‘I only met her once—at a party Charles took me to.’
‘Why don’t we all go and see her?’
‘I don’t think any of us really know her.’
‘But I couldn’t know her better.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘Where’s the telephone book?’ said Umfraville. ‘Though I don’t expect she will be in England at this time of year.’
He moved away, lost in thought, and disappeared through the door. It occurred to me that he was pretty drunk, but at the same time I was not sure. Equally possible was the supposition that this was his first drink of the evening. The mystery surrounded him that belongs especially to strong characters who have only pottered about in life. Jean slipped her hand in mine.
‘Who is he?’
I tried to explain to her who Umfraville was.
‘I am enjoying myself,’ she said.
‘Are you?’
I could not be quite sure whether I was enjoying myself or not. We watched the other two playing billiards. The game was evidently war to the knife. They were evenly matched. There could be no doubt now that there had been some sort of disagreement between them before their arrival at Foppa’s. Perhaps all girls were in a difficult mood that night.
‘I’ve often heard of Umfraville,’ said Barnby, chalking his cue. ‘Didn’t he take two women to St. Moritz one year, and get fed up with them, and left them there to pay the hotel bill?’
‘Who is he married to now?’ Anne Stepney asked.
‘Free as air at the moment, I believe,’ said Barnby. ‘He has had several wives—three at least. One of them poisoned herself. Another left him for a marquess—and almost immediately eloped again with a jockey. What happened to the third I can’t remember. Your shot, my dear.’
Umfraville returned to the room. He watched the completion of the game in silence. It was won by Barnby. Then he spoke.
‘I have a proposition to make,’ he said. ‘I got on to Milly Andriadis just now on the telephone and told her we were all coming round to see her.’
My first thought was that I must not make a habit of arriving with a gang of friends at Mrs. Andriadis’s house as an uninvited guest; even at intervals of three or four years. A moment later I saw the absurdity of such diffidence, because, apart from any other consideration, she would not have the faintest remembrance of ever having met me before. At the same time, I could not inwardly disregard the pattern of life which caused Dicky Umfraville not only to resemble Stringham, but also, by this vicarious invitation, to re-enact Stringham’s past behaviour.
‘What is this suggestion?’ enquired Anne Stepney.
She spoke coldly, but I think Umfraville had already thoroughly aroused her interest. At any rate her eyes reflected that rather puzzled look that in women is sometimes the prelude to an inclination for the man on whom it is directed.
‘Someone called Mrs. Andriadis,’ said Umfraville. ‘She has been giving parties since you were so high. Rather a famous lady. A very old friend of mine. I thought we might go round and see her. I rang her up just now and she can’t wait to welcome us.’
‘Oh, do let’s go,’ said Anne Stepney, suddenly abandoning her bored, listless tone. ‘I’ve always longed to meet Mrs. Andriadis. Wasn’t she some king’s mistress—was it——’
‘It was,’ said Umfraville.
‘I’ve heard so many stories of the wonderful parties she gives.’
Umfraville stepped forward and took her hand. ‘Your ladyship wishes to come,’ he said softly, as if playing the part of a courtier in some, ludicrously mannered ceremonial. ‘We go, then. Yours to command.’
He bent his head over the tips of her fingers. I could not see whether his lips actually touched them, but the burlesque was for some reason extraordinarily funny, so that we all laughed. Yet, although absurd, Umfraville’s gesture had also a kind of grace which clearly pleased and flattered Anne Stepney. She even blushed a little. Although he laughed with the rest of us, I saw that Barnby was a trifle put out, as indeed most men would have been in the circumstances. He had certainly recognised Umfraville as a rival with a technique entirely different from his own. I looked across to Jean to see if she wanted to join the expedition. She nodded quickly and smiled. All at once things were going all right again between us.
‘I’ve only met Mrs. Andriadis a couple of times,’ said Barnby. ‘But we got on very well on both occasions—in fact she bought a drawing. I suppose she won’t mind such a large crowd?’
‘Mind?’ said Umfraville. ‘My dear old boy, Milly will be tickled to death. Come along. We can all squeeze into one taxi. Foppa, we shall meet again. You shall have your revenge.’
Mrs. Andriadis was, of course, no longer living in the Duports’ house in Hill Street, where Stringham had taken me to the party. That house had been sold by Duport at the time of his financial disaster. She was now installed, so it appeared, in a large block of flats recently erected in Park Lane. I was curious to see how her circumstances would strike me on re-examination. Her party had seemed, at the time, to reveal a new and fascinating form of life, which one might never experience again. Such a world now was not only far less remarkable than formerly, but also its special characteristics appeared scarcely necessary to seek in an active manner. Its elements had, indeed, grown up all round one like strange tropical vegetation: more luxuriant, it was true, in some directions rather than others: attractive here, repellent there, but along every track that could be followed almost equally dense and imprisoning.
‘She really said she would like to see us?’ I asked, as, tightly packed, we ascended in the lift.
Umfraville’s reply was less assuring than might have been hoped.
‘She said, “Oh, God, you again, Dicky. Somebody told me you died of drink in 1929.” I said, “Milly, I’m coming straight round with a few friends to give you that kiss I forgot when we were in Havana together.” She said, “Well, I hope you’ll bring along that pony you owe me, too, which you forgot at the same time.” So saying, she snapped the receiver down.’
‘So she has no idea how many we are?’
‘Milly knows I have lots of friends.’
‘All the same——’
‘Don’t worry, old boy. Milly will eat you all up. Especially as you are a friend of Charles.’
I was, on the contrary, not at all sure that it would be wise to mention Stringham’s name to Mrs. Andriadis.
‘We had to sue her after she took our house,’ said Jean.
‘Yes, I expect so,’ said Umfraville.
The circumstances of our arrival did not seem specially favourable in the light of these remarks. We were admitted to what was evidently a large flat by an elderly lady’s-maid, who had the anxious, authoritative demeanour of a nanny, or nursery governess, long established in the family.
‘Well, Ethel,’ said Umfraville. ‘How are you keeping? Quite a long time since we met.’
Her face brightened at once when she recognised him.
‘And how are you, Mr. Umfraville? Haven’t set eyes on you since the days in Cuba. You look very well indeed, sir. Where did you get your sunburn?’
‘Not too bad, Ethel. What a time it was in Cuba. And how is Mrs. A.?’
‘She’s been a bit poorly, sir, on and off. Not quite her own old self. She has her ups and downs.’
‘Which of us doesn’t, Ethel? Will she be glad to see me?’
It seemed rather late in the day to make this enquiry. Ethel’s reply was not immediate. Her face contracted a trifle as she concentrated her attention upon an entirely truthful answer to this delicate question.
‘She was pleased when you rang up,’ she said. ‘Very pleased. Called me in and told me, just as she would have done in the old days. But then Mr. Guggenbühl telephoned just after you did, and after that I don’t know that she was so keen. She’s changeable, you know. Always was.’
‘Mr. Guggenbühl is the latest, is he?’
Ethel laughed, with the easy good mann
ers of a trusted servant whose tact is infinite. She made no attempt to indicate the identity of Mr. Guggenbühl.
‘What’s he like?’ Umfraville asked, wheedling in his manner.
‘He’s a German gentleman, sir.’
‘Old, young? Rich, poor?’
‘He’s quite young, sir. Shouldn’t say he was specially wealthy.’
‘One of that kind, is he?’ said Umfraville. ‘Everybody seems to have a German boy these days. I feel quite out of fashion not to have one in tow myself. Does he live here?’
‘Stays sometimes.’
‘Well, we won’t remain long,’ said Umfraville. ‘I absolutely understand.’
We followed him through a door, opened by Ethel, which led into a luxurious rather than comfortable room. There was an impression of heavy damask curtains and fringed chair-covers. Furniture and decoration had evidently been designed in one piece, little or nothing having been added to the original scheme by the present owner. A few books and magazines lying on a low table in Chinese Chippendale seemed strangely out of place; even more so, a model theatre, like a child’s, which stood on a Louis XVI commode.
Mrs. Andriadis herself was lying in an armchair, her legs resting on a pouf. Her features had not changed at all from the time when I had last seen her. Her powder-grey hair remained beautifully trim; her dark eyebrows still arched over very bright brown eyes. She looked as pretty as before, and as full of energy. She wore no jewellery except a huge square cut diamond on one finger.
Her clothes, on the other hand, had undergone a strange alteration. Her small body was now enveloped in a black cloak, its velvet collar clipped together at the neck by a short chain of metal links. The garment suggested an Italian officer’s uniform cloak, which it probably was. Beneath this military outer covering was a suit of grey flannel pyjamas, mean in design and much too big for her: in fact obviously intended for a man. One trouser leg was rucked up, showing her slim calf and ankle. She did not rise, but made a movement with her hand to show that she desired us all to find a place to sit.
‘Well, Dicky,’ she said, ‘why the hell do you want to bring a crowd of people to see me at this time of night?’
She spoke dryly, though without bad temper, in that distinctly cockney drawl that I remembered.
‘Milly, darling, they are all the most charming people imaginable. Let me tell you who they are.’
Mrs. Andriadis laughed.
‘I know him,’ she said, nodding in the direction of Barnby.
‘Lady Anne Stepney,’ said Umfraville. ‘Do you remember when we went in her father’s party to the St. Leger?’
‘You’d better not say anything about that,’ said Mrs. Andriadis. ‘Eddie Bridgnorth has become a pillar of respectability. How is your sister, Anne? I’m not surprised she had to leave Charles Stringham. Such a charmer, but no woman could stay married to him for long.’
Anne Stepney looked rather taken aback at this peremptory approach.
‘And Mrs. Duport,’ said Umfraville.
‘Was it your house I took in Hill Street?’
‘Yes,’ said Jean, ‘it was.’
I wondered whether there would be an explosion at this disclosure. The trouble at the house had involved some question of a broken looking-glass and a burnt-out boiler. Perhaps there had been other items too. Certainly there had been a great deal of unpleasantness. However, in the unexpected manner of persons who live their lives at a furious rate, Mrs. Andriadis merely said in a subdued voice:
‘You know, my dear, I want to apologise for all that happened in that wretched house. If I told you the whole story, you would agree that I was not altogether to blame. But it is all much too boring to go into now. At least you got your money. I hope it really paid for the damage.’
‘We’ve got rid of the house now,’ Jean said, laughing. ‘I didn’t ever like it much anyway.’
‘And Mr. Jenkins,’ Umfraville said. ‘A friend of Charles’s——’
She gave me a keen look.
‘I believe I’ve seen you before, too,’ she said.
I hoped she was not going to recall the scene Mr. Deacon had made at her party. However, she carried the matter no further.
‘Ethel,’ she shouted, ‘bring some glasses. There is beer for those who can’t drink whisky.’
She turned towards Umfraville.
‘I’m quite glad to see you all,’ she said; ‘but you mustn’t stay too long after Werner appears. He doesn’t approve of people like you.’
‘Your latest beau, Milly?’
‘Werner Guggenbühl. Such a charming German boy. He will be terribly tired when he arrives. He has been walking in a procession all day.’
‘To meet the Hunger-Marchers?’ I asked.
It had suddenly struck me that in the complicated pattern life forms, this visit to Mrs. Andriadis was all part of the same diagram as that in which St. John Clarke, Quiggin and Mona had played their part that afternoon.
‘I think so. Were you marching too?’
‘No—but I knew some people who were.’
‘What an extraordinary world we live in,’ said Umfraville. ‘All one’s friends marching about in the park.’
‘Rather sweet of Werner, don’t you agree?’ said Mrs. Andriadis. ‘Considering this isn’t his own country and all the awful things we did to Germany at the Versailles Treaty.’
Before she could say more about him, Guggenbühl himself arrived in the room. He was dark and not bad-looking in a very German style. His irritable expression recalled Quiggin’s. He bowed slightly from the waist when introduced, but took no notice of any individual, not even Mrs. Andriadis herself, merely glancing round the room and then glaring straight ahead of him. There could be no doubt that he was the owner of the grey pyjamas. He reminded me of a friend of Mr. Deacon’s called ‘Willi’: described by Mr. Deacon as having ‘borne much of the heat of the day over against Verdun when nation rose against nation’. Guggenbühl was a bit younger than Willi, but in character they might easily have a good deal in common.
‘What sort of a day did you have, Werner?’ asked Mrs. Andriadis.
She used a coaxing voice, quite unlike the manner in which she had spoken up to that moment. The tone made me think of Templer trying to appease Mona. It was equally unavailing, for Guggenbühl made an angry gesture with his fist.
‘What was it like, you ask,’ he said. ‘So it was like everything in this country. Social-Democratic antics. Of it let us not speak.’
He turned away in the direction of the model theatre. Taking no further notice of us, he began to manipulate the scenery, or play about in some other manner with the equipment at the back of the stage.
‘Werner is writing a play,’ explained Mrs. Andriadis, speaking now in a much more placatory manner. ‘We sometimes run through the First Act in the evening. How is it going, Werner?’
‘Oh, are you?’ said Anne Stepney. ‘I’m terribly interested in the Theatre. Do tell us what it is about.’
Guggenbühl turned his head at this.
‘I think it would not interest you,’ he said. ‘We have done with old theatre of bourgeoisie and capitalists. Here is Volksbühnen—for actor that is worker like industrial worker—actor that is machine of machines.’
‘Isn’t it too thrilling?’ said Mrs. Andriadis. ‘You know the October Revolution was the real turning point in the history of the Theatre.’
‘Oh, I’m sure it was,’ said Anne Stepney. ‘I’ve read a lot about the Moscow Art Theatre.’
Guggenbühl made a hissing sound with his lips, expressing considerable contempt.
‘Moscow Art Theatre is just to tolerate,’ he said, ‘but what of biomechanics, of Trümmer-Kunst, has it? Then Shakespeare’s Ein Sommernachtstraum or Toller’s Masse-Mensch will you take? The modern ethico-social play I think you do not like. Hauptmann, Kaiser, plays to Rosa Luxemburg and Karl Liebknecht, yes. The new corporate life. The socially conscious form. Drama as highest of arts we Germans know. No mere entertainment, pl
ease. Lebens-stimmung it is. But it is workers untouched by middle class that will make spontaneous. Of Moscow Art Theatre you speak. So there was founded at Revolution both Theatre and Art Soviet, millions, billions of roubles set aside by Moscow Soviet of Soldier Deputies. Hundreds, thousands of persons. Actors, singers, clowns, dancers, musicians, craftsmen, designers, mechanics, electricians, scene-shifters, all kinds of manual workers, all trained, yes, and supplying themselves to make. Two years to have one perfect single production—if needed so, three, four, five, ten years. At other time, fifty plays on fifty successive nights. It is not be getting money, no.’
His cold, hard voice, offering instruction, stopped abruptly.
‘Any ventriloquists?’ Umfraville asked.
The remark passed unnoticed, because Anne Stepney broke in again.
‘I can’t think why we don’t have a revolution here,’ she said, ‘and start something of that sort.’
‘You would have a revolution here?’ said Guggenbühl, smiling rather grimly. ‘So? Then I am in agreement with you.’
‘Werner thinks the time has come to act,’ said Mrs. Andriadis, returning to her more decisive manner. ‘He says we have been talking for too long.’
‘Oh, I do agree,’ said Anne Stepney.
I asked Guggenbühl if he had come across St. John Clarke that afternoon. At this question his manner at once changed.
‘You know him? The writer.’
‘I know the man and the girl who were pushing him.’
‘Ach, so.’
He seemed uncertain what line to take about St. John Clarke. Perhaps he was displeased with himself for having made disparaging remarks about the procession in front of someone who knew two of the participants and might report his words.
‘He is a famous author, I think.’
‘Quite well known.’
‘He ask me to visit him.’
‘Are you going?’
‘Of course.’
‘Did you meet Quiggin—his secretary—my friend?’
Dance to the Music of Time, Volume 1 Page 63