by James Hilton
That diary of mine jots down all the times Brad came to the house to dine. On Wednesdays it was, most often, and as the weeks passed it came to be every Wednesday, and always quite informally, without special invitation, with few or no other guests, and with plenty of music afterwards. He learned to sing “Schlafe Mein Prinzchen, Schlaf Ein,” which suited his voice very well.
Then all at once he let go his work. With anyone else I wouldn’t have been surprised, since he was leaving the College so soon and there couldn’t have been much to finish up before the end of term. But he did it with such abandon, and idleness didn’t fit in with his personality. I used to see him wandering up and down Gower Street as if he had nowhere else to go; even Mathews made a comment. Probably the waitress at the A.B.C. did also, for he took to dropping in for coffee at unexpected times, and often lunched at better places. All of which adds up to nothing at all except an idea that grew in my mind and was never put into words.
One morning towards the end of November my father announced that the great Hugo Framm was on his way to London to receive some degree or deliver some lecture, I forget which. “We’d better give a dinner for him. Good idea for Brad to meet him first at our house.”
My mother agreed it would be a good idea, but she lacked her usual enthusiasm for party planning. “Give me a list of people to ask,” was all she said.
“Brad can help you. He’ll know a few professors and you can mix them up with anyone else you like.” And he added, thoughtfully: “I don’t think it has to be champagne.”
“Oh God,” exclaimed my mother, “let’s have champagne even if it isonly professors.”
They tiffed about it in front of me in a way which was not only new in my experience, but out of character for both of them—my father being the last man to act the parsimonious host, and my mother not normally caring what wines were drunk.
* * * * *
I didn’t see Brad again till the party. If my mother saw him she didn’t tell me, not that it would have been a secret, but somehow we didn’t talk about Brad much, and perhaps for that reason we talked a great deal about Hugo Framm. My mother was no respecter of celebrities, and we shared the same sense of humor, ribald and vagrant and often rather rude. Between us we built up a huge joke about Professor Framm that made us both afraid we might laugh indecently when the man actually took shape before our eyes. We first said he would be fat and pompous, with a thick German accent and a mustache that would get in the way of the soup; then we changed the picture because it seemed too much the conventional Punch-cartoon-type of German professor; we finally decided on a tall thin man more like Sherlock Holmes, with the most exquisite manner and an Oxford accent. He would kiss my mother’s hand and look up at her at the same time, which made her say she wouldn’t shoot till she saw the whites of his eyes. I said he’d probably engage in some scientific argument and shoot somebody else, or at least demand a duel on Hampstead Heath. “Now that’s enough,” she laughed. “We’ll never dare to meet him if we keep on….” We didn’t bother to ask my father what the man was really like, and I suppose I could have found a photograph of him somewhere if I’d wanted.
It snowed a little the day of the party, just a white film over roofs and lawns; the traffic soon scoured it from the streets. There were about twenty people, and I wondered how Brad would like that, or if he cared any more. He had suggested only a very few of the names. But my mother, or else experience, had certainly done something to him socially; he was still shy, but not awkwardly so, rather now as if he didn’t care whether he were shy or not. On the whole it was a dull crowd, far too many people who were only distinguished enough to be unsure whether others knew they were distinguished at all. The man next to me had explored some buried cities in Honduras, and my other neighbor was shortsighted and thought I was Lady Muriel Spencer, whom he had been talking to over cocktails. Brad was between my mother and the real Muriel; Framm was opposite him between my mother and Baroness Regensburg, who threw a little German at him occasionally. But there was no need; he spoke good English, though with an accent; while as for his appearance, it was nowhere near either my mother’s foolery or mine; and that, perhaps, introduces him best, for he was the kind of man it would have been hard to imagine in advance. I had certainly never met anyone who so obviously looked important; you would have stared at him anywhere, if only on account of his large frame and massive, wide-browed head. In age he might have been anything between forty and sixty; the bushy hair was iron-gray, the eyes were blue and keen, the lips sensitive and also sensual. He gave an impression of physical and mental vigor that dominated without effort, and therefore without offense; and his voice had a matching quality that lured the listener from whomever else he was listening to, yet it wasn’t loud—there were times when you wondered how you had managed to hear it. I think I was not the only person at that dinner party who was fascinated, but I wished there had been something in him to catch my mother’s eye about and smile.
Looking back on that first and only time I ever met Hugo Framm it is tempting to overload the diagnosis; but I do recollect, during dinner, wondering what faults a man like that would have, and deciding they must include vanity (since he had clearly so much to be vain about), and a kind of arrogance, since the continual experience of other people’s admiration would give him either that or shyness, and he certainly wasn’t shy. Yet these were deductions, not observations; and I cannot say that at any time he was either boastful or overbearing. Whether he was talking to my mother, or to the Baroness, or to Brad, or to the whole table, there was a constant radiation of what, for want of any other word, must be called charm; and in the end it was the constancy of this that seemed to me its only possible drawback. If only one could have caught a glimpse of something beneath the charm; one knew it was there, so there was no taint of superficiality, but one was teased, after a time, by the withholding.
After dinner we sat in the drawing room in changing groups. It was not the sort of party for music, but there was a billiard room across the hall where card tables were set up. A bridge four detached themselves from the main party; they weren’t missed and I wasn’t aware of it when they returned. It must have been an unsatisfactory game. My father kept moving from group to group, the considerate host, and during one of these movements he found a chance to whisper in my ear that Brad had decided to accept Framm’s offer.
“You mean he’s only just decided? I thought it was all settled weeks ago.”
“Well, no. Apparently he wasn’t sure till they talked just now.”
“I didn’t see them talking much.”
“It was after you left the table. They had quite a private chat. Framm has to go back to Vienna tomorrow night and if Brad can make arrangements in time they’ll go together.”
“Tomorrow night?” That came as a shock.
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that quick work?”
“He won’t have much to pack—Brad, I mean. Lives in furnished rooms, doesn’t he?”
“I don’t know—I’ve never been there.”
“Well, your mother must have—or else he once told me.”
“Father, do you really think it’s the best thing he can do to go with Professor Framm?”
“Why, don’t you like Framm?”
“I think he’s very charming, but it does seem rather sudden if Brad only made up his mind tonight and he leaves tomorrow. I hope it’s the right thing.”
“It’s a great chance—if he uses it. Of course if he doesn’t use his chances, nothing at all will do him much good…. We shall miss him when he’s gone—your mother will, I know…. By the way, where is she?”
“In the billiard room, I think. There’s some bridge going on.”
But later I noticed that the bridge players were back in the drawing room, and I also couldn’t see Brad anywhere. I was sure people had begun to notice my mother’s absence and I ran upstairs to see if she were feeling ill, but there was no trace of her. I could see my father a little
preoccupied behind his facade of suavity, and every now and then Hugo Framm’s voice would somehow make a silence and then quietly fill it. About eleven o’clock John served more champagne and I hoped this was not a sign that the party would continue late, for I was beginning to feel a tension in the atmosphere—or perhaps it was only in my own mind. About a quarter past eleven my mother walked into the room with flushed cheeks and clenched hands. Few actually saw her, but she seemed to look for an audience from the doorway before speaking out as if to gain one. “I hope you’ll forgive me for being terribly discourteous, but I’ve been at the radio—we’ve got one that picks up New York— it’s the only way you can get the latest about the Simpson case over here….”
It was a few days before the story broke officially in England, though the American tabloids and radio were agog with it, and London’s informed society was already gossiping. There had been talk of it at the dinner table, and nobody seemed unwilling to discuss it again. While this was going on I saw Brad enter the room behind her. He edged into the crowd and stood by the bookshelves in an alcove, listening in a detached way and not taking sides in the argument, though I knew he was pro-Simpson. So was my mother—and never more emphatically, or perhaps I should say more naively, than then. Others differed and there was a lively exchange of views. Suddenly, amidst the chatter, I heard Framm’s voice again and saw him towering above my mother with his large expansive smile, the charm turned on full.
“I entirely agree with you, Mrs. Waring. There is no reason at all why your King should not marry whomever he wishes. There are many precedents for such marriages. Your Queen Mary’s own grandmother was a mere Hungarian countess- -Claudine Rhedey, I think her name was, who married a Duke of Württemberg who was nephew to the Emperor. And there is, of course, the well-known example of Mrs. Fitzherbert’s marriage to the Prince of Wales who later became your George IV. Two other direct descendants of George III were also married morganatically—Prince George to Louisa Fairbrother, an actress, and the Duke of Sussex to a lady called Cecilia Buggin … Buggin… which is not, I have been told, a very nice-sounding name in English….”
We all gaped at this display of erudition, and I couldn’t myself decide whether it proved how thoroughly Framm made himself master of subjects outside his own field, or that he was just a snob. Anyhow, he sounded so authoritative that nobody tackled him from the other side, if there was any other side.
The party broke up soon after that, and Brad left with the rest. I thought it was strange he didn’t stay for a more personal good-by when the others had gone, but my father said he was probably hoping to get a lift into town with Framm. “He hasn’t much time to spare if he’s to catch the evening train tomorrow. It leaves at eight.”
I said: “He might have given me the chance to wish him well.”
“I’m sure he knows you do. Anyhow, you can telephone tomorrow.”
“He’s not on the telephone. It’s another of the things he can’t afford … like taxis.”
* * * * *
Rain fell during the night, but the next morning there was blue sky and sunlight. I had breakfast before anyone else, then went out for a walk on the Heath. It was more than sunshine there, it was pure radiance. I followed my usual trail, along the Spaniards’ Road to Highgate and then down the hill. I kept thinking of Brad and Framm and how odd, in several ways, the previous evening had been.
Suddenly, as I was crossing Parliament Hill Fields, I remembered my father’s remark about Brad’s furnished rooms and that my mother “must have” been there; if that were so, or even if it weren’t, the conclusion leaped at me that there was no reason against my calling on him myself. I also remembered the address from that night of the Byfleets’ party when we drove him home and he gave directions to Henry; it was 25 Renshaw Street, off the Camden Road. I found a tram that took me near by. In daylight the street seemed what it mainly was, a slum; but in London appearances can be deceptive; some of those identical houses have declined to different levels, so that they are not always either as bad or as passable as they look. The one Brad lived in had the remains of quality; it was dingy but not dirty; one could have lived in it if one had to. There was a rack of names in the hallway, and the stale smell of cabbage and floor polish that seems to pervade so many London houses whether slums or not. Brad was on the second floor; I climbed to it and tapped on his door. He called “Come in,” as if he had left it ready for someone to open.
It wasn’t such a bad room, especially in the morning sunshine. The windows were tall and there was a marble mantelpiece surmounting a small gas fire. The furniture was shabby and the whole place littered as one might expect when anyone has a day’s notice to pack for abroad. I took in the surroundings first because Brad was in some inner room; he came out fixing his tie. “Well….” he exclaimed. “This is a surprise….”
I said yes, I imagined it was, and I hoped he didn’t mind my having called on him without warning. “I was just taking a walk, it’s such a lovely day, I thought I’d drop in to say good-by properly … there wasn’t a chance last night.”
He laughed. “So many things were happening.”
I laughed also. “I see you’re packing and I know you must be terribly busy … but I did want to wish you plenty of fun and success.”
“That’s nice of you—very nice of you.”
I decided I wouldn’t stay more than ten minutes, but in the meantime I might as well sit down. When I did so he moved over to the mantelpiece, leaning his back against it and looking as if he didn’t know what to say next.
I said: “I’m glad I’ve seen where you live. These old houses do have big rooms, that’s one thing.”
“I changed from the set upstairs a few months ago. These are bigger and there’s a kitchenette. I couldn’t exactly afford the change, but I decided to spend more on luxury. I’m not such an austere devil at heart as some people imagine.”
“I wouldn’t call it luxury.”
“Well, of course, you wouldn’t.”
There was a silence then which both of us, I think, kept up deliberately till it was broken by some rather noisy plumbing in another part of the house. He laughed again. “Do you wonder I didn’t give any dinner parties here? Impossible place, isn’t it?”
“No, I don’t think so. You once said all you wanted was to do useful work. Plenty of useful work has been done in rooms like this.”
“And you think I’ve changed since I said that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the mood you’re in at the thought of leaving.”
He said suddenly: “Let’s take a walk.”
“Now? A walk? But … can you….” I looked round at the unfinished packing.
“You said it was a lovely day.”
“On the Heath, yes, but—”
“Then let’s go there.”
“Are you sure you’ve enough time?”
“Yes.”
“All right then.”
We took a bus up the Hampstead Road, and during the ride he went on talking of his rooms and their amenities so ironically that I began to see less and less point in it. Was he trying to hate the place just to help him over the wrench of departure? I hinted at that, and he answered: “Wait till we start walking and I’ll let you into a secret.”
We got out at Jack Straw’s Castle, then took to the open Heath. “Well?” I asked.
“I’m not going away.”
I had a curious instant of relief that surprised me more than he had; then I was shocked.
“You mean you’re not leaving for Vienna tonight?”
“I’m not leaving for Vienna … at all.”
I asked if that meant that the whole arrangement with Framm was canceled.
“Yes … or will be when he gets to hear of it.”
“You haven’t told him yet?”
“I called him at his hotel and they said he wasn’t to be disturbed until noon. The prima donna.”
“You don’t like him?”
; “Oh yes—he’s great. A genius, if ever there was one.”
“But you were packing?”
“Yes … until I changed my mind.”
“When was that?”
“I didn’t look at the clock.”
“You just suddenly changed your mind?”
“I’d been thinking it over most of the night. I didn’t sleep.”
“Oh, Brad, I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry that I’m not going? That doesn’t sound as if I were very popular.”
“You know I don’t mean that…. I’m just sorry you’ve had all this worry. You must have been worried if it kept you awake all night.”
“And you’re also sorry I’ve decided to stay here … aren’t you?”
“Brad, it’s no good asking me for an opinion till I know what made you change your mind. Maybe you have a perfectly good reason.”
“And what if I haven’t? Supposing I just don’t want to go? Dammit, I’ve a right to please myself, haven’t I?”
“Of course.”
“And to change my mind as many times as I like?”
“Of course.”
We walked some way without speaking; then I said: “You should know best. Whatever the reason is, I hope you’re right. My father will be disappointed, but that doesn’t matter.”