“How do we find it?” asked Sepman.
“Leave that to me, old boy,” cried Prisk, seemingly in high spirits. “I’m the wizard of the world when it comes to finding places.”
“I dare say,” said Sepman dryly. “But I’ve to come back here, don’t forget. So I’m going in my own car—with my wife. We can leave after lunch. Now what is it—Broxley Manor?” And he took a note of Ravenstreet’s directions.
The bedroom Ravenstreet had been given was the whole length of the landing away from that of the Sepmans, so he was not worried about being overheard when Prisk, from next door, came in, proffering a flask. “A nightcap, old boy? No? Don’t mind if I do, do you? Thought we’d better have a chat if you’re leaving so soon in the morning.” He was wearing Moroccan slippers, scarlet silk pyjamas, a flowered dressing-gown, and he looked like somebody fairly important in a decaying Empire.
Ravenstreet pointed to the only easy chair and then dumped himself on to a poof thing. “I’ll probably regret it, but I’ll light another pipe.”
“Like a damned oven in my room,” Prisk grumbled. “Too small —ceiling too low—not enough window. Enough knick-knacks to stock a seaside gift shop. God’s truth, I couldn’t live like this, Ravenstreet. Just the wrong level for me. I could go below it—have done—and rise well above it. But this is death. No wonder they both scream to get out of it. What d’you make of him?”
“He’s not a type I care for much,” said Ravenstreet slowly, keeping his pipe in his mouth and watching the smoke curl and fade. “Too much resentment, too much cheap cynicism. And he’s expecting too much, in the wrong way. He’s the contemporary Angry Little Man——”
“Good enough!”
“But as you’ve more or less brought up the subject, Prisk, I think there’s something I ought to tell you.” He hesitated a moment. “This chap’s in love with his wife. In a special way, I fancy, far more than most men are in love with their wives. She’s the magic—all he can find. So—be careful.”
“Now, now, old boy—don’t get wrong ideas——”
He ignored that. “I don’t imagine tonight’s the first time—and of course it’s nothing to do with me—but I wouldn’t be talking like this if it hadn’t been fairly obvious. To me, of course, not to him. But even to him, Prisk, you stretched it tonight as far as it’ll safely go. He doesn’t like you—and though he won’t allow himself yet to suspect her—or rather savagely suppresses his suspicions, which probably date back some time—he’s nearing the point where he might blow up. I don’t want to interfere. But even as a mere onlooker, I’m telling you to be careful.”
Prisk dropped all pretence now. “You’re right of course,” he began rather gloomily. “The poor little devil might do something desperate. And if I make any more trouble that way, I’ve had it so far as Mervil’s concerned. He’s told me so pretty plainly. I fancy I overheard him telling you, the night you dined and I was playing butler round the corner, that food, drink and women would be my ruin. As a matter of fact, I’m not an all-round womaniser. The fancy pieces I meet round about Mayfair don’t appeal at all. But there’s a certain type of youngish suburban or provincial wifie, bored and dissatisfied, all prunes and prisms in company but burning and clamouring for sex when you get ’em alone, that I just can’t resist. No matter what’s at stake. It’s not just the sex part, though that’s usually very luscious, I can tell you—it’s also the sheer bloody impudent mischief of the thing. I can tell when it’s there—and these pent-up girls can exchange some pretty swift signals, believe you me, chummie—and I just have to play. And this one of course is a very swift hot number—mad for it—take any risk, like tonight. Naturally I’m not the first. I don’t know the details—though she’s let slip a few—but my bet is there’s been a fair amount of swift dirty work round here while poor little hubby’s been kept at his lab. A lot of local boys must have done nicely for themselves while Sepman Eighteen was being discovered. All to give Nancy a wider choice. I know—don’t look like that. But after all, that’s how things are. My old man died when I was twenty, and just before he went he said to me: ‘Pippy, all I’m leaving you is a ruin, an overdraft, letters of introduction to three of the biggest rogues in London, and a piece of advice. It’s this—make your mind up from now on that most people are bastards—if not by birth then by inclination—and treat ’em as such.’ That’s what my old man said, and he wasn’t far wrong. And even when people aren’t too bad, what do they get? Here’s little Sepman—no great shakes, all resentment and misery—but, as you say, he’s in love with his little Nancy, with stars in his eyes. And what’s he got?”
“Probably something you’ve never found, while it worked. But I don’t give it much longer. Only—don’t help it to crash.” He was to remember that word afterwards.
“I’ve confessed to my little weakness,” said Prisk, leaning forward and keeping his voice low. “But don’t think I had to work on her. She beat the whistle. Not only does he bore her but she’s reached the point where she hates him, just enjoys giving away what she keeps him crying for. I tell you, Ravenstreet, it’s that bit of devil in all these women that gets me, adds a flavour to the same old goings-on. It’s a fact I’d no intention of taking her tonight—but she saw to that. Cad’s talk, Prisk, cad’s talk!” He hoisted himself, billowing with silk, out of the chair, and yawned. “But thanks for the tip about him. I thought he was a bit cagey about our journey tomorrow. Taking no chances. I’ll try to behave. Well, you want to turn in. ’Night, old boy!”
It was some time, however, before Ravenstreet actually did turn in. He dropped into the easy chair that Prisk had occupied, pulled at a pipe that had long since gone out, and stared at the open window and the patch of night it revealed. His thoughts seemed to join the sombre procession of the thoughts that had accompanied him there. Nothing he had seen and heard since he arrived compelled them to find a new direction. They moved on slowly, lost and sad. . . .
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dinner for Nine
Mervil and Karney arrived just after seven. Fortunately, Ravenstreet was in the garden, and so was able to hurry across to greet them. Mervil was curt. “I hope Prisk told you,” he said at once, “that if I hadn’t been going to the north anyhow tomorrow, I wouldn’t have considered this notion of yours for a moment. I like to talk business in town, not in a country-house atmosphere. Hello—who are those fellows?” He was staring across the lawn at the Magicians, still under their tree.
This was the hard part, and the moment had come sooner than Ravenstreet had expected. “Fellow guests.”
“Good God—Ravenstreet!” Karney exploded.
“All right, Karney,” said Mervil, icily angry. “This is preposterous, Ravenstreet. You insist that we hold an urgent secret meeting here, and now it seems you’re not alone—got a house full of people.”
“Apart from Sepman and his wife and Prisk, all I have are these three old buffers, two of them foreigners. I invited them here because they were staying in a local hotel that was put out of action by a jet fighter, two days ago. They had a narrow escape. I happened to arrive on the scene just after the accident happened, so I asked them to spend a few days here, to save them time and trouble. Apparently they only meet at fairly long intervals, to hold some sort of little conference.”
“Discussing what?” Mervil was still cold and curt but had lost some of his anger.
“As I leave ’em to it, I can’t tell you,” said Ravenstreet, without any note of apology. “But I’m willing to bet all I have that whatever it is, it’s a long way from the patent medicine trade or any business we three are likely to be interested in. As you’ll see at once when you meet ’em—they’re scholars of a kind—eccentrics—mystics—that sort of thing.”
“They certainly look like it from here,” said Karney easily. But he gave Mervil an enquiring glance.
“Why didn’t you tell Prisk they were here?” demanded Mervil.
Ravenstreet took the offensive. “W
hy the devil should I? I haven’t to explain to Prisk what goes on in my house. And it never occurred to me that you fellows couldn’t talk business with three old gentlemen somewhere else in the house. We’ll all have to be together for dinner and just afterwards, I imagine, but that still leaves us plenty of time.”
“I suppose so,” said Mervil. “Did you say Sepman had brought his wife?”
“Yes. He asked me if he could bring her.”
“I’d have told him to leave her at home, where she belongs.” Mervil’s tone made it a rebuke.
“But I’ve seen him since you have.” Ravenstreet made it clear he was not accepting the rebuke. “The little man’s left his job. He’s impatiently waiting for you to go ahead. He resents any delay. He’s suspicious and irritable. He needs careful handling——”
“I know his type, Ravenstreet. I’ve handled, very successfully too, dozens of them. Leave Sepman to me.”
“I’ll be delighted to,” said Ravenstreet dryly.
“We shan’t need Prisk,” Mervil continued. “He can amuse Mrs. Sepman.”
If anything was to be said about Prisk and the Sepmans, this was the moment to say it, Ravenstreet realised. But at once he decided against it. Mervil thought he could control events, so let him control them. So Ravenstreet merely nodded. “I’ll show you your rooms.” He felt as if he were showing actors their dressing-rooms before the performance they had agreed to stage for him.
This sense of the theatre, of some approaching performance with which he had little to do except for some easy stage-management, was still with him when he was offering them all cocktails and sherry in the drawing-room. The cast had assembled; the curtain was about to rise; an unknown comedy or tragedy was about to be played. As he made the introductions and helped Wiverson with the drinks, he felt that all of them were already playing themselves with an extra sharpness and depth of characterisation. Sepman, Prisk and Karney were probably doing it in all innocence; Mrs. Sepman had her sex’s intuitive feeling for the occasion; Mervil could not help being a performer, especially with a mixed company of this sort; and the Magicians—there could be no doubt about that—had stepped at once into rôles they had decided for themselves. Wayland was the dreamy elderly crank, about to lecture them on health foods, Nature Cure, the Single Tax, the Astral Body; Marot was a morose old ruin, lost and muttering in some dreary lunacy; and Perperek, enjoying every moment, was the greedy and obese old foreign clown-merchant.
“Is fine for me,” he cried, twinkling away, “to meet many rich clever peoples. I like very much.”
“I like very much too,” said Prisk grinning. He had had a few drinks somewhere already and was flushed and impudent. Nancy Sepman giggled and he gave her a swift wink.
Perperek beamed upon them. “We are same kind of men, I think. Like to eat, to drink, to laugh—and be comicals. You think?” he asked Nancy.
“Yes, I think,” she cried, in the Prisk manner.
“Is good. We have plenty drink—so we laugh, eh? Sir Charles Rav-en-street you give us plenty drink, pliz.” And he flashed a look at Ravenstreet, who immediately found them more drinks.
But a few minutes later he was able to take Perperek on one side. Nancy was happy with Prisk; Sepman was arguing with Karney; and Mervil was busy explaining something to Wayland and Marot.
“You do fine,” said Perperek softly. “Everything is good—just as we wish.”
“But don’t forget I can only keep these people here tonight, and that very soon after dinner Mervil will expect us to retire and have our business talk. I don’t know what you think you can do, but I must warn you that you haven’t much time. And as you know, I don’t really want that business talk—it was all bluff to get them here——”
“Yes, yes—is fine. Now you finish. We do rest. You see. Plenty good wine at dinner? Yes? Is big help.”
Ravenstreet tried to penetrate the clown mask. For a moment he succeeded. Perperek’s face suddenly changed, as he had seen it do once before; all the curves and lines of fat buffoonery seemed to vanish; the dark eyes no longer twinkled but stared from some ebony throne of power.
“I don’t know what you think you can do to these people,” said Ravenstreet very quietly, addressing himself now to the face of power. “And it’s late to be saying this. But now we’re all here, I’m not feeling very happy about it. I asked them here. They’re my guests——”
“Is good feeling. But now I tell you.” Perperek waited a moment, wearing his clown face again, then spoke in a whisper. “We do one little thing to start. After, perhaps each man more himself—show more. What happen then we do not make happen. Perhaps each man get what he ask for. We see. You read magic folk tales?”
“Do you mean children’s fairy tales? No, of course not—but I still remember some of them. Why?”
“In many such tales, all over the world, man can have wishes only he has wrong wishes. Is wise picture of life. Yes, yes, yes,” he suddenly shouted, startling Ravenstreet, who had not noticed Wiverson’s entrance. “Dinner is served—dinner is served.” He grinned broadly at the whole company. “Most beautiful words in English language.”
What that ‘one little thing to start’ was, Ravenstreet failed to discover then or ever afterwards. He observed, however, that during the first ten minutes or so at dinner all three Magicians hardly spoke or touched their food and drink; and he had the impression that they were busy concentrating, in some peculiar fashion, on the other guests, who were talking fairly freely. But as he was still acknowledged to be the most important of them, Mervil was not long in making himself heard above the rest and finally addressing the table.
“It’s quite simple,” he declared, when he had everybody’s attention. “Man must make the best of a brief existence on this planet. He has nothing else. We all recognise that. Even the priests and parsons, except for a few fanatics, don’t believe what they say. They want what the rest of us want—either ease and comfort or real power. In all the progressive industrialised regions, which alone count for anything, the great mass of people now will pay almost any price for an easy painless life, without any real effort, responsibility, anxiety, fear, suffering. They want this all the more because they haven’t the strength of mind to face their own despair. Having turned their backs on that, they refuse even to face a few unpleasant facts. I realised this years ago, when I acquired a controlling interest in my newspapers, and immediately put it to the test. I told my editors to give their readers just what they hoped to learn from newspapers. If we knew they were afraid of war, for example, we told them day after day that there couldn’t possibly be a war. We treated them, in fact, like spoilt children. And that’s what they wanted, having refused deliberately to grow up. But of course a world like this, with an ever-increasing population, can’t be run by such childish intelligences. If we all lived on this mindless mass level, with rapidly dwindling resources of courage, initiative, executive ability, creative thinking, in fifty years we shouldn’t even be able to feed, clothe, house ourselves. Even now the rot has set in on the lower levels. The fellows may look better, but this is a case where appearances are particularly deceptive. You’re an industrialist, Ravenstreet, you’ve had to work with them. Wouldn’t you agree that the real standard—and it must have to do with energy, ability, ambition—is going down?”
“I’m probably biased,” Ravenstreet replied cautiously, “but I certainly prefer the older men. However, don’t let us sidetrack ourselves. This isn’t your main point. Go on.”
“I repeat, then, it’s quite simple.” Mervil looked round commandingly. “We can only escape disaster by a comparatively small ruling élite, who haven’t committed themselves to self-deception, taking over all real power. There’s no other way out. The few adults must rule the children. They may do it in the name of Democracy or Communism, but it amounts to the same thing. As they’re evolving now—and must evolve if we don’t want to perish—they’re both élite power systems, with Communism the more hard-he
aded and ruthless but the clumsier of the two.”
“I don’t agree with any of this,” cried Sepman aggressively.
“Probably not,” Mervil said dryly. “I’m not particularly anxious to convert you, Sepman.” The contempt was obvious.
“I suppose I’m not one of your precious élite.” Sepman was angry.
“We’re not discussing that——”
“Is interesting question, though,” said Perperek, with an air of smiling innocence. “Is pity not to say.”
Mervil, who clearly thought the fat old foreigner a tactless fool, moved his shoulders impatiently. “It may be a pity but I prefer not to discuss——”
“You needn’t,” Sepman told him sharply. “You’ve given yourself away already.”
“Ernest, stop it,” cried his wife. “I’m so sorry, Lord Mervil. It’s only because he’s so worried and anxious——”
“Now—now—now!” Prisk had rushed in to prevent her saying too much. “Mustn’t have wifeliness tonight, dearie. And these gentlemen——” he obviously indicated the Magicians—“wouldn’t be interested in our little problems.” He grinned round at them.
Wayland now asked for Mervil’s attention. Even in his rôle as elderly crank whose wits had probably been addled by the East, Wayland still suggested distinction and charm; and it was clear that Mervil was more tolerant of him than he was of the two dotty old foreigners. “This élite you speak of, Lord Mervil,” Wayland began, smiling apologetically, “you say they are the few adults, the realists, the men—and women too perhaps, I don’t know——”
“I do,” Mervil told him, rather grimly. “Leave the women out of it.”
“Very well, though it seems unfortunate.” Wayland flashed his smile again. “But these adults, realists, men who have faced their despair, and so are fit to rule, men who must keep this world going, they cannot work only from the despair they have faced. Despair isn’t very inspiring, I imagine. What then will inspire them—give them energy, force, creative power? It’s not a foolish question, I hope.” His tone was humble, woolly-soft, but to Ravenstreet’s ear, alert for every sign, there was a faint crisping of irony.
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