by E. F. Benson
‘The very place for it,’ said Georgie, vividly recalling her catechism after the Mayoral banquet.
‘And that little contretemps about the light going out before I had found my torch –’
‘That wasn’t my fault,’ said he. ‘You told me to signal to Foljambe, when you said “sleep-walking scene”. That was my cue.’
‘My dear, of course it wasn’t your fault,’ said Lucia warmly. ‘You were punctuality itself. I was only thinking how fortunate that was. The audience knew what was coming, and that made the suspense greater. The rows of upturned faces, Georgie; the suspense; I could see the strain in their eyes. And in the speech, I think I got, didn’t I, that veiled timbre in my voice suggestive of the unconscious physical mechanism, sinking to a strangled whisper at “Out, damned spot!” That, I expect, was not quite original, for I now remember when I was quite a child being taken to see Ellen Terry in the part and she veiled her voice like that. A subconscious impression coming to the surface.’
She rose.
‘You must tell me more of what you thought to-morrow, dear,’ she said, ‘for I must go to bed. The emotional strain has quite worn me out, though it was well worth while. Mere mental or physical exertion –’
‘I feel very tired too,’ said Georgie.
He followed Lucia upstairs, waiting while she practised the Lady Macbeth face in front of the mirror on the landing.
Benjy’s lecture took place a week later. There was a palm-tree beside his reading-desk and his three tiger-skins hung on the wall behind. ‘Very effective, Georgie,’ said Lucia, as they took their seats in the middle of the front row. ‘Quite the Shakespearian tradition. It brings the jungle to us, the heat of the Indian noon-day, the buzz of insects. I feel quite stifled’ … He marched on to the platform, carrying a rifle, and wearing a pith helmet and saluted the audience. He described himself as a plain old campaigner, who had seen a good deal of shikarri in his time, and read them a series of exciting adventures. Then (what a climax!) he took up from his desk a cane riding-whip with a silver top and pointed to the third of the skins.
‘And that old villain,’ he said, ‘nearly prevented my having the honour to speak to you to-night. I had just sat down to a bite of tiffin, putting my rifle aside, when he was on me.’
He whisked round and gave the head of the tiger-skin a terrific whack. ‘I slashed at him, just like that, with my riding-whip which I had in my hand, and that gave me the half-second I needed to snatch up my rifle. I fired point-blank at his heart, and he rolled over dead. And this, ladies and gentlemen, is what saved my life. It may interest you to see it, though it is familiar to some of you. I will pass it round.’
He bowed to the applause and drank some whisky and a little soda. Lucia took the riding-whip from him, and passed it to Georgie, Georgie passed it to Diva. They all carefully examined the silver top, and the initials B.F. that were engraved on it. There could be no doubt of its genuineness and they all became very still and thoughtful, forbearing to look at each other.
There was loud applause at the end of the lecture, and after making rather a long speech, thanking the lecturer, Lucia turned to Diva.
‘Come to lunch to-morrow,’ she whispered. ‘Just us three. I am utterly puzzled … Ah, Major Benjy, marvellous! What a treat! I have never been so thrilled. Dear Elizabeth, how proud you must be of him. He ought to have that lecture printed, not a word, not a syllable altered, and read it to the Royal Zoological Society. They would make him an honorary member at once.’
*
Next day at a secret session in the garden-room Georgie and Diva contributed their personal share in the strange history of the relic (Paddy’s being taken for granted, as no other supposition would fit the facts of the case) and thus the movements of the silver cap were accounted for up to the moment of its disappearance from Georgie’s possession.
‘I always kept it in my waistcoat pocket,’ he concluded, ‘and one morning it couldn’t be found anywhere. You remember that, don’t you, Lucia?’
A look of intense concentration dwelt in Lucia’s eyes: Georgie did not expect much from that, because it so often led to nothing at all. Then she spoke in that veiled voice which had become rather common with her since the sleep-walking scene.
‘Yes, yes,’ she murmured. ‘It comes back to me. And the evening before Elizabeth and Benjy had dined with us. Did it drop out of your pocket, do you think, Georgie? … She and I came into the garden-room after dinner, and … and she asked me to play to her, which is unusual. I am always unconscious of all else when I am playing …’
Lucia dropped the veiled voice which was hard to keep up and became very distinct.
‘She sat all by herself at my table here,’ she continued. ‘What if she found it on the floor or somewhere? I seem to sense her doing that. And she had something on her mind when we played bridge. She couldn’t attend at all, and she suggested stopping before eleven, because she said I looked so tired, though I was never fresher. Certainly we never saw the silver cap again till last night.’
‘Well that is ingenious,’ said Diva, ‘and then I suppose they had another cane fitted to it, and Benjy said it was the real one. I do call that deceitful. How can we serve them out? Let’s all think.’
They all thought. Lucia sat with her head on one side contemplating the ceiling, as was her wont when listening to music. Then she supplied the music, too, and laughed in the silvery ascending scale of an octave and a half.
‘Amichi,’ she said. ‘If you will leave it to me, I think I can arrange something that will puzzle Elizabeth. She and her accomplice have thought fit to try to puzzle us. I will contrive to puzzle them.’
Diva glanced at the clock.
‘How scrumptious!’ she said. ‘Do be quick and tell us, because I must get back to help Janet.’
‘Not quite complete yet,’ answered Lucia. ‘A few finishing touches. But trust me.’
Diva trundled away down the hill at top-speed. A party of clerical tourists were spending a day of pilgrimage in Tilling, and after being shown round the church by the Padre were to refresh themselves at ye olde tea-house. The Padre would have his tea provided gratis as was customary with Couriers. She paused for a moment outside her house to admire the sign which quaint Irene had painted for her. There was nothing nude about it. Queen Anne in full regalia was having tea with the Archbishop of Canterbury, and decorum reigned. Diva plunged down the kitchen-stairs, and peeped into the garden where the tulips were now in flower. She wondered which tulip it was.
As often happened in Tilling, affairs of sensational interest overlapped. Georgie woke next morning to find Foljambe bringing in his early morning tea with the Daily Mirror.
‘A picture this morning, sir, that’ll make you jump,’ she said. ‘Lor’, what’ll happen?’
Off she went to fill his bath, and Georgie, still rather sleepy, began to look through the paper. On the third page was an article on the Royal Academy Exhibition, of which the Private View was to be held to-day.
‘The Picture of the Year,’ said our Art Editor, ‘is already determined. For daring realism, for withering satire of the so-called Victorian age, for savage caricature of the simpering, guileless prettiness of such early Italian artists as Botticelli, Miss Irene Coles’s –’ Georgie read no more but turned to the centre-page of pictures. There it was. Simultaneously there came a rap on his door, and Grosvenor’s hand, delicately inserted, in case he had got up, held a copy of The Times.
‘Her Worship thought you might like to see the picture-page of The Times,’ she said. ‘And could you spare her the Daily Mirror, if it’s got it in.’
The transfer was effected. There again was Elizabeth on her oyster-shell being wafted by Benjy up the river to the quay at Tilling, and our Art Editor gave his most serious attention to this arresting piece. He was not sure whether it was justifiable to parody a noble work of art in order to ridicule an age, which, in spite of its fantastic prudery, was distinguished for achievement and progress. Bu
t no one could question the vigour, the daring, the exuberant vitality of this amazing canvas. Technically –
Georgie bounded out of bed. Thoughtful and suggestive though this criticism was, it was also lengthy, and the need for discussion with Lucia as to the reactions of Tilling was more immediate, especially since she had a committee meeting at ten. He omitted to have his bath at all, and nearly forgot about his toupet. She was already at breakfast when he got down, with the Daily Mirror propped up against the tea-pot in front of her, and seemed to continue aloud what she must have been saying to herself.
‘– and in my position, I must – good morning, Georgie – be extremely careful. She is my Mayoress, and therefore, through me, has an official position, which I am bound to uphold if it is brought into ridicule. I should equally resent any ruthless caricature of the Padre, as he is my Chaplain. Of course you’ve seen the picture itself, Georgie, which, alas, I never did, and it’s hard to form a reasoned judgment from a reduced reproduction. Is it really like poor Elizabeth?’
‘The image,’ said Georgie. ‘You could tell it a hundred miles off. It’s the image of Benjy, too, But that thing in his hand, which looks so like the neck of a bottle is really the top of his umbrella.’
‘No! I thought it was a bottle,’ said Lucia. ‘I’m glad of that. The other would have been a sad lack of taste.’
‘Oh, it’s all a lack of taste,’ said Georgie, ‘though I don’t quite feel the sadness. On the other hand it’s being hailed as a masterpiece. That’ll sweeten it for them a bit.’
Lucia held the paper up to get a longer focus, and Georgie got his tea.
‘A wonderful pose,’ she said. ‘Really, there’s something majestic and dominant about Elizabeth, which distinctly flatters her. And look at Benjy with his cheeks puffed out, as when he’s declared three no-trumps, and knows he can’t get them. A boisterous wind evidently, such as often comes roaring up the river. Waves tipped with foam. A slight want of perspective, I should have said, about the houses of Tilling … One can’t tell how Elizabeth will take it –’
‘I should have thought one could make a good guess,’ said Georgie.
‘But it’s something, as you say, to have inspired a masterpiece.’
‘Yes, but Irene’s real object was to be thoroughly nasty. The critics seem to have found in the picture a lot she didn’t intend to put there.’
‘Ah, but who can tell about the artist’s mind?’ asked Lucia, with a sudden attack of high-brow. ‘Did Messer Leonardo really see in the face of La Gioconda all that our wonderful Walter Pater found there? Does not the artist work in a sort of trance?’
‘No; Irene wasn’t in a trance at all,’ insisted Georgie. ‘Anything but. And as for your feeling that because Elizabeth is Mayoress you ought to resent it, that’s thoroughly inconsistent with your theory that Art’s got nothing to do with Life. But I’ll go down to the High Street soon, and see what the general feeling is. You’ll be late, dear, if you don’t go off to your meeting at once. In fact, you’re late already.’
Lucia mounted her bicycle in a great hurry and set off for the Town Hall. With every stroke of her pedals she felt growing pangs of jealousy of Elizabeth. Why, oh why, had not Irene painted her, the Mayor, the first woman who had ever been Mayor of Tilling, being wafted up the river, with Georgie blowing on her from the clouds?
Such a picture would have had a far greater historical interest, and she would not have resented the grossest caricature of herself if only she could have been the paramount figure in the Picture of the Year. The town in the background would be widely recognized as Tilling, and Lucia imagined the eager comments of the crowd swarming round the masterpiece … ‘Why that’s Tilling! We spent a week there this summer. Just like!’ … ‘And who can that woman be? Clearly a portrait’ … ‘Oh, that’s the Mayor, Lucia Pillson: she was pointed out to me. Lives in a lovely family house called Mallards’ … ‘And the man in the clouds with the Vandyck beard and the red dinner-suit (what a colour!) must be her husband’ …
‘What fame!’ thought Lucia with aching regret. ‘What illimitable, immortal réclame. What publicity to be stared at all day by excited crowds!’ At this moment the Private View would be going on, and Duchesses and Archbishops and Cabinet Ministers would soon be jostling to get a view of her, instead of Elizabeth and Benjy! ‘I must instantly commission Irene to paint my portrait,’ she said to herself as she dismounted at the steps of the Town Hall. ‘A picture that tells a story I think. A sort of biography. In my robes by the front door at Mallards with my hand on my bicycle’ …
She gave but scant attention to the proceedings at her Committee, and mounting again rang the bell all the way down the hill into the High Street on a secret errand to the haberdashery-shop. By a curious coincidence she met Major Benjy on the threshold. He was carrying the reconstructed riding-whip and was in high elation.
‘Good morning, your Worship,’ he said. ‘Just come to have my riding-whip repaired. I gave my old man-eater such a swipe at my lecture two nights ago, that I cracked it, by Jove.’
‘Oh Major, what a pity!’ said Lucia. ‘But it was almost worth breaking it, wasn’t it? You produced such a dramatic sensation.’
‘And there’s another sensation this morning,’ chuckled Benjy. ‘Have you seen the notice of the Royal Academy in The Times?’
Lucia still considered that the proper public line to take was her sense of the insult to her Mayoress, though certainly Benjy seemed very cheerful.
‘I have,’ she said indignantly. ‘Oh, Major Benjy, it is monstrous! I was horrified: I should not have thought it of Irene. And the Daily Mirror, too –’
‘No, really?’ interrupted Benjy. ‘I must get it.’
‘Such a wanton insult to dear Elizabeth,’ continued Lucia, ‘and, of course, to you up in the clouds. Horrified! I shall write to Elizabeth as soon as I get home to convey my sympathy and indignation.’
‘Don’t you bother!’ cried Benjy. ‘Liz hasn’t been so bucked up with anything for years. After all, to be the principal feature in the Picture of the Year is a privilege that doesn’t fall to everybody. Such a leg up for our obscure little Tilling, too. We’re going up to town next week to see it. Why, here’s Liz herself.’
Elizabeth kissed her hand to Lucia from the other side of the street, and, waiting till Susan went ponderously by, tripped across, and kissed her (Lucia’s) face.
‘What a red-letter day, dear!’ she cried. ‘Quaint Irene suddenly becoming so world-wide, and your humble little Mayoress almost equally so. Benjy, it’s in the Daily Telegraph, too. You’d better get a copy of every morning paper. Pop in, and tell them to mend your riding-whip, while I send a telegram of congratulation to Irene – I should think Burlington House, London, would find her now – and meet me at the paper-shop. And do persuade Irene, Worship, to let us have the picture for our exhibition here, when the Academy’s over, unless the Chantrey Bequest buys it straight away.’
Benjy went into the haberdasher’s to get the riding-whip repaired. This meeting with him just here made Lucia’s errand much simpler. She followed him into the shop and became completely absorbed in umbrellas till he went out again. Then, with an eye on the door, she spoke to the shopman in a confidential tone.
‘I want you,’ she said, ‘to make me an exact copy of Major Mapp-Flint’s pretty riding-whip. Silver top with the same initials on it. Quite private, you understand: it’s a little surprise for a friend. And send it, please, to me at Mallards House, as soon as it’s ready.’
Lucia mounted her bicycle and rode thoughtfully homewards. Since Elizabeth and Benjy both took this gross insult to her Mayoress as the highest possible compliment, and longed to have quaint Irene’s libel on them exhibited here, there was no need that she should make herself indignant or unhappy for their sakes. Indeed, she understood their elation, and her regret that Irene had not caricatured her instead of Elizabeth grew very bitter: she would have borne it with a magnanimity fully equal to theirs. It was a slight con
solation to know that the replica of the riding-whip was in hand.
She went out into the garden-room where patient Mrs Simpson was waiting for her. There were invitations to be sent out for an afternoon-party next week to view the beauties of Lucia’s spring-garden, for which she wanted to rouse the envious admiration of her friends, and the list must be written out. Then there was a letter to Irene of warm congratulation to be typed. Then the Committee of the Museum, of which the Mayor was Chairman was to meet on Friday, and she gave Mrs Simpson the key of the tin box labelled ‘Museum’.
‘Just look in it, Mrs Simpson,’ she said, ‘and see if there are any papers I ought to glance through. A mountain of work, I fear, to-day.’
Grosvenor appeared.
‘Could you see Mrs Wyse for a moment?’ she asked.
Lucia knitted her brows, and consulted her engagement-book.
‘Yes, just for ten minutes,’ she said. ‘Ask her to come out here.’
Grosvenor went back into the house to fetch Susan, and simultaneously Mrs Simpson gave a shriek of horror.
‘The corpse of a blue parrakeet,’ she cried, ‘and an awful smell.’
Lucia sprang from her seat. She plucked Blue Birdie, exhaling disinfectant and decay, from the Museum box, and scudding across the room thrust it into the fire. She poked and battered it down among the glowing embers, and even as she wrought she cursed herself for not having told Mrs Simpson to leave it where it was and lock the Museum box again, but it was too late for that. In that swift journey to cremation Blue Birdie had dropped a plume or two, and from the fire came a vivid smell of burned feathers. But she was just in time and had resumed her seat and taken up her pen as Susan came ponderously up the steps into the garden-room.
‘Good morning, dear,’ said Lucia. ‘At my eternal tasks as usual, but charmed to see you.’
She rose in welcome, and to her horror saw a long blue tail-feather (slightly tinged with red) on the carpet. She planted her foot upon it.