In the afternoons, Llewellyn had formed the habit of going for long walks. He would start up from the town on a widely curving, zig-zagging road that led steadily upwards until the town and the bay lay beneath him, looking curiously unreal in the stillness of the afternoon. It was the hour of the siesta, and no gaily-coloured dots moved on the waterfront or on the occasionally glimpsed roads and streets. Up here on the hills the only human creatures Llewellyn met were goat-herds, little boys who wandered singing to themselves in the sunshine, or sat playing games of their own with little heaps of stones. These would give Llewellyn a grave good afternoon, without curiosity. They were accustomed to foreigners who strode energetically along, their shirts open at the neck, perspiring freely. Such foreigners were, they knew, either writers or painters. Though not numerous, they were, at least, no novelty. As Llewellyn had no apparatus of canvas or easel or even sketch-book with him, they put him down as a writer, and said to him politely: ‘Good afternoon.’
Llewellyn returned their greetings and strode on.
He had no particular purpose in his wandering. He observed the scenery, but it had for him no special significance. Significance was within him, not yet clear and recognized, but gradually gaining form and shape.
A path led him through a grove of bananas. Once within its green spaces, he was struck by how immediately all sense of purpose or direction had to be abandoned. There was no knowing how far the bananas extended, and where or when he would emerge. It might be a tiny path, or it might extend for miles. One could only continue on one’s way. Eventually one would emerge at the point where the path had led one. That point was already in existence, fixed. He himself could not determine it. What he could determine was his own progression – his feet trod the path as a result of his own will and purpose. He could turn back or he could continue. He had the freedom of his own integrity. To travel hopefully …
Presently, with almost disconcerting suddenness, he came out from the green stillness of the bananas on to a bare hill-side. A little below him, to one side of a path that zig-zagged down the side of a hill, a man sat painting at an easel.
His back was to Llewellyn, who saw only the powerful line of shoulders outlined beneath the thin yellow shirt and a broad-brimmed battered felt hat stuck on the back of the painter’s head.
Llewellyn descended the path. As he drew abreast, he slackened speed, looking with frank interest at the work proceeding on the canvas. After all, if a painter settled himself by what was evidently a well-trodden path, it was clear that he had no objection to being overlooked.
It was a vigorous bit of work, painted in strong bands of colour, laid on with an eye to broad effect, rather than detail. It was a pleasing piece of craftsmanship, though without deep significance.
The painter turned his head sideways and smiled.
‘Not my life work,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Just a hobby.’
He was a man of perhaps between forty and fifty, with dark hair just tinged with grey. He was handsome, but Llewellyn was conscious not so much of his good looks as of the charm and magnetism of his personality. There was a warmth to him, a kindly radiating vitality that made him a person who, if met only once, would not easily be forgotten.
‘It’s extraordinary,’ said the painter meditatively, ‘the pleasure it gives one to squeeze out rich, luscious colours on to a palette and splash ’em all over a canvas! Sometimes one knows what one’s trying to do, and sometimes one doesn’t, but the pleasure is always there.’ He gave a quick upward glance. ‘You’re not a painter?’
‘No. I just happen to be staying here.’
‘I see.’ The other laid a streak of rose colour unexpectedly on the blue of his sea. ‘Funny,’ he said. ‘That looks good. I thought it might. Inexplicable!’
He dropped his brush on to the palette, sighed, pushed his dilapidated hat further back on his head, and turned slightly sideways to get a better view of his companion. His eyes narrowed in sudden interest.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘but aren’t you Dr Llewellyn Knox?’
There was a moment’s swift recoil, not translated into physical motion, before Llewellyn said tonelessly:
‘That’s so.’
He was aware a moment later of how quick the other man’s perceptions were.
‘Stupid of me,’ he said. ‘You had a breakdown in health, didn’t you? And I suppose you came here to get away from people. Well, you needn’t worry. Americans seldom come to the island, the local inhabitants aren’t interested in anybody but their own cousins and their cousins’ cousins, and the births, deaths and marriages of same, and I don’t count. I live here.’
He shot a quick glance at the other.
‘That surprise you?’
‘Yes, it does.’
‘Why?’
‘Just to live – I should not have thought you would be contented with that.’
‘You’re right, of course. I didn’t come here originally to live. I was left a big estate here by a great-uncle of mine. It was in rather a bad way when I took it on. Gradually it’s beginning to prosper. Interesting.’ He added: ‘My name’s Richard Wilding.’
Llewellyn knew the name; traveller, writer – a man of varied interests and widely diffused knowledge in many spheres, archaeology, anthropology, entomology. He had heard it said of Sir Richard Wilding that there was no subject of which he had not some knowledge, yet withal he never pretended to be a professional. The charm of modesty was added to his other gifts.
‘I have heard of you, of course,’ said Llewellyn. ‘Indeed, I have enjoyed several of your books very much indeed.’
‘And I, Dr Knox, have attended your meetings – one of them, that is to say; at Olympia a year and a half ago.’
Llewellyn looked at him in some surprise.
‘That seems to surprise you,’ said Wilding, with a quizzical smile.
‘Frankly, it does. Why did you come, I wonder?’
‘To be frank, I came to scoff, I think.’
‘That does not surprise me.’
‘It doesn’t seem to annoy you, either.’
‘Why should it?’
‘Well, you’re human, and you believe in your mission – or so I assume.’
Llewellyn smiled a little.
‘Oh yes, you can assume that.’
Wilding was silent for a moment. Then he said, speaking with a disarming eagerness:
‘You know, it’s extraordinarily interesting to me to meet you like this. After attending the meeting, the thing I desired most was actually to meet you.’
‘Surely there would have been no difficulty about doing that?’
‘In a certain sense, no. It would have been obligatory on you! But I wanted to meet you on very different terms – on such terms that you could, if you wanted to, tell me to go to the devil.’
Llewellyn smiled again.
‘Well, those conditions are fulfilled now. I have no longer any obligations.’
Wilding eyed him keenly.
‘I wonder now, are you referring to health or to viewpoint?’
‘It’s a question, I should say, of function.’
‘Hm – that’s not very clear.’
The other did not answer.
Wilding began to pack up his painting things.
‘I’d like to explain to you just how I came to hear you at Olympia. I’ll be frank, because I don’t think you’re the type of man to be offended by the truth when it’s not offensively meant. I disliked very much – still do – all that that meeting at Olympia stood for. I dislike more than I can tell you the idea of mass religion relayed, as it were, by loud-speaker. It offends every instinct in me.’
He noted the amusement that showed for a moment on Llewellyn’s face.
‘Does that seem to you very British and ridiculous?’
‘Oh, I accept it as a point of view.’
‘I came therefore, as I have told you, to scoff. I expected to have my finer susceptibilities outraged.’
‘And you remained to bless?’
The question was more mocking than serious.
‘No. My views in the main are unchanged. I dislike seeing God put on a commercial basis.’
‘Even by a commercial people in a commercial age? Do we not always bring to God the fruits in season?’
‘That is a point, yes. No, what struck me very forcibly was something that I had not expected – your own very patent sincerity.’
Llewellyn looked at him in genuine surprise.
‘I should have thought that might be taken for granted.’
‘Now that I have met you, yes. But it might have been a racket – a comfortable and well-paid racket. There are political rackets, so why not religious rackets? Granted you’ve got the gift of the gab, which you certainly have, I imagine it’s a thing you could do very well out of, if you put yourself over in a big way or could get someone to do that for you. The latter, I should imagine?’
It was half a question.
Llewellyn said soberly: ‘Yes, I was put over in a big way.’
‘No expense spared?’
‘No expense spared.’
‘That, you know, is what intrigues me. How you could stand it? That is, after I had seen and heard you.’
He slung his painting things over his shoulder.
‘Will you come and dine with me one night? It would interest me enormously to talk to you. That’s my house down there on the point. The white villa with the green shutters. But just say so, if you don’t want to. Don’t bother to find an excuse.’
Llewellyn considered for a moment before he replied:
‘I should like to come very much.’
‘Good. Tonight?’
‘Thank you.’
‘Nine o’clock. Don’t change.’
He strode away down the hill-side. Llewellyn stood for a moment looking after him, then he resumed his own walk.
‘So you go to the villa of the Señor Sir Wilding?’
The driver of the ramshackle victoria was frankly interested. His dilapidated vehicle was gaily adorned with painted flowers, and his horse was decked with a necklace of blue beads. The horse, the carriage and the driver seemed equally cheerful and serene.
‘He is very sympathetic, the Señor Sir Wilding,’ he said. ‘He is not a stranger here. He is one of us. Don Estobal, who owned the villa and the land, he was old, very old. He let himself be cheated, all day long he read books, and more books came for him all the time. There are rooms in the villa lined with books to the ceiling. It is incredible that a man should want so many books. And then he dies, and we all wonder, will the villa be sold? But then Sir Wilding comes. He has been here as a boy, often, for Don Estobal’s sister married an Englishman, and her children and her children’s children would come here in the holidays from their schools. But after Don Estobal’s death the estate belongs to Sir Wilding, and he comes here to inherit, and he starts at once to put all in order, and he spends much money to do so. But then there comes the war, and he goes away for many years, but he says always that if he is not killed, he will return here – and so at last he has done so. Two years ago it is now since he returned here with his new wife, and has settled here to live.’
‘He has married twice then?’
‘Yes.’ The driver lowered his voice confidentially. ‘His first wife was a bad woman. She was beautiful, yes, but she deceived him much with other men – yes, even here in the island. He should not have married her. But where women are concerned, he is not clever – he believes too much.’
He added, almost apologetically:
‘A man should know whom to trust, but Sir Wilding does not. He does not know about women. I do not think he will ever learn.’