“going abroad through a suburban part of London simply attired in a sleeve-waistcoat…. The result was curious. I then learned for the first time, and by the exhaustive process, how much attention ladies are accustomed to bestow on all male creatures of their own station; for, in my humble rig, each one who went by me caused a certain shock of surprise and a sense of something wanting. In my normal circumstances, it appeared, every young lady must have paid me some passing tribute of a glance; and though I had often been unconscious of it when given, I was well aware of its absence when it was withheld. My height seemed to decrease with every woman who passed me, for she passed me like a dog. This is one of my grounds for supposing that what are called the upper classes may sometimes produce a disagreeable impression in what are called the lower; and I wish someone would continue my experiment, and find out exactly at what stage of toilette a man becomes invisible to the well-regulated female eye.”
It was a nice remark—well-regulated female eye—Goodrich thought, and it rang a deep bell in his mind associated with the seeing eye, the unseeing eye, the personalization of blind or visionary society written into unwitting status or rank as an intercourse of fates.
To retire into invisibility was to invite the most secret correspondence of all — the most secret flowering garments of all. To breach fate in some degree…. Goodrich was all of a sudden disconcerted by the weight he placed on his newfound relationship of trust with Jennifer Gorgon. Disconcerted by the desire to externalize it into a ready-made flamboyance…And yet as he made his way into a shop in Princes Street he felt a kind of laughter, a kind of delight and acquittal from overburden at the prospect of buying something made of flame, made of fire, in an inner cautionary rather than outer exhibitionist sense.
*
Goodrich bought the new shirt, cravat and a pair of sandals and left the shop with the parcels under his arm. He crossed Princes Street towards the Gardens in the valley under the Castle. A small crowd of sightseers had gathered around the floral clock waiting for the cuckoo to appear and the hour to strike. He strolled along the pavement with its high banks of flowers: one of those uncanny, slightly ominous but beautiful autumnal days which sometimes appear in the middle of summer. A misty light lay upon the hollow of the valley and he felt himself so absorbed by it that he clutched the parcels under his arm quite fiercely. The sound of a train addressed him and a puff or two of smoke inserted a pillar into the phenomenon of autumn stitched into summer.
For all these reasons, phenomenal reasons, all related to the garb of the year, Goodrich felt that this was a memorable day in the body of his life. An unforgettable day — unforgettable as a pattern of erasures and accretions, accumulations, dispersals — unforgettable not least in the purchases he had made to symbolize an eternal apparition of spirit, however denuded, however misted over, however solitary, however wedded to place and time.
A stream of people descended towards the bandstand on his left and Goodrich made his way towards the West End, ascended to the street and turned into Lothian Road. The street here was wide and the buildings seemed rather grimy but as he drew closer to the Usher Hall he recalled a concert he had attended there with Jennifer and Marsden some months before: Webern’s Symphony, something by Couperin (he had forgotten what this was), some Bach.
The greyness of the street scene lifted somewhat into the mild expansive half-autumnal, half-summer day. An unforgettable day in his life for reasons beyond a precise location or summary of events. He tightened his grip upon the parcels. A day (he smiled whimsically) of judgement and acquittal. Goodrich made his way back to the West End suddenly anxious to be home. He hailed a taxi.
*
When Goodrich arrived home, he went to his room, undid the packages and changed into his new shirt and cravat. It was quite a luxurious garment with the most delicate markings, and as he adjusted the cravat and felt the rich texture of the shirt upon him, he was possessed by the sensation of an impresario of bonfires (the fire of love, the fire of decision) wedded to inner lives and fabrics of time.
He changed into dark trousers and sandals the colour of cedar which he had also bought that morning. All he needed now he thought vividly was an impressive turban to confirm his metamorphosis into an underground bridegroom of fate.
He made his way into the hall with a sensation of the swirling currents of life come to a controlled head in him at last. It was a curious intoxication, beautifully controlled, however, beautifully decisive. Yet, though controlled, not beyond allowing him a reckless latitude. He found himself humming a disjointed version of an ancient ballad:
“He was a braw gallant
And rid at the ring
And the bonny Earl o’ Moray
He micht hae been a King.
He was a braw gallant
And played wi’ the glove
And the bonny Earl o’ Moray
He was Queen Jennifer’s love.
O lang will Black Marsden
Look frae the castle doon
Ere the bonny Jennifer Gorgon
Come ridin’ through the toon.”
There were voices in the sitting-room and when he entered Jennifer and Marsden were standing by the fireplace. He saw Marsden, in fact, first of all reflected in the mirror above. There was a look almost of satisfaction, a brooding calculating face upon him which registered quite distinctly upon Goodrich. Yet despite this a hang-dog almost Knife-like air possessed him too; above all, however, he was still steeped in the astonishing depletion of power which Goodrich had sensed over the past few days.
And now, perhaps because of this air of depletion, he seemed more than ever in line with Jennifer’s consorts — the pale young man and Ralph the mechanic and others perhaps who were nameless.
These impressions ran through Goodrich’s mind like sand. He looked away from the image in the mirror to confront Marsden and Jennifer who were both, in their turn, so astonished to see him in his new garb that they stood stock-still. Goodrich could not help noting that whatever depletion Marsden endured, Jennifer had become a creature of electric assurance and beauty.
Goodrich almost felt a hint of disapproval in their manner. Perhaps a hint of accusation — accusation that he — the world’s guinea pig — should turn peacock, a usurper of fire, of privileges. Or perhaps this was not the case. Perhaps they were a little disturbed that he appeared to be making a bid for — was it Salome’s child?
Then, as if to break the spell, Jennifer smiled. She took a few quick paces towards him and threw her arms around him. Goodrich was conscious of her perfume and the sensuous weight of her body, of the breath on her lips in the breath of his.
“Clive,” she cried before he could utter a word, “I’ve told Mardie everything. And look—” she flung one slender arm wide—“he isn’t mad. He isn’t furious with me at all. He approves of you — of my plans. I’ve told him everything — about you and me — everything….”
Goodrich felt a sudden constriction in his throat, the toppling of his body of intoxication, the toppling of his reckless ballad of intoxication. The air in the room became oppressive, choking. He pushed her away from him almost violently. “How … how … could you?” he stammered and choked.
“How could I what?” She looked at him with her brutal childlike candour. Then added urgently, “What is it, Clive? What have I done wrong?”