Conversations With Mr. Prain by Joan Taylor Page A

touch uncomfortable. My accent was hardly that of a Parisienne, after all, more like that which my sixth form teacher described as “somewhat deliberate,” since I always have a feeling that if I run foreign words together in a manner that I myself would not easily understand, then a native speaker might have equal trouble.
    I fancy that Mr. Prain found my comment a little false, considering that I had not yet sampled Monique’s fare. Indeed it was. Nevertheless, I was glad to have said something to her, and I had the feeling that this development pleased her as well. They left the room, speaking again in French as they went to the door. It was closed behind them.
    I sank back into the armchair and sighed. This afternoon was an effort. I had said to a friend that I would view it as a joke, but that was sheer bravado. How could I be glib about it when Mr. Prain had read the typescript of my novel, my stories, my poems? I had given him the best of my work, and now he had power over me: the power of refusal or acceptance. I was at his mercy no matter how well I tried to appear impassive. I had not been concerned that he was in that British class one step off aristocracy, not titled, but with little to gain by one. The fact that we sat in a room chock full of antiques and antiquities did not impress me either. His wealth, his house, his land: this wasall irrelevant. It was the fact that he was a publisher that made me squirm. Things were different now.
    I picked up the cream cake and bit into it, allowing the cream to spew out onto the plate, slop after slop, while the icing sugar puffed all over my frock and the armrests of the chair. I devoured the cake voraciously, stuffing it into my mouth, spooning the fallen cream up with a finger. The deed was done. I swallowed, relieved. I wiped myself down with a fine linen napkin.
    Then I stood up and looked through the low window, following the line of the wood to the place where it was obscured by the west wing of the house. The tractor lawnmower sat immobile where it had been abandoned, the lawns half done, half striped, half plain. There was a patio below and wide steps flanked by urns which led down to the garden, and all around the house were parterres dotted with colour and rose beds. Box and privet trees cut into platonic solids bore witness to a skilled topiarist and gave the garden an eighteenth century appearance, which matched the date of the main part of the building. The scene was empty, as if it was the beginning of a film. Here was the perfect backdrop to the titles:
    Rosinde

un film par Philippe Dubois
.
    For some reason it had to be French: gold letters on a green background, the camera still, while the titles showed the names of the leading actresses and actors, the editor,the main cameraman, sound engineer, producer, director. The music: Mozart. And then it begins. The camera follows two figures who have emerged from the eastern side of the house, though we must erase the outbuildings with sophisticated computer technology. There is a woman with a parasol, and a man. They are of the mid-eighteenth century, possessing the confidence of the privileged before the French Revolution. Rosinde is visiting her cousins in England, and he is a friend of family. He is in love with her, but she finds him irritating. She wants more from life than to marry this boring Englishman. She walks coquettishly and yet with determination, quite enjoying the attention of the man, and yet despising him. They amble slowly across the lawn. He tries to entertain her with a circuitous joke, but she is barely listening. She is noting how warm the day is, how the sparrows flitter, how the gentle breeze flutters her clothing. Rosinde is full of vitality and hope. But what will become of her?
    The figures vanished suddenly as if someone had torn the film from the projector. Damn, I thought to myself. What was the good of all this imagining? Why did I do it? I had always done it. A search for