The King of the Rainy Country Read Online Free PDF Page B

because he couldn’t have cared less. Money to him is a tool like a hammer, to drive in nails with. It doesn’t drive him.
    â€˜He went to a public school, in England. I’ve sometimes wondered whether that didn’t do him a lot of harm … he never learned any philosophy. I don’t pretend to understand him, you know. Not completely. But I can tell you that his whole life has been a ferocious pursuit of something that would satisfy. His sensibility is very fine, very fragile. He is possessed by passionate enthusiasms every now and then. They absorb his whole life for three months, and then they are dropped, because he is blunted from over-eating. Crazes for sports, for arts, for exploring or mountains or whatever. Never has it satisfied his thirst. Not just pleasure, you know. He isn’t a vulgar voluptuary. I don’t know what it is he lacks. How often haven’t I sat with him at a show or a spectacle and heard him mutter ragingly, “How can they bear to sit here?” Anything bad or stupid, pretentious or false, was shameful and humiliating to him. And how often haven’t I sat with him on a terrace somewhere watching a lot of people enjoying themselves – more mutters – “How do they do it, what is it they see, they feel?” –ready to scream with envy. He just utterly lacked the gift of being happy. He had no simplicity. Nothing was ever perfect.’
    â€˜Mr Canisius told me he had sometimes “pursued women in a lack-lustre way”.’
    â€˜I hadn’t credited the grocer with that much observation.’
    She thought for a while, as though struggling with herself. ‘Come – I will show you something. I want to show you that I haven’t anything to conceal and that I am not ashamed of being humiliated. Jean-Claude had no inclination towards crime, but he tried various vices at one time or another.’
    She was walking up the stairs; there was no sign of any servant, or were they trained to keep out of the way?
    â€˜How many servants have you?’
    â€˜Four, inside the house. The majordomo is married to a typist at the Portuguese Embassy. The cook, my maid – they are sisters – and a housemaid.’
    â€˜Any living in this house?’
    â€˜No. They all live in a house we bought for them and had madeinto flats. There is a gardener, but he never comes inside. This is my bedroom.’ It was quite plain and unremarkable. No fourposter that had belonged to Napoleon, or anything. She led him on without comment.
    â€˜This is my bathroom,’ colourlessly. Ah – they’d saved it up for in here.
    It was twice the size of the bedroom, and must have been one of the biggest rooms in a big house. One long wall was all wardrobe, with sliding doors. These were faced with green marble – he couldn’t see how thick the layer was. The floor was a more broken yellowish-creamy marble, with streaks of dark red in it. The room was surprisingly warm: he stooped suddenly and laid his hand on the floor – yes, electric wiring underneath.
    The bath was a small sunken swimming-pool. Swimming … well, it was five metres by three; it was white marble, this time. There were steps at one side, at each end were fountains – one was made out of a huge boulder. Maybe several boulders; he couldn’t see. He didn’t know what rock it was, nor where the water came from, dripping down on all sides in musical tinkling trickles. It was rough and creviced and shaggy and seemed very old. It was a moss garden, a fern garden, and lord only knew what those plants down there were, probably South American orchids or something.
    The other fountain was dull green bronze, a little slim naked figure, a psyche. Mrs Marschal must have turned a tap somewhere; two plumes of sensitive wavering water fanned out from the psyche’s upstretched hands; it was as though she strewed blessings, or light, or warmth – he