THE VICOMTE had come to call on the Sinnotts just after Sunday lunch. He was sitting in an easy chair, by the fireplace, holding a small earthenware dish of Martha’s pot-de-crême, vanilla, in his square, seamed hand. By his side rested his walking stick, and he was still puffing a little from his walk up the hill. Nobody knew his age. He had a large red face and dark-blond, straight, pomaded hair of a hue that could scarcely be dyed; he wore it combed back, without a part, and longish, like a woman’s short bob. His suit was a faded tan silk, cut rather loose, which looked as if it had been made for him in Japan many years back. The vicomte had a much-traveled mien, like a stout suitcase with frayed hotel stickers; today, he suggested the Orient-fans, a kimono, verandahs, matting. John had not recognized him, as he made his way up the driveway, with a basket of field-mushrooms, a house-gift, in one hand, and the stick, which he paused to rest on, in the other. He had the air of a meditative pilgrim toiling up to a monastery with an offering. “Why, it’s M. de Harnonville!” cried Martha, peering out the window, astonished and somewhat pleased that the vicomte had dressed to pay them a visit. For ordinary use, behind the counter in the liquor store, he wore a dark-blue T-shirt, a green eyeshade, blue jeans, and sandals. On his feet, at present, were a pair of high shoes, recently blackened, evidently, for the shoeblack was coming off on the chair’s white slipcover while John frowningly watched.
Martha had put a little table down, for the custard cup and spoon, but M. de Harnonville ignored it, holding the cup in his hand and letting the spoon dribble custard onto his napkined lap in the most aristocratic fashion. He had come, it slowly transpired, to buy an early Seth Thomas clock that the Sinnotts had inherited with the house. He was also interested in a sundial, a birdbath, and a painted rocker, which he believed to be stored in the workshop. The previous owner, he said, coughing, had promised him these things, but since the poor bloody old chap had killed himself without making a will, M. de Harnonville stood ready to pay.
John and Martha glanced quickly at each other. The thought flashed between them that the vicomte was in cahoots with the former handyman, who had already carried off a truckload of stuff in deference to the late owner’s supposed wishes and had nearly got away with the clock and a pretty silk-and-velvet patchwork quilt, worth over a hundred dollars, which he had stowed in an old bureau drawer. But the instant the suspicion entered her mind, Martha quashed it, shaking her head slightly as a warning to her husband to do likewise. She hated suspecting people, and the vicomte was popular in New Leeds, where he was known as “Paul” to everybody, from the bank president to the village idiots. Though he lived in a single, bare room back of his antique shop and ate his meals sitting at the counter of the local grille, reading a Boston tabloid, he was held to be an authority on everything going—world politics, wines, cooking, gardening, how to arrange your furniture. She and John, it seemed, had already got off on the wrong foot by sending to Boston for a shipment of reasonably priced, decent wine, after one look at the vicomte’s stock. You could not do that, the Coes hurried over to tell Martha when they heard about it via the express man: everybody here went to Paul, who got a percentage—how else would he live in the winter, when the antique business folded up?
“You’ll have to get used to the folkways,” Warren told John, with one of his peaceful smiles. But John chafed against the village and the village chafed against him. “Be nice,” Martha kept feeling impelled to tell him on the brink of every occasion. “Be nice,” she had pleaded, just now, as she recognized the vicomte approaching. Callers took up too much time, he contended, and wasted Martha’s energy. He could not forget that they had come here for a purpose and he watched Martha’s outlay of energy with a sort of fanatic jealousy, as though there were only so much of it, a diminishing stock. He was still angry with her, she knew, because she had sat for the portrait. It was getting “involved” in New Leeds, he said—which she had promised him she would not do. And he was cross with Warren for having asked her. Just as he had predicted, she had come home worn out after each sitting, for Warren had taken advantage of the occasion to make her talk philosophy with him for three hours at a stretch. And he still kept popping around with what he called “unfinished questions.”
“That’s life in the country,” Martha explained, patiently. In the country, she said, you had to be disponible. Otherwise, people would say you were a snob. So much the better, argued John: then they would leave you in peace. But Martha would not consent to this. It was bad for your character, she tried to show him, to hoard yourself like a miser: openness and hospitality were the basis of ancient virtue, like Abraham entertaining the angels, unawares. Abraham was not writing a play, John retorted. For John, the village was an enemy silently waiting to infiltrate as soon as his back was turned. Last week, he had gone up to Boston, to do some research in the library, and came home to find that Martha had let the plumber and his helpers drive their truck over his freshly seeded lawn. It was not her fault, actually: she had heard the truck too late, and opened her study window and screamed at them like a harpy, pointing to John’s barriers and a big “Keep off the Grass” sign. She was proud, for John’s sake, that she had done that much, though the plumber went off in a huff and would not come back to fix the pump he had botched up. He was very sensitive, it seemed, about being a plumber, because he had gone to college, and Martha, the Coes told John, should have thought of that before she yelled, “Can’t you read?”
Martha was not tactful, despite all her theories of hospitality and neighborliness. She could never remember the things you were supposed to remember about the people up here—who had had a lung removed and who was impotent and who was drinking and who was on the wagon this season. And yet, as she knew, in New Leeds such facts assumed a great importance and even conferred distinction. Right off the bat, she blundered, for example, with the vicomte by offering him coffee and a brandy. “Dear lady,” protested M. de Harnonville, “I am an alcoholic.” How was she expected to know that, she demanded of John later. She hardly knew the vicomte. He had come here after the war, to stay with some moneyed summer people, just before she left Miles. He seemed to know her very well, but all she could remember of him, from that period, was that he was said to be writing his memoirs of the Resistance: his hosts liked to tell how he had been parachuted, disguised as a businessman, back into his native province, where he had worked for the Allies. Martha had thought this remarkable—because he was so fat—and she was greatly surprised to come back, after all these years, and find him still here, a placid institution, like the new high school. His name was on the town roll of honor, in the square, but everybody seemed to have forgotten about the memoirs. Jane Coe, in fact, now claimed to know that he had really spent the war years in New York, acting as a paid courier to rich refugees: a cousin of the Hubers had seen him, she declared. And she added her own cheerful surmise, that he had probably been working for the Germans too—he looked, she thought, a lot like Goering.
“You oughtn’t to say that, dear,” Warren had interjected mildly, but Jane pooh-poohed his fears. Nobody up here, she said, would mind what Paul had done, not even the FBI, who only cared about Communists now. Why, Hitler himself could come here and set up as a house-painter and nobody would mind; that, in a way, agreed Warren, was the nice part of New Leeds.
It was the vicomte’s rich air of fraudulence that took Martha’s fancy today; he appealed to her sense of theater. She did not even object to the shoeblacking coming off him; it was a part of his makeup. He sat in the chair like somebody playing the roll of an impostor nobleman, fat, florid, seedy, with a plaintive blue eye—a compendium of myths and history, with his darker pages open, almost ostentatiously. And yet the Coes attested that he was a real vicomte; strangely enough, observed Jane with a toss of her shawl. He had really traveled a great deal, the Coes said, and spoke a great many languages and their dialects. The liquor-store window, in the winter season, was papered with a collection of educational photographs, of the Upper Nile, the Ganges, a Chinese riverboat, a Russian cruiser of the tsar’s day, a fjord, a cork plantation, an American oilfield, in all of which M. de Harnonville was standing, looking exactly the same, and surrounded by a swarm of natives, just as he was here. Yet if he had spent six months, as he claimed, in all the places he had been caught by the camera, he would have to be a hundred and twenty, according to Warren’s count. Jane declared that the answer was simple: Paul, who was probably about sixty, had lived a double life, she said thoughtfully.
He was a bit of a bore, Jane contended; he talked too much about mon oncle, le duc and society people, whom nobody was interested in, nowadays. But Warren disagreed; he had learned a lot from Paul, he insisted. John, Martha could see, was of Jane’s opinion. He barely concealed a yawn as the vicomte began to relate the history of alcoholism in the Harnonville blood: mon oncle, le duc, it seemed, had been a famous toper. For Martha, however, the vicomte and his uncle were interesting just because she doubted their reality. To call her husband’s attention to this point, she gave a gay little laugh. “I don’t believe it,” she said flatly. The vicomte frowned. “I assure you,” he said. “It is all in the memoirs.” Martha saw that her jesting tone had offended him. “Still,” she persisted, “I never heard that you were a drinker.” The vicomte shrugged. “Oh yes, my dear girl,” he affirmed. “You would not have known me. I was a shocking sight. In the gutter. Six months. Positively.” He began to rummage in his pockets. Martha giggled. She feared, as she told John later, that he was about to produce a snapshot of himself in the gutter, but it was only a cigarette case. He lit a mentholated cigarette, waving aside John’s match. He had, Martha observed, a very bad cigarette cough. “When was this?” she said, skeptically. The vicomte meditated. “Oh . . . during the war . . . I cannot say now the exact date.” Martha was silent. She did not want to press him, rudely, but it was he who had introduced the topic. And she still did not believe him, as she tried to indicate to John, though she could not think why anyone should pose as an alcoholic. The vicomte met her look. “You’re seeking the stigmata?” he said. “Stigmata?” cried Martha, alarmed; she suddenly remembered hearing that the vicomte was très catholique. “The signs,” said the vicomte, with an air of impatience. “The signs of alcoholism.” Martha nodded. “They are there,” he assured her. “My doctor could tell you. The blood sugar is never the same.” “But you don’t drink any more?” “No,” said the vicomte. He pulled himself out of his chair and selected a small bronze from the mantel, turned it around, and set it back in silence.
“It must be hard on you, working in the liquor store,” said Martha, at a loss for another topic and getting no help from her husband, who sat looking intently at the vicomte now, as if the old fellow were a foreign particle that had intruded on his field of vision for the first time. “ ’Ard?” said the vicomte, blinking. Martha repeated her remark in a louder voice. M. de Harnonville turned wonderingly to John. “My wife means the temptation.” “Ah,” said the vicomte. “But that is part of our method.” “ ‘Our’?” queried Martha, uneasily mindful again of the vicomte’s religion; John was a perfect Roundhead who held popery in aversion. “A. A.,” said the vicomte. “You know what it is?” “Alcoholics Anonymous,” chorused the Sinnotts. The vicomte nodded. “A wonderful society,” he said. “Truly missionary. In the spirit of Vincent de Paul. I give them what little time I have here. They call me and I come. It is very moving. Last week, in the woods, a little girl, abandoned by her husband—oh, la pauvre.”
He bowed his head. “Isn’t there a clash of interests?” said John, with a cold little laugh. He disapproved of Martha’s taste for pious frauds and he refused, despite all her merry glances, to find the vicomte amusing. “Interests?” repeated the vicomte, picking up a little china figure, replacing it, and shading his eyes frowningly against the afternoon sun. “He means the interests of your work in the liquor store as against the interests of your work in A. A.,” interpreted Martha. “But where is the problem?” said the vicomte, resuming his chair. “As an alcoholic, I know wines and whiskeys very well.” Martha opened her mouth to explain further, but at John’s impatient signal she closed it again. “Besides,” mused M. de Harnonville, in a franker tone, “it is like the pleasures of the eye and the hand for a man who is past the age for the other. . . . A little perversion, I suppose.” He tilted his big bobbed head. Martha jumped up. “Let me take that,” she said and hurried out with the empty custard cup to the kitchen.
Left alone with John, the vicomte leaned back in his chair and looked shrewdly at the tall young man opposite him, in white shirtsleeves and black sleeveless sweater, perched rather nervously on the black sofa. “I understand you very well,” he said, unexpectedly. “You are a young American, of good family; very high-principled, like your wife. You are thinking of la question morale. But you must remember that ‘moral’ in French has a somewhat different meaning.” He got up and went to the window, where he stood looking out onto the lawn, with his arms behind his back. “You should prune that rose tree,” he observed. Under his authoritative stare, John felt their property blanch; the sandy patches on the lawn grew bigger and whiter; the box withered; briars raised their stalks. “If you fix it, it will be very nice,” he heard the vicomte sum up. “But it will cost you $20,000—a fortune.” The old man shrugged and turned away from the window. “We like it shabby,” protested Martha, in the doorway, seeing her husband’s woeful face. The vicomte threw out his hands and gave a short laugh. “Chacun à son goût,” he conceded.
There was a disturbing finality about him—a mixture of positiveness and indifference, as if being French and a swindle had given him the last word. And it was indeed the last word he seemed to articulate, in his hoarse, choking voice. He dismissed his own words, like useless servants, the minute they were spoken and paid no attention whatever to the sounds that issued from the Sinnotts. Each of his abrupt summations was succeeded by a “profound” silence. In the workshop, where they had gone to inspect the things, his connoisseur’s eye had wandered straight to the beam from which the suicide had hanged himself. “You’re not superstitious?” he ruminated. He seemed more interested, really, in the mechanics or workmanship of the tragedy than in the business he had come to transact. He measured the drop, thoughtfully, with his fat lower lip protruding, and hoisted himself onto the bench, which, he explained to the Sinnotts, nodding, the dead man must have used. In fact, Martha, watching him uncomfortably and clutching her husband’s arm, began to feel that the antique business was only a pretext for getting into the workshop. But all at once he made a grimace of boredom and clambered down, brushing dust from his trousers. He looked over the furniture, briskly, and offered what to the Sinnotts seemed a very fair price—the idea that the stuff had been promised him appeared to have been given its congé.
John Sinnott could not hide his surprise. The clock, though ugly, had a certain collector’s value, but twenty dollars for the birdbath? He and Martha exchanged wondering looks. “You’re sure you’re not cheating yourself?” he felt driven to ask, as he peered for the third time at the figures M. de Harnonville had scrawled out on a page from his notebook. This concern, which filled Martha with wifely pride, appeared to nettle the vicomte. “My dear fellow,” he said with an air of patience, “these garden things are very desirable.” “But it’s hideous,” protested Martha, running her finger over the birdbath. “It isn’t even old.” The vicomte blew his nose. “Each to his own taste,” he said, stowing away his dirty handkerchief. “I find it quite pretty.” A pall of silence fell. They began to walk slowly across the lower lawn. Martha was vexed. Solely in the interests of accuracy, she wanted to dispute with him the value of those knickknacks. Thanks to John’s work in the Historical Society, both the Sinnotts knew a good deal about furniture, and Martha was vain of the fact. She was also proud of their taste. And, despite all indications to the contrary, she had been hoping to find a fellow-spirit in the old antiquaire: somebody who had standards and was a purist in this uncorseted place. Yet every time she spoke she had the feeling that she was screaming, across a gulf of petty misunderstanding. The sound of her own voice, childishly positive, like a college girl’s, cut into the still afternoon and made her resolve not to speak again, until she could master the desire to argue.
But the vicomte himself reopened the subject. “The sundial and the birdbath,” he said, stopping and leaning on his stick, “I can understand they are not to your liking. But why sell the clock? Excuse me if I say you were foolish.” “We don’t like it,” said John, crisply, like a manifesto. “But it’s very good,” objected the vicomte, raising his voice and tapping his stick peremptorily on the ground. “Very old, relatively. Very rare.” “We don’t like Americana,” explained John. “Americana!” cried the vicomte, pointing at the house. “But that is Americana.” “No, it isn’t,” said Martha, abruptly. “But of course,” said the vicomte. “What else would it be?” “When we say Americana,” replied Martha, in tones of forbearance, “we mean something quaint, what you call folklorique.” The vicomte tapped his stick again; his big seamed face grew redder. “Excuse me,” he said. “I understand very well the distinction. But to me, if I may say so, your house is Americana. It was not a house for a wealthy merchant, but a simple cottage. And inside, on the old chimney piece, you have put an Empire clock, marble and bronze, very nice in its way, but in a different spirit altogether. In your place, I should have kept the clock you sold me and got rid of the Empire one.” “But the Empire one is handsome.” “Handsome?” The vicomte raised a shoulder. “But they are very common, you know.”
With another shrug, he took out his pocketbook and handed John the money. The Sinnotts glanced wonderingly at each other as John stuffed the bills into his pocket. This was a windfall for them; they were very low at the bank, and a mortgage payment was due. Yet their pleasure was discolored by the vicomte’s irascible manner, which seemed to insist that he had “done” them, against his inclination. “Count it, count it!” he exclaimed, as if speaking to a child, and John, shrugging himself, obediently leafed through the bills, while the old man watched him. Martha felt dissatisfaction in the air, as if they had all been weighed in each other’s scales and found wanting. She knew what she had expected of the vicomte, but how, concretely, he had found them a disappointment she could not make out.
Yet he made no move to go. He seemed rooted to the spot, tracing a pattern with his stick on the stubbly lawn. “You could sell off some of this,” he suddenly proposed, pointing down the locust grove to the old apple orchard. “You have more than you can manage. By the road there, you can cut off two house-lots.” John Sinnott’s brows drew darkly together; he stiffened and threw his chest out, like an equestrian statue of one of his military ancestors. “I can find you a buyer perhaps,” their visitor persisted. “No,” pleaded Martha. The vicomte slowly turned his head and regarded them in rheumy astonishment. “You are romantic,” he divined. “Certainly,” said Martha. In her lexicon this was a term of praise. But the vicomte made a moue of boredom and returned his blinking gaze to the ground. In the silence, they heard a quail call. The feeling that there was a defeated purpose in the vicomte’s visit oppressed Martha’s spirits; she hated the inconclusive. Her common sense told her that he had come simply to satisfy his curiosity, like so many others who had “looked in on” them since John’s accident the other day, only to be disappointed, apparently, to find everything in order, the bed made, the floor swept, the dish towels on the line. But she felt something more here, as if he had something to say to them that he had thought better of when he saw them together, for the first time, on their home ground. Disturbing ideas floated through her head: that he had come to proselytize them, for A. A., for the Roman church, or to warn them, like one of Abraham’s angels, away from New Leeds. Her eyebrows queried her husband, over the vicomte’s bent head. There was still time to go swimming, if their guest would only leave.
“You’ll send for the things?” prompted John. The vicomte absently nodded. “I have a man with a truck who works for me sometimes.” He seemed lost in reflection; the Sinnotts waited. “I’ll give you a lift,” proposed John. The vicomte did not appear to hear him. “My truck,” he said, bowing to Martha, “has just had the honor of transporting you to Digby.” “Me?” cried Martha. “Your likeness,” said the vicomte. “Oh, the portrait!” She turned a dismayed, startled face to her husband and felt her neck redden. “Oh, no!” she cried.
But John showed no surprise. “I told you,” he said, interrupting her exclamations and giving her a baleful look. “You knew?” the vicomte said, coughing. “Martha knew,” said John, curtly. Martha shook her head violently. She had not known, she said to herself. She had really believed what she had been telling John for the past three days: that Miles would not even remember the portrait when he woke up the next morning. A pain gripped her heart: for the first time in their knowledge of each other, John disbelieved her. “You were right,” she admitted with a timid, placatory smile. “You see?” he said, poking her with his elbow, meaning that it was her fault, for having sat for Warren.
The vicomte watched them. “A strange whim, don’t you think,” he said, seating himself on a garden bench, “on Murphy’s part, to want to possess a likeness of his ex-wife? Something abnormal, I find—a little in the manner of Bluebeard.” Martha lowered her eyes. She agreed with the vicomte, but she had made a rule with John not to discuss Miles openly, here in New Leeds. She was burning to know more; after the first moment of perturbation, her natural inquisitiveness reasserted itself. But John, she saw, was truly upset. He sank onto the grass, wrapped his long arms, in their white shirtsleeves, glumly about his knees, and stared straight ahead of him. She settled down by his side and patted his knee lightly. It embarrassed her to have the vicomte see how hard John took things. At the same time, she was sorry for this gentle, moody being, her husband, who dropped more and more into himself, the more he disapproved of her, nowadays. And yet she could not see—as she would have said, but for the vicomte’s presence—what she had done that was wrong, except in its unforeseen consequences. Nobody could have predicted that Miles would buy the portrait. She could scarcely believe it, even now, on the vicomte’s word. The only thing that persuaded her, inwardly, that it was true was the fact that it had befallen her, almost like a punishment, for yielding to Warren’s entreaties.
The vicomte was continuing his speculations, addressing himself to John. “After all,” he mused, “it’s a distorted vision, poor Coe’s. A mutilation. Quelle horreur! Your wife’s eye rolling about the canvas like a marble. I wonder you permitted it.” John raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
“So you delivered it,” hurriedly put in Martha. She did not want the vicomte to find out that John had objected to the sittings; if it got back to Warren, his feelings would be hurt. “Yesterday,” agreed M. de Harnonville. “As a favor to Jane Coe, who came to ask me at the store. She had it tied onto the top of her station wagon, but it started to fall off in the village.” John suddenly laughed. “Badly damaged?” he said hopefully. Martha frowned and seized his hand. “A little,” said the vicomte. “I fixed it for her. I know something of picture-restoring. In a way, the accident was fortunate. It enabled her to reduce the price.” John turned his head to the vicomte, with an expression of dawning interest. “What was the price?” queried Martha. “Eighteen hundred dollars,” said the vicomte. “What?” cried the Sinnotts, in unison, sitting straight up and staring at each other. “Eighteen hundred dollars,” repeated M. de Harnonville, cautiously smiling. “A bit steep, eh?”
The Sinnotts began to laugh, immoderately; John Sinnott rolled over on the lawn and bounced about, like a young boy. “Why, that’s crazy,” said Martha with feeling. “Mr. de Harnonville, you don’t mean to say that Miles paid that?” “My dear,” sighed M. de Harnonville, “you should know. Murphy is not a man who pays easily. I have been at law with him myself. . . .” “What time of day was it? Was he sober?” Martha demanded. “Sober?” said the vicomte. “I can’t say. He was not in a good humor when I came. I wanted my man to put it up for him. But he called out to his wife to tell the baron to just leave it and go. Ever since our lawsuit, he speaks of me as the baron.”
“And Mrs. Murphy?” said John, with a sidelong look at Martha. Their eyes sparkled at each other, as if they were at a play. “She was very nice,” said the vicomte. “It was she who had arranged it with Jane Coe. She telephoned Jane to bring it, as a surprise for Murphy’s birthday.” The Sinnotts fell back on the ground. “Poor Miles!” sighed Martha. “He always hates his birthday presents. . . .” She did mental arithmetic. “Why, he must be fifty-five. . . .” “Who set the price?” interrupted John. “Jane, surely?” said Martha. “No,” said the vicomte. “It was Warren. Jane herself was a little troubled about it; she asked me several times did I think Miles would think it was too high.” Martha gave a fresh shriek of laughter. “How did he arrive at it, do you think?” she wondered, turning to her husband. John reflected. “By the yard,” he ventured. “Actually, it’s not a big price, by Fifty-seventh Street standards. A dealer would want two thousand, anyway, for a Pollock or De Kooning of that size.” “But Coe is an unknown,” virtuously objected the vicomte. “It appears to me that he took an advantage of his friend.”
“Why, it’s shocking,” agreed Martha. “The Coes are rolling in money. Not that you could tell it, from the way they live. It’s typical of rich people to do a thing like that to a poor man like Miles.” “Helen has money,” John pointed out. “Not like Jane,” said Martha. “Jane told me once that her family lived on the income of their income. And Warren has something of his own.” The vicomte’s blue eyes dilated. “Why, just think of it, John,” continued Martha, sensing some sudden disagreement in her husband. “It’s black ingratitude. After all, it’s the first picture Warren’s sold!” “You’re mistaken,” retorted John. “He’s been selling his paintings for years, to his father-in-law.” “A-h-h!” acknowledged the vicomte. “You have explained it. The father-in-law is a rich man.” He nodded approvingly at John.
“Still,” murmured Martha, “those aren’t bona fide sales. Warren must know that underneath.” Her brow wore a severe ruffle; she was angry with Warren for implicating her in something preposterous. The two men shook their heads. “No, my dear,” said the vicomte. “He cannot permit himself to know. People cannot live with such knowledge. They go and hang themselves in the workshop. The proof that he doesn’t know is just what your husband said—the price he felt obliged to charge Murphy.” “Obliged?” Martha gave a sharp laugh. “Obliged,” repeated John. “You can see that, if you want to. If Warren asked Miles less than he’s been asking Mr. Carl, the inference would be that he’d been taking charity all these years from his wife’s father.” “Oh, come!” said Martha. “I always thought Mr. Carl liked his work.” “Perhaps he does,” said John. “It is more convenient for him that way,” suggested the vicomte.
“You horrify me,” cried Martha. “Both of you. You sound so cynical.” And she looked in amazement at her husband. “What do you want?” wondered the vicomte. “That Coe should know that his work is valueless and his beau-père should know it too?” “I’m not talking about value. I’m talking about price,” objected Martha. “But it’s the same thing,” said the vicomte. “Value is the price we will pay for what we want. Until yesterday, your portrait had no value. Today it has its price—that is to say, it exists, where before it was only an idea. Now it has been recognized; it is born.” “Oh, stuff!” said Martha. “You just said yourself that the painting was horrible—didn’t he, John?” “To me, it is horrible,” agreed the vicomte, equably. “But I am not of an age to appreciate modern art.”
Martha flung up her hands. “I can’t argue with you,” she said. “You keep shifting. ‘Appreciate’—what does that mean?” “To set a price on, silly,” said John. Martha frowned; she felt entangled in the discussion, and yet somewhere, in this cat’s cradle of verbiage, there was something that seemed to her important to say. “Am I so wrong,” she demanded, turning earnestly to John, “to expect Warren to know a little bit of the truth about his work? Just a little bit? I don’t ask the impossible.” “And what is the truth, madame?” said the vicomte. “Can you tell us?” Martha nodded, ignoring the buttery satire in the vicomte’s voice. “Why yes,” she said. “At least a part of it. The truth is that Warren’s work is absurd, in the world’s eyes. And I expect him to take that into account, when he sets a price on it. You think so yourself or you wouldn’t have laughed at him.” “Perhaps Warren will have the laugh on all of us, in time,” said the vicomte, sagely.
Martha smiled. “That’s what every undiscovered artist hopes for—the last laugh. But Warren is all too serious when he puts that ridiculous price on his paintings. He really thinks price is value.” “Naturally,” said the vicomte. “Other people value us by the price we set on ourselves. Coe was right; he got away with it.” He gave a barking laugh and ran his hand over his pomaded hair. “No,” said Martha. “That won’t do, in the arts. You can’t ‘make’ value by high-pressure methods, like a business men’s price-fixing syndicate.” “They all do,” observed John. “Not all,” said Martha. “The typical ‘new’ artist, of legend, had no idea what his paintings were worth. He was always giving them to his landlady.” John cited exceptions; Martha countered; the vicomte looked bored. “Tell me,” he said, abruptly, flexing his brows at Martha, “you do not have faith in your own work?” Martha felt John’s eyes on her. “No,” she said. “I don’t. He does.” She jerked a thumb at her husband. “For my part, I alternate between hope and despair.” She gave a rueful sigh. The vicomte slowly rose and stretched. “Ah well,” he said, “you will never succeed, then. In this world, everything is relative.”
Martha stood in the kitchen, washing the vicomte’s custard cup and humming a hymn tune. The two men had gone; John had insisted on driving the vicomte back to the village. Outside, the sun was sinking. It was too late to go swimming, and John, when he came home, would probably be cross at her for letting the vicomte stay so long. On the kitchen table stood the vicomte’s basket, which she had forgotten to empty and return to him. “Oh hell,” she said, staring at the basket and knowing that this meant that they would have to see the vicomte again. Moreover, she had forgotten to thank him a second time for the mushrooms, which he had gathered with his own fat hands on the deserted golf course. “Oh hell,” she repeated, beginning to tote up the record of her errors for the day. She had let him stay too long; she had been rather rude in the discussion; she had criticized Warren in a way that was bound to get repeated; she had paid no attention when John tried to deflect her by taking Warren’s part. She could not learn, apparently, to strike a middle course between indulging a person like Warren and lambasting him to the first stranger who appeared.
And, in John’s eyes, of course, she had betrayed him by announcing that she had no faith in her work. It was true, though not in the sense that the vicomte had understood. “You didn’t have to say it,” she heard her husband’s voice proclaim. “I was upset,” she mentally defended herself. “How would you feel if he had just bought your portrait?” And she had been upset, she supposed—more than she had consciously realized. Everything Miles did unnerved her, every word she heard of him, though she did not always feel it straight off. “That horrible man,” she said aloud, remembering his drawling voice, and his elbows, in their hideous hairy tweed, resting on their car door, the other day at the Coes’. If he came to see them, as he had threatened to do, she would not, she clearly foresaw, have the force to prevent him. Neither would John; they were both too polite. She would never have the boldness to tell him that he had no right to come there.
She heard the car door slam, down the hill by the garage, and ransacked her mind for something to tell John that would divert him from the subject of the portrait—something amusing or very serious. But as she watched him, coming up the hill, with a determined, purposeful step, there were only words running through her head: value, posterity, truth.