself, it was so beautiful, so still and yet breathing with its own accumulated life, that I loved and wanted to keep and possess it forever. However, on my way down, I realized it was not entirely empty, for Barbara appeared at the door of her room, looking tousled and upset. She called to me, but I was in a hurry with Jean’s pills.

I sat with Jean after I gave them to her. How could I leave her? When I touched her, it felt like pulses were pounding inside her, and for a moment she held her head as if afraid it might burst. From where we sat we could see the guests on the lower lawn by the lake, and unfortunately we also had a good view of the Rani with her circle of admirers, which Lindsay had rejoined. I tried to get Jean to come inside, but she wouldn’t; she wanted to sit there and continue to watch Lindsay with the Rani. After a while, she said “Why do we do this?” She spoke calmly, and I think she was calmer, anyway physically; probably her pills had begun to work. I said “I don’t know why you do it.” And I didn’t—Jean was a sensible, intelligent woman, she had had a career and business of her own, everyone liked and respected her; whereas Lindsay—I don’t want to say anything about Lindsay because she was what she was and perhaps couldn’t help it. I knew other women like her, both of her generation and of my own—from that class; I mean the one that hadn’t had to work for a living for several generations: utterly, utterly selfish and self-centered and yet with a nervous fervor to improve themselves, literally to become better, which was a sort of saving grace in them and made people like Jean love them.

Jean said “Don’t talk about it. There’s nothing left to say; nothing that I haven’t said to myself a hundred times over.” She was right: They always had the same fights; sometimes Jean packed her bags, but she always unpacked them again, and Lindsay allowed herself to be coaxed into forgiving her.

“You mustn’t agree to give the house, Harriet,” Jean suddenly said. She wouldn’t look at me—perhaps she was shy about having to appeal to me, or perhaps she just wanted to keep her eyes fixed on the Rani’s group. “Lindsay’s irresponsible—I don’t have to tell you how she is—if tomorrow she feels like turning it over to the circus, she’d do that.” Actually, this was not quite accurate: Lindsay did irresponsible, impulsive things, but they had never before involved her in giving something of her own away. So there was a difference.

“She’s infatuated,” Jean said. “That’s all it’s about. You think she cares a hoot about the Fourth World? Or about the Rawul or any of them except his wife, if that’s what she is. You have to be firm, Harriet; you have to hold out; if you don’t agree, there’s not a thing they can do about it, she and Michael.”

“You think Michael’s infatuated too?”

She hesitated, unwilling perhaps to hurt me by talking about anything I might not be aware of. So I went on speaking calmly, to inform her I was aware: “I know how he feels about Crishi, but I’m sure it’s not the only reason he’s willing to give the house. And actually, Jean,” I added truthfully, “I’m not all that sure that Lindsay’s only reason is the Rani.”

“Oh poor Lindsay—as if she could hold two thoughts together in her poor head at the same time; or think beyond the next meal she’s going to eat, or the next person she’s going to have an affair with.” She tried to sneer, but her mouth trembled; I didn’t want to continue our conversation.

A figure had detached itself from the crowd on the lower lawn and was approaching the house. It turned out to be Crishi. I hadn’t expected him to come and join us on the porch but that was what he did, and it even seemed that he had deliberately come to seek out both or one of us.

“What’s up?” he said. He saw at one glance how Jean was feeling and drew up a chair close to her. He scanned her face intimately. “Don’t you want to come and see the Rawul hoist the flag? You wouldn’t want to miss that, Jean: It’s an historic event. And in your house,” he said, now raising his smiling eyes to me.

“What flag is he hoisting?” Jean asked—his warm manner drying up her tears.

“What flag? Yours, of course. Isn’t it one of your big days today? Independence Day or some big deal like that? I’d think you’d want to do something patriotic. Both of you,” he said, glancing at me again—but then looking beyond me, and when I turned around, I saw Barbara had come out of the house and stood there, wearing a short robe. “All three of you,” he included her, exuding good cheer to us all.

No one could look as sullen, when she wanted to, as warm, dimpled Barbara; and she wanted to now. She had a fleeting “Hi” for Jean; she disregarded Crishi completely; and she said to me, “Come in for a minute, Harriet. I want to say something.”

“Hey! No!” Crishi protested and became very active. He took Jean’s hand and made as if to pull her up. He also waved getting-up gestures at me and motioned his hand at Barbara to come on, let’s get going: “The Rawul’s waiting—he says where are those three daughters of the American Revolution—I can’t hoist the flag without them, it wouldn’t be proper.”

“What flag?”

“Ours,” Jean replied; she was wiping her eyes, was amused.

Not so Barbara: “Ours? Our flag? You mean he’s actually going to fly the American flag? I can’t believe it. Who is he to fly our flag? You wouldn’t let him, would you, Harriet? The Stars and Stripes—on the Fourth—in your house? Yours and Lindsay and Michael’s house?” She was really sincerely deeply shocked. I was amazed; I had no feelings of that kind and would never have dreamed she had. Now I saw that Jean was beginning to look a bit shamefaced; she too assumed a serious expression and murmured “It’s not right.”

“It’s outrageous,” said Barbara.

Crishi lowered his eyes; he bit his lip. “I’ve put my foot in it. I don’t know how but I’ve done it.” He looked up again, from Jean to Barbara and back, appealing to be forgiven for whatever it was he had done wrong.

But Jean, sitting there heavy and blowsy, had begun to look grim; so did Barbara, though pink and disheveled and still wearing her baby-doll robe. Both seemed formidable matrons at that moment, upholders of virtue and tradition: making Crishi, standing between them, elegant and foreign, throw up his hands in a good-natured, giving-up gesture. He turned to me: “You’d better come. Michael wants you.” This, spoken straight, was far more personal and intimate than the wanting-to-please tone he had been using; and it put me in his camp immediately—I didn’t have to think a moment, didn’t have to choose, I simply accompanied him without a glance at Jean and Barbara.

Two flagpoles had been erected between the barns and the lake, and all the guests had assembled there, to watch and to listen to the Rawul’s address. Now that everyone was assembled in one spot, they formed a sparse and straggly group: probably because the grounds were so large, with the lawns and tall trees; and the old barns, almost as tall as the trees; and the lake with the sky reflected in it, making both sky and water seem twice as deep and full of light. It turned out there were two flags to be hoisted—the Stars and Stripes, and the flag of the Fourth World. Before the ceremony the Rawul gave a little address, which wasn’t in content different from what he said every evening under the tree. He seemed to be very moved—not that he wasn’t always moved when he spoke of his Fourth World, his high Idea.

He said it was a great moment in history when the two flags were for the first time to fly together over American soil, for the first time to flutter freely here in the clear pure air of this land of freedom. His audience listened in silence; it was difficult to know how he was being received—they were such a diverse group, it was impossible to think of them as united in anything. Certainly, everyone stood very still—there was no fidgeting, no movement at all anywhere except for the light breeze fluttering around among the tops of the trees. The local people looked solemn the way they were used to looking in church and at other Fourth of July or generally patriotic gatherings. Great principles were nothing new to them. What was surprising to me was the sight of my parents. Not by design, I’m sure, but accidentally, in the forming of the group, they had got next to each other. They both stood very straight—both had fine, tall figures—and with their chins raised, they looked ready to dedicate themselves to something higher than themselves. Their eyes—and these, in spite of everything they had done or left undone, had remained very clear—were fixed on the Rawul; or it may have been on the Rani, who stood a few paces behind him. She too looked solemn—in a practiced way, as though she were used to putting on this expression whenever necessary.

Three followers carrying instruments struck up as the Rawul hoisted the two flags. The music must have sounded strange to everyone except the Rawul’s party, for it was a most original mixture of baroque, Oriental, and atonal. Its main purpose was to stir and rouse, and it certainly did that to the three players themselves. I had seen them often but never noticed them much: two young men and a girl, pale, blond, undernourished—I would have said anemic, but there was nothing bloodless in the way they played. One strummed, one blew, one played a kind of drum—all three of them giving it everything they had, pouring themselves into the music as they swayed and swung and bent and rose with it; and when the flags went up the staff, they seemed to go with them—actually rose on tiptoe: until it wasn’t possible to go up any farther, and the music stopped in that abrupt way a certain kind of music does, as if recognizing its own limits. Complete silence followed, except for the birds in the trees, which carried on as usual, and everyone looked up to see where the two flags—the Stars and Stripes and the wheel-within-the-diamond of the Fourth World—had taken off in the breeze and flew together side by side. It was the perfect gesture or symbol the Rawul had intended—or would have been if it hadn’t been slightly marred by those two unhappy figures in the distance, Jean and Barbara, watching the proceedings from the porch and making them seem dubious.

The flag-raising ceremony was the climax of the party but not the end of it, for the guests stayed on. Perhaps they were reluctant to leave our beautiful house and grounds; or perhaps they were waiting for something more to happen. I had always been aware that our household raised expectations, and that people speculated about us. When I was still quite small and biked over to the farm produce store for their homemade caramels, the old Mrs. Walters who was then in charge of it would keep me talking, trying to extract some information about “your folk up there in the house, your mom and dad,” though she knew perfectly well that Manton had moved out years ago. Before he did, in the brief time that he and Lindsay had been together, it was said that what went on at Propinquity outdid the most squalid area of the town, down on Fourth Street, where wives were calling nightly for the police as protection against their husbands, and sometimes for the ambulance as well. After Manton left, there was a lull for a while. The house was empty, and people used to look at it longingly, wanting for it to come alive again. They were only partly satisfied when Lindsay stayed for weekends with different lovers and finally moved in with Jean—none of this was unusual, and interest had begun to shift to some of the other big houses (weird weekend parties had started up in the Tyler house, now owned by the daughter of a Texas oilman). But when the Rawul and his group came in, we moved to center stage again, and our cleaning lady, Mrs. Pickles, with her inside information became sought after even by people who had never had much time for the Pickles family. With this party—at which not only the Rawul and his retinue were on display but also Lindsay and Jean and Manton and Barbara—we were reinstated as the principal family, leaving the Texas heiress just simply nowhere, where she belonged.

But if anyone was waiting for a fight to break out between Manton and Lindsay, they would have been disappointed. I think it was not until the ceremony was over that the two of them discovered they had been standing side by side; instead of turning their backs on each other as they might have done under normal circumstances, they exchanged some pleasant words and even walked away together. I saw Mrs. Pickles nudge Mrs. Walters of the farm produce store—this was the daughter-in-law, old Mrs. Walters having been put away in a home some years ago—to draw her attention to this handsome all-American couple strolling side by side toward the house, engaged in conversation. I watched them too; I wondered what they could have to say to each other so amiably. They veered sharply away—away from the house where Jean and Barbara still stood on the porch, watching them—and moved off together toward the orchard; but before disappearing in there, Manton turned around and called me, and when I joined them, he hooked one arm into mine and the other into Lindsay’s, and anyone watching was rewarded by the sight of this happy family group, father, mother, and daughter, strolling under the ripening apple trees of their own orchard.

“I’ve been telling Lindsay,” Manton said to me in the warm voice he had when at peace with himself and the world. “I think it’s wonderful: the whole thing. And you giving the house. I’m so proud.” He squeezed my arm, and maybe Lindsay’s too on the other side.

There had always been moments when I hated Manton, and this was one of them. They usually occurred when he was being pompous, smug, putting on an act—maybe I could only stand him, or I should say love him, when he was being himself: that is, frankly selfish like a child, but also bewildered and mixed up like a child. Through irritation with him, I announced a decision I hadn’t made: “I never said I was giving the house.”

“No, but you will,” he assured me, as calm, warm, and confident as the director of a bank.

“I haven’t decided,” I said. I had already disengaged my arm from his, and I wouldn’t look at him but down at my own foot digging around in the soil.

“Harriet’s being tiresome,” Lindsay announced. I saw Manton give her arm a warning squeeze, and he went on talking to me, with perfect understanding: “I think after today we can decide.”

“Who’s we?” I said.

“Baby, you know you asked me to come here. You did consult me, sweet one. And why shouldn’t you,” he said. “It’s what I’m there for: when truly needed. I like to think that.” He made his sincere eyes at me; I continued to be irritated and yet involved with him—it was true, I had gone to him, and not for the first time either, when perplexed or in trouble. Though I always wondered afterward why I had gone to him, the fact was he never turned me away but was ready to listen and give his—usually useless—advice. He was, as he said, there.

He went on: “I know it’s not easy. I know how you love Propinquity. But it would be a magnificent gesture—and my Lord, how many of us are in a position even once in our lives to make such a gesture? I envy you. Both of you,” he said, turning to Lindsay so she wouldn’t feel left out. “I wish I had something to contribute to such a cause.”

But Lindsay’s mood had changed. Probably it was the bit about always being there—literally of course it couldn’t have been less true—anyway, her back was up. The moment of accord between them was over. She said “If you really want to contribute, you could always sell some stock.”

He ignored this with dignity and went on talking to me: “I know my little girl. She doesn’t care about owning anything; about owning a house. She’d give it away tomorrow.”

“Yes but I might want to give it away tomorrow to an orphanage. Or I might just want to keep it.”

“Why?” Lindsay said.

“Because,” I said.

It was getting more and more back to normal. We weren’t talking about the house but about ourselves—our own shortcomings. It usually happened to me when I was alone with either or both of them—that their inadequacies, as persons and as parents, overwhelmed me.

“You want to keep it,” Lindsay said, having had time to work herself up. “How do you think I feel? Who’s spent more time here, you or I? All our vacations—if we weren’t by the ocean somewhere, we were always here, my whole childhood, dammit: That means something.”

“You were lucky,” I said.

“You mean my mother was lucky, that she married my father and not someone like your father—”

“I thought we were going to talk nicely today,” Manton put in, still dignified.

“Yes we would, if you hadn’t happened to come here bringing Baby Doll.”

“Well,” Manton exhaled. “Is that what’s bugging you? Barbara being here?”

“Nothing is, as you put it, bugging me. Until this moment I was feeling happy and wonderful. It’s not every day that someone like the Rawul comes into your life and makes you want to do something—give up your house, or whatever. I really want to do that, but you make out as if it’s just—‘oh one of Lindsay’s big acts.’ Dragging me down; dragging everything down, as usual.”

“But why bring in Barbara?” Manton insisted, stamping his foot.

She stamped hers right back at him: “I didn’t—you did! And she doesn’t even have the decency to try to make herself pleasant but sulks around in her nightclothes, fighting with you. In my house. Under my roof. Naturally, I want to give it away—are you surprised that I’d want to have something better going on in it than you and Barbara?”

“For heaven’s sake, what are you talking about, it’s the first time we’ve even been here.”

“And the last! And the last!”

“I’m sorry,” Manton said to me. “Your mother is hysterical.”

He wasn’t sorry but rather pleased with himself, for keeping his temper; he wasn’t always so successful at it. But I felt sorry for her—she hadn’t meant to be this way, she hadn’t even meant to say anything about Barbara when she had entered this orchard, still feeling noble from the flag-raising ceremony.

I said to Manton, “I don’t know why you always have to get into a fight with her.”

“I!” he cried at that and put both his hands on his chest in sincere indignation. All his calm and poise were blown away. “I get in a fight! My Lord, didn’t you hear me, I was congratulating her. I was giving her my respect and esteem, and next thing I hear she’s running down Barbara!”

Lindsay put her hands on her ears and cried “Don’t mention her name in my house!”

Manton moaned, his hands over his eyes as hers were over her ears, and swayed to and fro in his despair.

It was at that moment, unfortunately, that Michael appeared in search of me. He gave one look—of disgust—and told me with his eyes to come away. I must say, I was glad to do so. When we were out of the orchard, he said “Why do you always get yourself into these situations with those two?” I had to laugh because it was true, I did. Michael had never done so. That look of disgust he had given them was, I’m afraid, his characteristic response to our parents, singly or together.

He had no interest in what the row had been about but said: “What shall we do? No one seems to want to go home.”

They stood dotted around the lawns, as if waiting for the next event. But nothing further had been planned; it had been assumed that, after the flag-raising ceremony, everyone would leave. No one had done so. The full light of afternoon had faded, trees and house looked softer, melting away into their own shadows. Crishi was coming toward us—smiling, his white shirt fresh and gleaming: “We’ll have to organize some party games,” he said. I thought he was joking, but not at all. We went in the barn where we collected a pile of old seed bags for a sack race; and then into the house, where Crishi set Mrs. Schwamm to hard-boil eggs for an egg-and-spoon race—she thought it was the funniest thing she had ever heard; she laughed till she choked. All the guests laughed too, when invited to participate; but Crishi cajoled, teased, and gently bullied them; he was the first to get into a seed bag and hopped up and down to show them how, not a bit afraid of appearing ridiculous. Led by bold Mr. McKimberley from the bank, a few of the local people climbed into the seed bags, laughing at themselves, a bit shamefaced; and when he had got them going, loudly applauding their skill and daring, Crishi whispered to me, “We’d better get some drink into them.” Back in the house, I got out Grandmother’s silver punch bowl, and Michael and I and Crishi and Mrs. Schwamm emptied bottles into it, not much caring what they were, almost daring each other on as we poured bourbon on brandy on wine on orange juice on vodka. Mrs. Schwamm was shrieking “But they’ll all be blotto!” in her Austrian accent—“That’s the idea,” Crishi said—and she was still shrieking as she helped us carry bowl and glasses out.

Everyone had joined in the games. Manton and Lindsay had emerged from the orchard and were watching the Rani, flushed and full-bosomed, hopping eagerly between Mrs. Pickles and Mr. McKimberley, all three intent on winning. When Mrs. Pickles came in first, the Rawul, who sat smilingly watching from the sidelines, applauded her with his hands held high in the air, softly clapping and calling out “Bravo.” Mrs. Pickles, scarlet with exertion and pleasure, said she had always been good at games, didn’t know what it was but ask anyone, when there were games, everyone knew Cindy Pickles would be first. The Rani cried for a replay—“Revenge!” she cried—and when they ran again, she did come first, and Mrs. Pickles said it was her ankle, the old trouble, it had never been the same since she had twisted it cleaning up in our attic. We began handing out glasses and inviting everyone to come and dip into the bowl. The Rani, flushed, panting, laughing, still in her seed bag, put back her head and drained her goblet like a warrior queen, before looking around to see who was playing with her. Both Manton and Lindsay stood ready to go, and I saw that Jean and Barbara had joined the crowd. Only the Rawul sat apart, a benevolent spectator, while everyone else scrambled around and fell over and laughed and drank more punch. Evening was falling, a pink light shone in one area of sky, the moon was already faintly in another; the reflection of the opposite shore was etched into the lake, an underwater forest gleaming brighter than the land around it. Crishi decided it was time to change games—he wanted a three-legged race, and Manton knew where there were a whole lot of old neckties, up in the attic, we could use for it. Crishi chose me as his partner and bound my leg to his with a frayed fraternity necktie that had probably belonged to Lindsay’s father. The Rani, though protesting that she was just getting expert in hopping, climbed out of her seed bag and looked around for a partner. Manton and Lindsay came forward, but she chose someone from the town; and now everyone was running around finding partners and race after race was run. But it always happened that Crishi and I came in first—we were unbeatable, an irresistible team.

I was getting tired—not physically but in the sense of bored; besides, I couldn’t see Michael, who took no part in the fun. I asked Crishi, “Where’s Michael?” but he didn’t hear me, not even when I said it the second and third time. He didn’t look at me either, not once, although we were tied and running so closely together that we might as well have been one person. All his attention was fixed on the game; he seemed to be enjoying it. I began to say “Let me go,” and “Let me go please, Crishi,” but he still didn’t hear me; and when I looked into his face, I saw that his eyes, which refused to meet mine, were hard and cold, and so was the smile of enjoyment fixed on his face. Although desperate to get away, I found that, whenever it was our turn to run, I naturally followed Crishi as if my body obeyed him more than it did me; and how easily we won each time, our limbs in perfect accord—we could not help winning, we were just naturally swifter, fleeter than anyone else. But while physically I was doing so well, otherwise I was getting more and more upset—in fact, I was getting almost hysterical, shouting “Let me go!” as we ran, which made Crishi run faster, with me forced to follow him. Until finally, when we won again, he looked around at the others coming up behind us and taunted them—“What’s all this huffing and puffing” (he and I weren’t even out of breath) “I think it’s the smoking and drinking and all the other stuff. . . . Oh you want to go?” he said to me, as if he had only just heard me. By this time I was yelling in his ear and hitting his arm with my fist, and to make it look like part of the fun we were having, he laughed out loud and bent down to untie my leg from his; and the moment he did that, I sprang away from him and fled—past the Rawul, who applauded me in the same way he had done Mrs. Pickles, softly clapping his hands held high in the air and calling out a smiling “Bravo.” I didn’t stop running till I was in the house and was, I felt, safe.

Safe from what and safe from whom? I didn’t ask till I was inside, where it was cool, silent, with lamps lit in the hall and on the upper landings. Only then did it strike me how stupid it was to be feeling and to be fleeing that way; and only then did I notice that there were tears coming out of my eyes. I hate tears—my own, that is—I truly hate and despise them, and so does Michael; I dashed them away impatiently with the back of my hand before going into his room. There he was lying on his bed, reading a book, and I was so over-whelmed with gladness to see him, and to be with him, that I could say nothing but stood with my back to the door, still holding the handle, and looking at him. He lowered his book—some ancient Oriental text, as usual—and said “It all seems to be going on fine.”

“Why aren’t you down there?”

“Oh you know.”

Of course I knew. Michael never joined in anything—he was a natural loner; whenever something was going on, pleasant or unpleasant, he disappeared and was to be found reading in his room. We had never managed to get through an entire family meal without someone saying “Harriet, go and find Michael,” and usually more than once, between soup and meat course, and then again before dessert.

So it was only natural that he should now ask “Have you been sent for me?”

“Oh no,” I said. “You can stay here; that’s all right.”

“Are you sure? No one wants me? Crishi’s not saying, ‘Now where the hell is that Michael?’” He tried unsuccessfully to imitate Crishi’s very distinctive accent, and smiled tenderly, as though he could hear Crishi talking.

“No. He’s not asking for you.”

“Maybe I should go down. I mean, with everyone working so hard.”

It was the first time I had heard Michael have any qualms about not joining in. He even laid aside his book and got up to look out the window at what was going on. I joined him there, standing very close behind him as if for protection. But they had stopped playing games. It had turned almost dark outside—deep dusk—and from up here we could make out small shadowy figures moving around on the lower lawn; a dull silver light gleamed from the water and the sky, as from twin mirrors. Someone had taken the boat out on the lake and it floated there as a black speck on the silvered surface. And the two flags hoisted that day hung from the top of their poles, limp in the still air. Michael appeared to be looking at these flags and I at the figures below; usually we felt the same but not now, it seemed.

“Aren’t you glad we’ve got this house?” he said.

“But you’re giving it away.”

“That’s what I mean: glad to have it to give.” His face was raised toward the sky; he gave first a sigh—of satisfaction—next a laugh, also of satisfaction.

I saw that some of the figures were beginning to straggle toward the house. I wished they wouldn’t; I wanted to stay alone with Michael. I put my hand on his shoulder; this was as far as we ever got touching one another, but it was very intimate between us. Michael didn’t like anyone touching him, unless it was lovers, I presume.

“Where are you going this summer, Michael?”

“What? What are you talking about?” He half-turned his head toward me. “You know I’m not going anywhere.”

“I just thought if you were, if you’d take me with you.”

“What’s got into you?” He very slightly moved his shoulder—no more than a twitch, but I took my hand away. I thought he was annoyed because I had asked to be taken with him. Although he did sometimes take me, he certainly didn’t want to be asked; that would have meant being tied down, someone making a demand on him. But now it seemed what had irritated him was my suggestion that he was going away somewhere: “You know perfectly well I can’t, with everything going on.”

I said “What’s going on?” His exclamation made me retrieve that a bit: “You mean, the Fourth World and all of that—”

“What else would I mean. You’re not being serious, Harriet. And you have to be because it’s very serious and important for us. For everyone.”

“You mean the whole world?”

“Yes of course I mean the whole world—what do you think it’s all about?”

There was silence between us, irritated on his part, sad on mine. The figures were drawing closer—by the dull silver light from the sky I could make out Jean with Lindsay, and at some distance Manton with Barbara. But most of the guests remained on the lower lawn; still no one wanted to go home. There were faint sounds of laughter coming from there, something was going on; I could make out some sort of animal noises—was it hens? cows? I guessed Mr. McKimberley was doing his animal imitations, which were always popular at local gatherings, though it took a few drinks before he could be induced to perform them. The guests had by now dipped freely into the punch bowl and were ready to be taken out of themselves. The night was peaceful, the trees asleep, but the balmy air seemed shot through with expectation and excitement. Or was this only emanating to me from Michael as he leaned against the window, looking at the flags and perhaps also trying to see where Crishi was? Jean and Lindsay had drawn near the house, and I could see that Jean had grabbed hold of Lindsay’s arm—no doubt they were having one of their intense scenes.

I said “If the Rawul takes over the house, what’s going to happen to Lindsay and Jean?”

“They can stay and work for him. It’ll give them something more to think about than fighting with each other.”

“They’re doing it now,” I said, pointing them out to him.

“I don’t have to see that. And neither do you.” When he was mad at something, Michael literally ground his teeth: “That’s why I’m glad this has happened—the Rawul and everything—to get away for once in our lives from all the personal squalor.”

But actually Michael had never done anything except get away from it. He had never allowed himself to be involved. When we were children, he saw to it that we had games and secluded places of our own, whether it was here in the house or in different embassies with our grandparents. Later, when he grew up, he traveled to faraway places; but even in between these journeys, when he was physically present and surrounded by his family, he always managed to be engrossed in something of his own; to absent himself in spirit. He tried to make me do the same, but I did not have his gift for it. Michael had never cared what people thought of him and made no effort to please or placate anyone. Both our parents were afraid of him; it’s a terrible thing to say, but I think neither of them liked him. Michael was the one subject on which they were in agreement.

He was pushing up the screen window in order to lean out: for Crishi had come running across the grounds and stood under the window to shout up to us. He was asking if we had any fireworks—“Everyone says there has to be fireworks!” “Do we have any?” Michael turned to me. I said “We were only expecting everyone for the afternoon. That’s all they were invited for.” “Well now we need them. Everyone wants to stay.”

Crishi called for us to come down, but only Michael went. I decided that for me the party was over; I was tired—it may have been from having been made to run all those races, but not only that. I wanted to go and lie down in my room without turning the light on and to be as alone as possible. But I didn’t even get there—as I was going from Michael’s room to mine, Jean came storming up the stairs. When she saw me, she said “You can help me carry them, though really I feel like flushing them down the toilet. The goddamn flipping fireworks,” she said, going into her room.

I followed her. Jean’s room was the homeliest and tidiest in the house. She kept everything just so: her luggage stowed away on upper shelves, her tortoiseshell brush, comb, and mirror set, and her Mickey Mouse alarm clock she had since her college days, winter clothes in polyethylene bags in back of her closet, and in front her boots and shoes arranged in rows, the better ones with trees in them. She had boxes of fireworks on the same shelf as her Christmas tree decorations and also cartons of old photographs and letters, everything numbered. As she was getting down the fireworks and handing them to me, she said indignantly, “I told her this is not what I went and got them for; not for this crowd.”

“Then why are you giving them?”

“How many fights can you have,” she said dully. “The moment she heard what they wanted—‘Oh Jean’s got fireworks haven’t you Jean, go and get them.’ And we’d talked about it, we’d agreed—not this year, not with all these people here. Not after last year.”

I tried to remember last year and it took some effort. For me, it had been very dull. Michael hadn’t been here—in fact, there was no one except Lindsay and Jean and me. I suppose that was what Jean was remembering. At night the three of us had sat by the lake and Jean had let off these fireworks and at each one Lindsay had exclaimed “Oh Jean look!” She clasped her hands and had stars in her eyes. I must have dozed off at one point, and when I woke up, the display was over, and Jean and Lindsay were sitting on the bank with their arms around each other, not talking at all, looking at the moon in the sky and again in the lake.

I helped her pack the boxes in shopping bags and carry them down, but I didn’t want to come out with her. I held the door open, so she could get through; just as she was going down the porch steps, the Rani was coming up them. Jean had her back to me so I couldn’t see how—if at all—she returned the Rani’s greeting, which was very friendly. And the Rani was also very friendly to me as she passed me through the door, and whispered, coming up close, “I have to go to the little girl’s room.” It was not the first time I had been taken aback by the Rani’s simpleness. In fact, almost every time I heard her say anything, it seemed to be banal or naïve. Maybe that was why she rarely spoke at all—because she knew she could not live up to the expectations aroused by her spectacular looks.

I shut the door of my room and was glad to be alone. But after a while I was surprised to hear the Rani calling me—she was opening doors along the landing, trying to find me. When I came out to see what she wanted, she said “Come along—time to join the fun”; she sounded like a games mistress I had had when I was at school in England for a year.

I told her I had a headache and wanted to rest. “Oh poor Harriet,” she said, in a voice rich in warmth and sympathy. She followed me and turned on the light—“So this is your room?” She looked around and noted how little there was to see, how bare it was, on principle; and “Charming,” she lied politely.

“Do you mind turning the light out? It’s hurting my eyes.”

“Oh—” another very warm sound; and she sat down next to me, close by me on the bed, in the dark. “Poor darling,” she breathed at me, and touched my brow and gently pressed it with her fingers. It seemed to me that her fingers were transmitting a strange sensation into my brain, but this may have been just my imagination, which was overwhelmed by her physical presence so close to me. She exuded, from inside her heavy silk, a perfume compounded of some costly essence of blossoms and of her own womanliness: This mixture was as potent as those flowering Oriental bushes that come at you in waves of cloying scent and knock out your sense of smell.

However, her conversation continued absolutely banal, and in a tone and language that combined schoolgirl with games mistress: “We’ve had the most lovely day, Harriet; such fun; such a good time. . . . I’m sorry you have a headache—is this doing you any good? no? should I stop? It must be with all the excitement we’ve had, and perhaps the sun, running in the sun. I saw you run with Crishi—you were fab, Harriet! Quite a team, aren’t you, you two? We should be entering you for the Olympics—just joking, dear; I can be very silly sometimes. . . . Everyone has been so kind, all those nice, nice people down there. Mr. What’s-it from the bank, and the sweet lady who comes to clean. And your parents, Harriet: I like them enormously, both of them. And it’s a great, great privilege for us to be in an American home, and today is such an important day for you isn’t it, historically. We’re very proud that you’ve allowed us to share it with you. It’s wonderful to have such good friends,” she summed up, “and the whole day’s been adorable. . . . I think they’re calling us.”

“They’re calling you.”

From all sides down below her name rang out—her name, or was it her title—“Rani! Rani!”—truly, it was like a queen being implored to show herself. And like a queen she stepped to my window—“Rani! Rani!”—it was a chorus, everyone had taken it up, some seriously, some in fun, or just to join in. “Aren’t they childish,” she said, smiling, but at the same time she did make a gracious gesture with her hand in acknowledgment. And when I joined her at the window, she put her arm around my shoulders as if I were—I don’t know what—maybe some junior princess, anyway someone to be drawn forward and drawn in. I stood still—I had no alternative—I could hardly shake her off with all those people looking up at us. I didn’t see Crishi down below—no wonder, for he was already in the house, up the stairs, and there he was rapping on my door and then inside without waiting for an answer.

“Aren’t you coming for the fireworks? Everyone’s waiting for you.”

“Yes we’re just on our way down—we got talking. Girl talk,” she said with a merry laugh.

“And in the dark,” he said, turning on the light. “It must have been some very intimate secrets.”

“Oh but of course. Harriet and I’ve had a good gossip, haven’t we. Only she’s got a headache—no don’t look at me. I didn’t give it to her with my chitter-chatter, she had it before. The poor thing.” Again she rubbed her fingertips over my forehead, only this time I moved away.

I didn’t want them in my room. In those few moments, they seemed already to have taken possession of it—as easily and completely as of the rest of the house. Crishi picked up the lump of rock Michael had brought me from Ladakh, but he must have felt the vibrations coming from me, so he put it down again; he said “I’m sorry you have a headache,” very sweetly and sympathetically.

I turned away from him; I didn’t want to look at him. It wasn’t that I was just sulking—I was really angry with him; the feelings he had inspired in me during the race hadn’t worn off. He must have been aware of this, for he did not try to get around me. Instead he said to the Rani: “Do something to your hair.” “Oh am I the most awful fright?” She turned to my mirror and said “Goodness,” and was already pulling pins out, so that glorious dark waves shimmering with auburn fell over her shoulders and down her back. She took my comb and used it swiftly and effectively, and in no time at all she had coiled everything back into her usual perfect coiffure. Crishi knelt down on the floor and did something to the folds of silk cloth around her ankles, and when he got up, she said “Now how?” He examined her, gave an expert flick to her neckline, and said “Not bad.” She tucked her arm in his, ready to go down. “Sure you won’t come?” he asked me, but didn’t insist. As they stood there arm in arm, both of them full of sympathy for me, hoping I would soon be better, they did look like mother and son rather than anything else. Maybe because he was so slim and youthful-looking, whereas she was almost matronly, and the layer of gold embroidery on the front of her dress made her bosom burgeon even more. And there was something familial in their attitude to each other—his slight air of patronage, and her smiling submission to it like a mother who is terribly proud of her son.

But when they were gone, I thought, Why should I care what or who they are to each other? She had left behind a hair in the comb she had used—I pulled it out to throw away; it was surprisingly thick and strong, more like a piece of wire than a hair. Their lingering presence in my room disturbed me: Actually, it was not so much lingering—that word has something light about it—but more like a cloud heavy with storm and thunder. In fact, it felt so oppressive inside that I thought the weather must have changed; but when I stepped to the window, I found the night to be perfectly balmy and still. The whole party had moved to the edge of the lake in anticipation of the fireworks. I watched from above, looking not so much toward the lake as at the tops of the trees, which seemed to have a veil over them from the softly lit night sky. The first of the rockets came spluttering up, and another and another, popping open and for a moment spreading a little garish color, only to die away very quickly. In contrast, stars and moon, which had appeared dim before, shone with a bright and steady light. Some more fireworks went up—I could hear halfhearted cheering down below—but it was hopeless. Jean’s fireworks might have been good enough for a few friends, or for two lovers sitting with their arms around each other by the lake, but they didn’t make much of a show at a party, especially not one in celebration of a new world movement. It was a relief when the display was over.

I went down, and found that disappointment with the fireworks had had a bad effect on the party. The local people were beginning to say they were sorry they had missed the fireworks at the high school, which were the usual culmination of this day; some of them thought that, if they hurried, they might still see at least the end of them, so they moved off to their cars and drove away. Mrs. Pickles whispered to Mrs. Schwamm to ask if supper was going to be served—throwing Mrs. Schwamm into a fit of red-faced indignation, her first that day, which had been an unusually benign one for her. “Eating and drinking all day like pigs, and now they ask for supper,” she complained to me. Mrs. Pickles then led off another contingent of local people to the high school, where homemade lemonade and chocolate-chip cookies were traditionally served after the fireworks. The remaining guests, finding that they had overstayed the events of the day, began to wonder which hosts to thank and say good-bye to. The obvious ones were the Rawul, Rani, and Crishi—they stood expectant and smiling, and as fresh as they had been at the start. They returned thanks more effusive than those they received, so that the guests felt themselves royally honored; and it would have been a fine high note for them to leave on, if they hadn’t remembered that there was another set of hosts to be thanked.

Unfortunately, Lindsay was not as fresh as she had been at the start of the day. It seemed she had felt shamed by the inadequacy of the fireworks and was blaming Jean, who fought back: “But it was you told me to get them!”

“How was I to know you bought this crummy lot—oh are you going? Sweet of you to come—but of course I might have guessed, you’re always so cheap, Jean.”

The guests backed away, their smiles cooling on their lips. But here Manton stepped forward as a responsible person, and they were relieved to shake the hand he held out to them so warmly: “Wish you could stay—yes wasn’t it fun—hope you’ll be with us again soon.” Manton had the ability to remember faces and usually to put the right name to them; and even when he didn’t, he compensated with extra cordiality, making the guests feel as good with him as with the Rawul’s contingent. So it happened that they began to go straight from the latter to Manton—bypassing Lindsay, who was awkwardly engaged with Jean.

“They would have been fine in Dubuque, Iowa”—which was where Jean came from, from a very down-home background—“but hardly—goodness!—here at Propinquity. Or did you do it on purpose, to make me feel an utter fool in front of my guests?”

Although her complexion, under her crop of gray-brown hair, had turned ruddier than usual, Jean remained admirably unprovoked. But as Lindsay’s voice rose—“I’m sure you did it on purpose!”—Jean moved closer to her and said in a low voice, “Have you been—?” Lindsay stepped back, instinctively averting her face. Lindsay had never been alcoholic but she did have tendencies that way—it was in her family—and right from the beginning of their relationship, Jean had thought it necessary to control her intake. Lindsay wanted to be controlled; all her life she had been looking for someone to do just that. But that day she had dipped as freely as everyone else into the bowl of punch we had prepared, so now she felt guilty, and instead of wanting to continue her quarrel with Jean, she was anxious to get away from her.

At once she found an opportunity: Having averted her face from Jean, she saw Manton bidding his gracious farewell to the guests. The sight enraged her, and she strode over to him. She had long slender legs, made for golf courses and country walking; she didn’t go in for either, or any sport, but when she was indignant, she strode on them with the energy of a resolute sportswoman. It was in that way she moved in on Manton and hissed “Get out of my house.”

Manton had been brought up as a gentleman and could, at least for a few minutes, keep his poise. So he went right on saying “Delighted you could come” to the guest whose hand he happened to be shaking, even retaining that hand for a while in extra cordiality, though the embarrassed guest was straining to get away.

“Right this minute,” Lindsay said, not troubling to keep her voice down, so that the next guest too could hear her. Two spots of high color had appeared on Manton’s cheekbones.

I heard Crishi murmur to Michael, “You’d better do some thing about your parents.” Lindsay was really losing her head. Addressing the line of guests waiting to shake Manton’s hand, she said “You don’t have to thank him, he has no business to be here in the first place.” She shook the next hand herself and put on a manner even grander and more effusive than his.

Crishi began skillfully to divert the guests from the Rawul and Rani’s line straight to where their cars were parked. Manton and Lindsay were left standing alone, which gave Michael the opportunity to step between them, take an arm of each, and lead them away toward the house. Before they got very far, Jean came up behind them and took charge of Lindsay, leaving Michael to cope with Manton, who was saying “I have never been so insulted in my whole life.”

I ran on ahead into the house and told Barbara that Manton might be ready to leave. She got up at once from where she had been lying on the bed and began very quickly and efficiently to pack up her own and Manton’s things; and by the time Michael appeared with Manton, she was almost ready.

Manton was saying “For two pins I’d go straight to New York this minute and never come back again. I mean it,” and he sounded and looked as if he did—very resolute, with his high color and clear cold eyes.

“I won’t be a minute, darling,” Barbara said; she had already stepped out of the robe in which she had been lounging around all day and was eagerly getting into her clothes.

“I’d forgotten what your mother was like,” Manton was saying to Michael. “She’s a madwoman. I feel more sorry than I can say for you two, that you have to live with such a complete lunatic.”

“That’s all right,” Michael said. “We can manage.”

“Yes but don’t you think I feel a certain responsibility? However much I might like to get out of here and never see the place again, there is the question of my children.”

“Ready?” Michael asked Barbara, who nodded; she was swiftly twisting up her long blond hair. Michael took the bag she had packed. “One moment,” Manton said. “We have to discuss this.”

Michael was not in a mood to discuss anything. Much shorter and lighter than Manton, he moved much faster. Barbara, usually a bit phlegmatic, was also moving fast. I followed behind them with Manton, who was addressing himself to me: “I feel I’m letting you down, baby,” he said.

“I’ll come to New York. I might stay a few days.”

“If you really want me to,” he offered, “I could stay. I’ll swallow my pride and stay—good Lord, one can do that much for one’s children.”

By the time we reached the front porch, Barbara had driven the car around and Michael had put their bags in. He held open the door for our father.

“Good-bye, Daddy,” I said. “I’ll see you soon.” I only called him Daddy when I wanted him to feel nice; dignified. And in spite of his scrambled departure, he did look dignified. He sat beside Barbara and turned to us for a last word: “It might look as if I’m running away from the situation, but believe me that is not the case. It’s simply that one can take so much and no more. Please make my apologies and farewell to the Rani and Rawul. I hope everyone will understand.”

Michael shut the car door. As Barbara drove off, Manton looked back at us with a sorrowful expression. “‘Good-bye, Daddy,’” Michael quoted at me. He could often be cold and contemptuous, and he was so now. He never had any sympathy for Manton; he made no allowances for him at all.

I’m sure Barbara was happy as she drove away with him; and in fact the day ended happily for other people too, so perhaps the Rawul was right and the celebration had been a success. He and the Rani stayed for a long time down by the water where the flags were; they walked up and down there arm in arm—a dynastic couple, an embodiment of traditional matrimony (I didn’t know at that time that they weren’t married at all). Jean and Lindsay were in the kitchen, where Mrs. Schwamm was fixing a supper for them. It was Jean’s belief that quantities of food were the best antidote for Lindsay whenever she had been drinking, while Mrs. Schwamm was at all times happy to feed Lindsay. And Lindsay, relieved to be taken charge of, was calm and obedient and ready to do and eat whatever they wanted her to. Mrs. Schwamm was surveying the events of the day with Teutonic humor, which made Lindsay laugh; and when she laughed, Jean, full of fond love, kissed her cheek and said Lindsay was all better.

And the day ended happily for Michael and me too. Crishi and Michael decided to go for a midnight swim by the waterfall on the outskirts of the property; Michael told me to come along too—he and I often went there; we were the only people who used it except for some Pickles or gardeners’ children who had always shared it with us. I would have gone, I wanted to go, but I still had bad feelings about Crishi, so I stayed behind. Awhile after they had left, I was surprised to see Crishi back again. It appeared he had returned for me. When I still wouldn’t come, he said “Because of this afternoon.” I didn’t deny it. “It was just a game, Harriet; a party game.” “All the same,” I said.

He was silent; he looked down at the ground; he said “What can I say.” He sounded rueful, perhaps a bit annoyed but, if so, it was with himself, not me. He didn’t apologize; he didn’t try to make me change my mind; he didn’t look at me but kept his eyes averted. But I wanted to go swimming! And it had been a party game! I said “Oh all right; let me get a towel.” “I’ll get it!” He bounced off, bounced back again, he took my hand and pulled me along; he was laughing and skipping, so I had to skip along with him. He appeared so glad and relieved that I felt quite flattered, to have had this effect on him.

Not many people knew about our waterfall. It was down a steep incline, and to get to it, you had to leave your shoes at the top and negotiate a descending series of slippery stones, and at the same time hold aside the branches and bushes overhanging this narrow path. Of course for Michael and me it was easy because we were so used to it. Crishi came behind me and once or twice I had to put out my hand to help him and he took it, but mostly he managed very well by himself. Michael was already in the water, swimming around in the pool formed under the waterfall. It was always dark down here even during the day, and at night the pool was like an underground cavern and Michael a white shape gliding around it. Crishi and I left our clothes on the stones at the side and got in with him. One of the good things about swimming here was that conversation was impossible—the roar of the waterfall drowned out all other sounds as it rushed down the rock in a cascade of foam and spray, which was white by day and silver by night. The three of us swam around in and under the water, and sometimes on our backs, looking up at a few stars flickering there so faintly that only people like us with very good eyes could see them. Crishi, a darker shape than Michael but as slender and swift, seemed to love being underwater, and we never knew when he would be appearing underneath Michael and when underneath me. Michael got out first and sat naked on the stones with his legs drawn up and his arms around them. I saw him look up at the sky and the expression on his raised face was one of utter bliss; the phrase “his streaming countenance” came into my mind. Next moment he was back in the water, and the three of us continued to flit around and beneath one another, our bodies forming patterns that sometimes appeared to intertwine.